The Enemy Inside

TWENTY-EIGHT

This morning I look at the documents open on my desk. Harry has already read them. It’s a court-ordered status conference, early on to see where the case is going. It’s set for the end of the month. The prosecutor has offered Alex a plea bargain, what in California is called a “wet reckless.”

Like a camel without humps, it’s a strange animal, reckless driving but with some alcohol involved, perhaps smelling the cork. Because the level of blood alcohol in Alex’s system is well below the presumptive limit of intoxication, the D.A. has doubts about his own case. If he only knew the half of it. The problem is we can’t tell him, not without hard evidence, and we have none. Still it’s a crazy offer because of the vehicular manslaughter charge. You can bet that ain’t going away. Which means this camel won’t hunt.

But that’s not the problem. The judge has ordered us into chambers to discuss the matter. He has also ordered that we bring our client to sit outside in his courtroom so that we can run any offer by him in hopes of a deal. Judges are often the most optimistic people in any room. They can afford to be. This one ought to be wearing white robes and singing in a choir.

Yesterday I checked out the caterers, the name given to me by Becket for the company that worked the party that night. Trousdale and Company. It was a dead end. No one remembered a thing. My guess is that when you’re paid to work that many parties serving alcohol, discretion requires a flexible memory. The company could be on the hook if they overserved.

I step out of my office and head down the corridor to Harry. He is chipping away at the computer inside his den when I peek in.

“You want to grab some coffee?” Harry is still looking at the computer screen. I am standing in the open doorway.

“Did you see it?” Harry means the notice-of-status conference.

“Yep.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where you want to go for coffee?”

“I was thinking Lucerne, maybe by way of Amsterdam.”

Harry turns to glance at me with a grin, then back to his computer. He thinks I am joking. “Why don’t we just go sit outside under one of the umbrellas at the Del? It’s a lot closer.” Somehow the silence tells him I’m not kidding. When he turns around again, Harry is no longer smiling.

“In case you haven’t noticed,” he says, “business is way down. Half of our client load has disappeared. And one of them is hiding out in Mexico last time I looked. Some judge about to kick our ass if we can’t produce him at court in what? Ten days, is it?”

“Nine,” I tell him.

“Well, there you go.”

“Can you think of a better time to travel? Besides, I’m told the weather in Lucerne is beautiful this time of year. Pretty city too. Certainly better than the ambience in the lockup downtown.”

Harry gives me an arched eyebrow, Ahab looking for the white whale. “What’s in Lucerne?”

“A banker,” I tell him.

“Is he gonna loan us money?”

“I could go alone,” I say.

“That’s a good idea. Why don’t you do that?”

“Fine. You can stay here and handle the pretrial.”

He stops typing.

“If things blow up while I’m gone, you end up called to the courthouse, me out of town, and Herman not around, who’s gonna spring you from the metal box downtown?”

“I’ve got friends,” says Harry.

“I know. One of them is looking at you right now.”

There is another reason I want Harry with me. It remains unstated, but neither of us are oblivious to the danger around us-the accident at the gas station, the sense that I am a carrier of death like a contagious disease after meeting with Graves.

I noticed, two days ago, a loaded pistol in the center drawer of Harry’s desk, a snub-nosed hammerless thirty-eight. I was looking for some Advil. Harry always keeps it there. His drugstore, and I stumbled over the thing. I hadn’t seen it for years. I thought he had sold it. But he hadn’t. Like Harry, the old brass bullets in the gun are probably corroded, but it gives him a sense of security. I am not leaving him here alone.