Undue Influence

Chapter 12

‘I need your help,’ I tell her.

I’m in the office with Harry, picking at one of the bandages on my forehead. There are three stitches and a score of lacerations on the right side of my face. A young doctor picked glass out from under the skin at a surgicenter, one of those walk-in doc shops where with enough plastic you can have anything from your tonsils out to your tubes tied, no questions asked. My face feels like hamburger pounded into shape on a gravel driveway.

I’m talking to Dana Colby on the phone. It’s a little after six in the evening. The city is beginning to die, surface streets emptying. I’ve caught her just coming through the door from work. She’s a soft voice on the phone and I can’t hear her.

‘You gotta speak up,’ I tell her. ‘The blast got my ears.’ I’ve told Dana that the trail of George and Kathy Merlow led me to the post office and the deadly letter bomb. She’s heard about the explosion. It’s a hot topic on the news — every channel and the local radio stations are laying it on thick to the commuting crowd. Dana now senses she’s on the cutting edge, listening to everything I say, eyes and ears to what happened.

Harry’s shaking his head. He thinks I am being foolish to involve her. To Harry, gender and good looks notwithstanding, Dana is just another prosecutor. He’s trying to talk in my other ear.

‘Big mistake.’ Harry writes this note on the pad on my desk and slides it under my face to read.

We’ve been over all this, Harry and I. He thinks I did the right thing by running, not staying to talk to the cops. Now he thinks I’m blowing it.

I ran because I wanted to avoid the police and their questions. Lama alone would hold me for a week for questioning. Cavorting with the feds would be bigtime for Jimmy. And to Lama the opportunity to spread pain my way would be better than sex. They would want to know why I was there talking to Marcie Reed. One thing would lead to another, Kathy Merlow and her note, which the cops would want. It is my only lead to the Merlows and what they know about Melanie’s murder.

I wave Harry off. He’s in my ear.

‘Please — I can’t hear myself think,’ I tell him.

He turns and walks toward the window, a lot of motioning with his hands, talking to himself.

‘No, not you,’ I tell her. I’m back to Dana. ‘I’ve got to talk to you. Can we meet at my house?’

‘I can be there in twenty minutes.’

‘No. I need at least an hour,’ I tell her. ‘One errand I have to run.’

‘I’ll be there in an hour,’ she says.

We hang up.

‘You’re outta your mind,’ says Harry. He’s still facing the window, away from me.

‘You tell her you were there, and she’s gonna call in the fibbies.’ Harry’s term for the FBI. ‘They’ll have you in a chair with bright lights in your eyes before you can sneeze. You may as well have stayed there and talked to ’em at the scene. At least it would have looked better.’

Harry gives me one of his better expressions, the ones that tell me when I’m being a dumb fuck.

‘You gotta admit, I mean, you go to talk to this girl, Marcie Reed. You leave the office for two minutes and she’s turned into Spackle, all over the walls.’

‘Oh, shit!’ Suddenly I’m staring off at the middle distance, right through Harry.

‘What’s wrong?’ he says.

‘I’d forgotten,’ I tell him. ‘The package. The one the courier delivered. I handled it. I handed it to Marcie,’ I tell him.

‘How did you manage that?’

‘The room was too small. He couldn’t get in. So I handed it to her.’

‘Oh, great.’ Harry’s a quick-step, pacing between the window and my desk slapping his thigh, going, ‘Oh, great! That’s great. Why didn’t you finger the fuse while you were at it?’ he says. ‘You’re gonna need one helluva lawyer,’ he tells me. ‘I hope you know one.’ Harry’s not offering.

I’m wondering if forensics can lift prints from tattered and singed bits of paper. Not that it matters, I suppose. It’s only a question of time until they place me in the room. Fingerprints on the desk, witnesses who saw me.

‘I just need to buy some time. Long enough to check out the note. Try and run down the Merlows.’

‘And you think she’s gonna give it to you?’ He’s talking about Dana.

‘I’m hoping.’

‘Good luck!’ Harry’s face says it all. ‘In your dreams.’

He’s standing, staring out the window, looking at the lights of the city, the Capitol five blocks away, lit up like a crown by incandescent lights that arc up the sides of the dome, setting off the cupola topped by its golden sphere.

There is a gray cast that has us in its grip. The central valley in winter, where they know how to do fog.

I sit at my desk, studying the contents of Marcie Reed’s little singed envelope. There is a snapshot, its edges charred. In the photograph, what looks like a small one-room church, green clapboard over starched white plaster, set in lush greenery, tinges of a brilliant blue sky. There are glimpses of a few headstones, a small graveyard next to the church.

And there is the note, written in a feminine hand:

Dear Marcie:

I’m sorry, but I need to ask a favor. Left my Mom’s ring in the top drawer to my desk. Could you send it, general delivery, care of ‘Alice Kent.’ Thanks for all your help. You have been the only friend I have had in two years. This place is the end of the earth. One day when this is all over, I will call. Take care. All my love.

K.

My guess is that Alice Kent is a name of convenience, something quick and easy that Kathy Merlow could use to collect a package at general delivery. By now she would have some plausible ID, maybe more than one. Given the speed with which they lost themselves after Melanie’s murder, and the absence of any tracks — Harry still has no word from the Resolution Trust Corporation on the house rental — these are resourceful people, the Merlows. I look at the envelope, the little circular postmark.

Then I turn the snapshot over. On the other side a note, scrawled in a faint pencil, Kathy Merlow’s hand:

‘If I take the wings of the morning

and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea.’

It is a special place, where I spend my afternoons.

I flip the picture over, study the little church.

Whoever took the picture was careful. No place-names or signs in the frame, nothing I could use to blow up, to get a fix on where it is. Nothing I can see, anyway.

Harry’s looking over my shoulder.

‘My guess it’s part of a poem,’ he says.

‘What’s that?’

‘The wings and the sea,’ says Harry. ‘Lyrical stuff.’

Your heathen roots are showing,’ I tell him. ‘Sunday school does have its benefits.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘It’s part of a passage from the Bible. One of the Psalms.’

The doorbell rings. I haven’t had time to even take off my coat. Dana’s made it in less than an hour. I open the door to greet her.

‘Hey, man, you the lawyer? Danny Vega’s uncle?’

On my front porch are three kids, maybe sixteen, dark-complected, coal-black hair, shades dangling from their shirt pockets. They are wearing khaki pants and oversized black shirts with long sleeves, part of the uniform, Pancho Villa’s army of revenge, gang-bangers all.

‘Who wants to know?’

One of them has his hair tied in a tight bun, a black hairnet drawn over the top. He’s the one doing all the talking.

‘Hey, man. Just answer the question. Don’t give us no shit. You know Danny Vega? You know where he is?’ The kid has sixty-year-old eyes set into a face that is at best sixteen, but mean.

His two companions are giving me faces of resolve, expressions of enforcement.

I’m looking at the security chain, hanging limp from the frame of my door. The only thing between us is the tattered screen door, which has been mauled and ripped by one of my neighbor’s cats.

‘I think you should go.’

‘We goin’ noplace till you tell us where Danny is. We don’ wanna get into it with you, man. But you push us — ’

One of them pulls a butterfly blade from his pocket and whips it open. For the moment he’s cleaning his fingernails, making sure I see the razor-sharp edge.

‘We’re not lookin’ for no trouble — ’ The kid with the hairnet is back in the lead.

‘Sure. You’re just standing on my front steps threatening me.’

‘Hey, man, did we say anything that was threatening?’ Big eyes all around, a chorus shaking heads.

‘You hear anything threatening?’

‘Nada.’

‘What do you want with Danny?’ I say.

‘Hey. I think he’s inside.’ One of them smiles. ‘Hey, Danny — you in there? Come out, come out, wherever you are.’ His friends are laughing. They think this is cute stuff. The hairnet grabs the latch on the screen door. It’s locked.

A look on his face, crestfallen, like his feelings are hurt.

‘Hey, man. I tole you we just friends over for a visit. You let us in, okay?’

‘No, it’s not okay. I’m gonna suggest you get the hell out of here.’ The level of my voice is beginning to rise, signs of fight or flight.

‘Hey, not very friendly, man.’

The guy with the blade starts to whittle on my screen, near the handle.

‘Just send him out. We can talk here. How ’bout it?’ The hairnet flashes me a full load of pearly whites. ‘Come on out, Danny. Or else we’re gonna have to come in. Up to you.’ He’s singing through my screen door.

‘I don’t know where he is. He’s not here.’

‘You sure?’ He pulls on the door handle one more time, like maybe it will give. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet now, looking over his shoulder to make sure there are no nosy neighbors. Visions of the blade slashing through my screen door.

‘Danny doesn’t live here.’

The kid with the hairnet looks at me.

‘Oh. Then you know where he lives. You can tell us.’

‘I think you ought to leave.’

‘Hey, man, no trouble, just tell us where he is.’

I know Danny well enough that these are not friends. If they are looking for him, it is because he is in trouble. It could be nothing more than an indignant look that Danny flashed their way, an offense to their macho dignity. With what is now standing at my front door, anything other than downcast eyes could earn you the kind of greeting that comes in a muzzle flash from the window of a moving car.

Headlights pull up out in front.

One of them turns to look. He tugs on his talking buddy by the shirtsleeve. The hairnet takes in the car.

Dana’s getting out at the curb. She sees the crowd at my front door, stands for a moment, and looks at them over the roof of her vehicle.

A woman alone. The hairnet gives me a smile.

‘Your woman maybe?’ he says.

I don’t respond. I sense an ugly scene about to start. Me in here, Dana out there.

When they turn and look again, she’s on the phone, the cellular receiver from her car. The cocky smiles suddenly evaporate.

One of the seconds is at the hairnet. ‘Hey, man, let’s go.’

The leader of the pack isn’t happy. He’s bouncing on his toes. ‘Okay for now, man. But we’ll be back,’ he says. ‘You got it?’ He’s pointing a finger in my face, an inch from the screen, like it will have to do until he can find something more lethal to aim in my direction. All the charm of the seven plagues.

‘See you around,’ he says.

‘It’s been a pleasure.’

‘Yeah. A pleasure, man.’ He spits in my roses.

I make a mental note to call Harry, to have him talk to Laurel. Perhaps she is right. Maybe Danny would be better off someplace else for a while.

They’re down the steps, through the front gate, and across the street to a low-slung wagon, a cherry-red Impala with a sound system to rouse the dead. Around the corner I can still hear the boom-boom of base with no treble as they drift away.

‘Friends of yours?’ Dana’s up the steps.

‘Not exactly.’

Before she clears the front door, a black-and-white cruises down the street. She turns in the light of my porch lamp and waves. Then she points in the direction of the boom box, and the cruiser picks up speed, nearly taking the turn on two wheels.

A screaming visit behind red-and-blue lights from those sworn to serve and protect may not cause these guys to widdle in their pants, but they will know they’ve been tagged.

‘I hope they’re not carrying any contraband in the car.’ The way Dana says this makes me think these kids will be talking with bright flashlights in their faces for a while. The professional courtesies of the law-enforcement fraternity.

‘You look awful,’ she says. She touches the side of my face with the softness of her gloved hand, gentle, feathering, like a local anesthetic to my skin.

‘Does it hurt much?’

‘Only when I laugh.’

‘Then we’d better talk about serious things,’ she says.

‘Cup of coffee?’ I ask.

She looks at her watch. ‘Why not? The night’s shot. I have a feeling this is going to take a while.’

Twenty minutes later, over the scent of a freshly brewed French roast, Dana is studying the contents of the note written by Kathy Merlow and the envelope it came in.

The little snapshot I have left in the inside coat pocket of my sport jacket — my trump card — for the moment I keep to myself.

‘It isn’t much to go on,’ she says after reading the note.

‘It’s a lead.’

‘Still, she could have had someone else mail it.’ Dana’s looking at the postmark. ‘I mean, if this woman Kathy Merlow really wants to stay lost, she might have a friend carry the note on vacation and mail it, then wait to collect the item from general delivery and bring it back. That’s what I would do.’

‘Good thing I’m not looking for you,’ I say.

She makes a face, smiles. ‘Just telling you what I’d do.’

‘Anything’s possible. But for the moment the note and that envelope are all I have.’

‘What makes you so sure Merlow knows something?’

‘Because of what I was told by Marcie Reed.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Kathy Merlow knows who killed Melanie.’

‘This Marcie told you this?’

‘She didn’t give me a name. But she did say that it was a hired killer. That Kathy Merlow would have to give me the rest.’

A gray cast comes over Dana’s face. ‘A hired killer? How would Kathy Merlow know that? I mean, I can understand if she saw the killer she might be able to identify him — ’

‘Maybe she didn’t see anything,’ I tell her. ‘Maybe she was told something.’

‘I don’t understand,’ she says.

‘Think about what we know,’ I tell her. ‘We know that Melanie was pregnant at the time of death, and according to Laurel, Jack is not a likely candidate for father.’

‘So Melanie was getting it on with someone else. One or more,’ she says.

‘I’m only concerned about one in particular,’ I say. ‘Someone who lived close to her. Who could slip in and out of the house with apparent ease. Who might know when Jack was out. Who might have been Melanie’s principal sideline squeeze. A friendly neighbor,’ I say.

‘Kathy Merlow’s husband,’ she says.

‘Enter George Merlow.’

‘But how would George know about a hired killer?’

‘What if Melanie was getting worried, concerned that Jack was on to her and George? I know Vega,’ I tell her. ‘He would not put up a good front. Planning something like this, under stress you could read Jack like a book. And Melanie may have had more than a hint. Maybe she stumbled across a note or a phone message that put her in a panic. Not enough to call the cops, but something to keep her up nights. Who is she going to tell? Who would she take into her confidence?’ I say.

‘George.’

I nod. ‘So George is keeping watch, the dutiful lover. And that night he gets an eyeful. He sees the murder. Too late to do anything about it, the thought enters his mind, if Jack was willing to do his wife, he’d be fairly itching to do her lover. George gets scared. He’s got to tell his wife something. He comes clean, tells Kathy, she’s either forgiving or suffers from low esteem, whatever,’ I say.

‘And like that, the two of them are gone,’ she says.

‘You got it.’

‘Why not stay and tell the cops what he knows?’

“’Cuz all he knows is that Melanie had suspicions before she was killed. What can he say? “I was screwing his wife and she suspected he was getting jealous”? While the cops were investigating, if there was a contract already out, George could end up in the crosshairs. Especially if word gets out that he saw the killer. The Merlows weren’t heavily invested in the community. Smart money says to run,’ I tell her.

‘So you need Merlow as a witness?’

‘That’s it. Without him all I have is a lot of circumstance. Attempts to shine some light on another suspect. If that collapses, it’s gonna be a cold hard hunt for mitigation.’

‘If it comes to that, I don’t envy you,’ she says.

Dana’s right. Laurel’s no sobbing spouse or molested child to claim she was battered, the defense of choice in modern America. My sister-in-law is just an ex, after the fact, allegedly out for revenge.

‘There is another possibility. A reason why they might have run,’ she says. ‘How do you know Kathy Merlow or her husband aren’t involved in Melanie’s murder?’

‘I wasn’t sure until today. Think about it. The courier delivers the package. At the same time somebody asks to talk to me at the loading dock. The tooth fairy? My guardian angel?’ I say.

Dana’s a quizzical look.

‘Someone wanted Marcie Reed dead so she couldn’t tell me something. Something about Kathy Merlow. They also wanted me out of harm’s way. People who send letter bombs are not generally that considerate. If they want me alive it’s for a reason. They know I’m looking for the Merlows. I think they’re doing the same thing, and they’re hoping I’ll do their job for them. A lawyer up to his haunches in a murder trial, with access to judicial process to compel the appearance of witnesses. That’s not a bad bird dog,’ I tell her.

‘So you think they want to kill the Merlows?’ she says. ‘Why?’

‘I think whoever killed Marcie Reed pulled the trigger on Melanie Vega and got caught in the act. Somehow the killer found out that he’d been compromised. Now he’s trying to cover his tracks.’

She looks at me, big round eyes.

‘It’s Jack’s style. Trust me. He’d hire somebody to do Melanie. When we check, I’m sure he’ll have six alibis for the night of the murder. Think about it. His wife is pregnant. She’s got a young lover. Jack’s getting ready to do hard time. She wasn’t going to wait for him. A washed-up politician, no future, his money siphoned off by criminal fines. To Jack, Melanie was more of an asset dead than alive. If he could get the kids, a murdered wife, he’d make a bid for sympathy. He was getting ready to play you folks like a piano.’

‘And the bombing? You think Jack had a hand in that?’

‘No. I think matters are now spinning out of control. I think the killer panicked and tried to engage in some free agency to cover his tracks. He got desperate.’

‘And a little sloppy at the post office,’ she says. ‘If what you say is accurate, a few people saw the courier there.’

‘True. Desperate people do stupid things.’

‘And where’s Jack in all of this?’

‘I don’t know if he knows what’s going on at this point. He probably paid the tab, whatever the going rate is these days for a hired hit. My guess is he doesn’t know they screwed up. That there’s loose ends, a witness to the murder. His tight little ball is about to unravel.

‘One thing is certain,’ I tell her. ‘In a few hours your people will know I was at the post office. It won’t take them long to make me. Fingerprints at the scene, descriptions from some of the employees. My picture has been in the papers almost daily since the start of Laurel’s case. Once they get ahold of me I’ll be a week answering questions, looking at mug shots in hopes I can ID the courier.’

‘And you won’t be able to find Kathy Merlow,’ she says.

‘You got it.’

She smiles. ‘Nice try.’

‘Well, if it happens, clean their clock, the courier included. I left a written description with Harry. Right down to the pimples on his bony ass. At least one other person got a glimpse of him at the post office. A guy named Howard. Somebody ought to be able to ID a mug shot. If he’s of record.’

‘What about your daughter? Where is she?’

‘She’s with friends since earlier this evening. A couple Nikki and I were close to. They live in the country, have a pony, and a little girl Sarah’s age. She’ll be fine.’

I don’t tell her, but Sarah would have gone there whether I left tonight or not. After the surprise in the letter pack, I am taking no chances.

‘You shouldn’t be doing this. We shouldn’t even be talking about this. I should be calling the FBI, and you should be answering questions, looking at pictures.’

‘I don’t have a choice,’ I tell her. ‘If I don’t find Merlow — Kathy — or George — I’m going to trial on a case that is at best shaky. A long time in the joint for a nice lady, or worse,’ I say. ‘So I’m going. Don’t try to stop me.’

She considers this for a long moment, silence over her coffee, flipping Merlow’s envelope in her fingers, one side up and then the other, finally laying it on the table, the canceled stamp facing up. She looks at the postmark. The clear lettering inside the circle:

Hana HI 96713

USPS

‘Is your flight full?’ she says.

‘I don’t know.’

‘If it is, I can use my credentials to bump somebody. Government business,’ she says.

‘Not a chance,’ I tell her.

‘Then you’ll never board the plane,’ she says.

‘Why not?’

‘I will stop you.’ Visions of the cops rolling by in their cruiser. There’s not a hint of mirth in her eyes. She is dead serious. Unless I take her, she will have her people pick me up at the airport or pull me from the plane.

‘We’re talking a federal crime,’ she says. A postal employee has been killed in a federal facility. I can’t take the responsibility of letting you go off alone to hunt for someone who, according to your own theory, is a target — a witness to another murder. According to your own words you’re being tracked.

‘And if something happened to you, how would I live with myself?’ she says. ‘Besides, what would I say to Sarah?’ She smiles, soft feline looks, head canted just a little to one side, auburn hair coiling at her shoulders.

‘Do we have a deal?’

My options are closing.

‘If we catch Merlow I get her as a witness?’ I say. I’m trying to stave off Dana’s good looks, struggling to maintain my lawyer’s wits under the laser intensity of her oval eyes, the wafting fragrance of her scent.

‘Why not? At this point we have a mutual interest. You solve your crime, maybe I solve mine.’

She can see my resolve beginning to wither. Not that I have much choice.

‘Let me call to get a ticket,’ she says. ‘Then we can go to my place while I pack — unless you have an extra toothbrush and a nightie,’ she says.

‘I can meet you at the airport. You go home and pack.’

‘Not a chance.’ Her grin widens. ‘You don’t leave my sight until we’re on the plane.’

I start to say something and she stops me, her finger to my lips.

‘Shhh. You talk too much,’ she says. Her smooth palm, ungloved this time, comes across the table to soothe my battered cheek. Like a balm easing the tension and fire of pain-racked nerve ends, Dana is warm, tender looks through bedroom eyes.