The White Angel Murder

33

Deputy Attorney General Paul Harris sat across from Harlow at the crowded restaurant and ordered a sparkling water. The restaurant, named Marble after the owner’s grandmother, was airy and smelled pleasant from the cooking food in the open kitchen. A chest-high glass partition separated the chefs from the crowd and everyone watched as they worked; hurriedly preparing American-Thai fusion dishes loaded with spice and flavor. It had gotten four stars in the Trib, even though the year before the restaurant had been reviewed and declared mediocre. But at some point the owner had paid enough lip-service and complimentary food and drinks to the paper’s food critic that it was reviewed once more and given glowing praise.

Harris was thin and bald and Harlow had always been amazed how shiny he got his head to become. There was an art in it and he wondered if he did it purposely.

“The AG’s on board,” Harris said. “Judge Baylor too. Believe it or not, we just need the warden to sign off.”

Harlow was not surprised. Each entity in the criminal justice system was an independent cell unaware and apathetic to what the others were doing. The local police, the state Department of Justice, the courts, the FBI, the federal Department of Justice, the appellate courts, and the Department of Corrections all had their own interests and their own goals. For them all to align, as they had with Harlow’s request, required an enormous amount of political favors, almost more than Harlow could muster. But as the son of a former senator, he still had a few strings to pull.

“I just want it done and over with, Paul. No more motions and writs and campaign contributions and all that other bullshit. Just get the damned warden to sign the piece of paper and hand him over.”

“Patience never was one of your virtues.”

“Fuck patience. Patience is for people who sit around and watch opportunities fly by them. That ain’t me.”

“No,” he said, taking a sip of his water, “that certainly isn’t. Let me ask you though; why do you need him out so badly? You got the cream of the crop in Cold Case. Throw every man you got on it and I bet something breaks.”

“Christ, this is why prosecutors should have to be cops first. Do you know how fucking rare it is to solve a cold case, Paul? Almost impossible. Unless the perp walks in and says ‘Oh hey, sorry about that motherfucker I busted a cap in three years ago’ it’s not getting solved.”

The waitress was skinny and brown and Harlow stared at her legs as Harris ordered. When it was his turn he ordered steak and eggs and a beer and asked when her shift was over. She smiled awkwardly and then asked if they needed anything else and walked away.

“I don’t think she likes you.”

“Please,” Harlow said, “that was just playful banter.”

He grinned. “We’ve gotten old, Mike. I remember when I would go to a bar and get drunk and pick someone up, get a blow job on the way to the apartment and then go out again and drink some more. Now I’m lucky if I can keep my eyes open past ten.”

“It’s all in the mind. If you want to be younger you gotta act younger.”

“How’s that?”

“You ever thought of maybe looking elsewhere than in your matrimonial bonds?”

“Cheat on Lauren? No way. Not my style.”

“I’m just saying, it’s an option for guys like us. We paid our dues. It’s probably time we got a little interest back.”

“Yeah, well … I don’t know.”

“Don’t wait too long my friend. You only got one life.”

He finished his water and nodded. “This girl, Tami Jacobs, you sure this wasn’t revenge or domestic violence or something? Are you absolutely certain it’s a psychopath?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Are you willing to risk your career on it? If something goes wrong with this, it’s on your head. The AG, the judge, the feds, everyone will point the finger at you and say that you told them it was necessary to prevent more deaths.”

“I know, I’ve thought about that. But I need … we need, to catch this monster. He’s not going to stop.”

He shrugged and looked over to the waitress who was bent over picking up a slip of paper that had fallen on the floor. “All right. But if you fuck up, it’s your funeral, not mine.”