Deal Breaker

Chapter 34

“What about Christian?” Myron asked.

“Nancy Serat had just rented that house a week ago,” Jake replied, “a day or two before she left for Cancún. She hadn’t even unpacked yet.”

“So?”

“So how come Christian Steele’s fingerprints-clean, fresh prints-are all over the place? On the front doorknob. On a drinking glass. On the fireplace mantel.”

Myron tried not to looked stunned. “Come on, Jake. You can’t make an arrest on something like that. The press will eat him alive.”

“Like I give a flying shit.”

“You have nothing.”

“We can place him at the scene.”

“So what? You can place Jessica at the scene. Gonna arrest her too?”

Jake unbuttoned his jacket, allowing his belly to expand. He was wearing a brown suit, circa 1972. In a word: lapels. No slave to fashion, that Jake. “Okay, smart-boy,” he said, “you want to tell me what your client was doing at Nancy Serat’s house?”

“We’ll ask him. He’ll talk to you. Christian’s a good kid, Jake. Don’t ruin him on speculation.”

“Yeah. I’d hate to ruin your commissions.”

“Low blow, Jake.”

“You’re not objective, Bolitar. The kid’s your most valuable client, your ticket to the bigs. You don’t want him to be guilty.”

Myron looked at him but said nothing.

“Leave your car here,” Jake said. “I’ll drive you to the station.”

It was only a mile away. When they pulled into the lot, Jake said, “The new DA is here. Young hotshot named Roland.”

Uh-oh. “Cary Roland?” Myron asked. “Curly hair?”

“You know him?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s a publicity hound,” Jake said. “Gets a hard-on watching himself on TV. He practically creamed when he heard Christian’s name.”

Myron could imagine. Old buddies, he and Cary Roland. This was not a good development. “Has he released Christian’s name?”

“Not yet,” Jake said. “Cary decided to put it off until eleven. Gets a live feed from all the networks that way.”

“And plenty of time to tighten the perm.”

“That too.”

Christian was sitting in a small room, no bigger than eight by eight. He sat in a chair behind a desk. No hot lights. No one else was in the room.

“Where’s Roland?” Myron asked.

“Behind the mirror.”

One-way glass, even in a rinky-dink station like this. Myron stepped into the room, looked in the mirror, adjusted his tie, and refrained from giving Roland the finger. Mr. Mature strikes again.

“Mr. Bolitar?”

Myron turned. Christian waved to him as if he’d spotted a familiar face in the stands.

“You okay?” Myron asked.

“I’m fine,” Christian said. “I just don’t understand what I’m doing here.”

A uniformed officer came in with a tape recorder. Myron turned to Jake. “Is he under arrest?”

Jake grinned. “I almost forgot, Bolitar. You’re a lawyer too. Nice to be dealing with a professional.”

“Is he under arrest?” Myron repeated.

“Not yet. We’d just like to ask him a few questions.”

The uniformed officer took care of the preliminaries. Then Jake started.

“My name is Sheriff Jake Courter, Mr. Steele. Do you remember me?”

“Yes, sir. You’re handling my fiancée’s disappearance.”

“That’s correct. Now, Mr. Steele, do you know a woman named Nancy Serat?”

“She was Kathy’s roommate at Reston.”

“Are you aware that Nancy Serat was murdered last night?”

Christian’s eyes widened. He turned to Myron. Myron nodded. “My God… no.”

“Were you friends with Nancy Serat?”

His voice was hollow. “Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Steele, can you tell us where you were last night?”

Myron interrupted. “What time last night?”

“From the time he left practice till he went to sleep.”

Myron hesitated. This was a trap. He could try to defuse it, or he could let Christian handle it on his own. Under most circumstances Myron would have stepped in and sounded a subtle warning of what the wrong answer might mean. But this time he sat back and watched.

“If you want to know if I was with Nancy Serat last night,” Christian said slowly, “the answer is yes.”

Myron breathed again. He looked back at the one-way mirror and stuck out his tongue. The demise of Mr. Mature.

“What time was that?” Jake asked.

“Around nine o’clock.”

“Where did you see her?”

“At her house.”

“The one at 118 Acre Street?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What was the purpose of your visit?”

“Nancy returned from a trip that morning. She called and said she needed to talk to me.”

“Did she tell you why?”

“She said it had something to do with Kathy. She wouldn’t tell me anything else over the phone.”

“What happened when you arrived at the house at 118 Acre Street?”

“Nancy practically shoved me out the door. She said I had to leave right away.”

“Did she say why?”

“No, sir. I asked Nancy what was going on, but she was insistent. She promised to call me in a day or two and tell me everything, but for now I had to go.”

“What did you do?”

“I argued with her for a minute or two. She started getting upset and saying stuff that made no sense. I finally just gave up and left.”

“What sort of ‘stuff’ was she saying?”

“Something about sisters reuniting.”

Myron sat up.

Jake asked, “What about sisters reuniting?”

“I don’t remember exactly. Something like ‘Time for sisters to reunite.’ She really wasn’t making much sense, sir.”

Jake looked at Myron. Myron looked back.

“Do you remember anything else she said?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you go straight home after that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What time did you arrive home?”

“Ten-fifteen, I guess. Maybe a little later.”

“Is there anybody who can confirm the time?”

“I don’t think so. I just moved into a condominium in Englewood. Maybe a neighbor saw me, I don’t know.”

“Would you mind waiting here for a minute?”

Jake signaled for Myron to follow him. Myron nodded, leaned over to Christian. “Don’t say another word until I get back.”

Christian nodded.

They stepped into the other room. The other side of the mirror, so to speak. County District Attorney Cary Roland had gone to Harvard Law School with Myron. A bright guy. Law review. Clerk for a Supreme Court justice. Cary Roland had first shown signs of political ambition while exiting his mother’s womb.

He looked the same. Gray suit with vest (yes, he’d worn suits to class). Hook nose. Small, dark eyes. Loose curly hair, like a seventies Peter Frampton’s, only shorter.

Roland shook his head. Then he made a noise of disgusted belief. “Creative client, Bolitar.”

“Not as creative,” Myron said, “as your barber.”

Jake held back a laugh.

“I say we book him,” Roland continued. “We’ll announce it at the press conference.”

“Now I see it,” Myron said.

“See what?”

“The hard-on. When you said ‘press.’”

Snickers.

Roland fumed. “Still a comedian, eh, Bolitar? Well, your client is about to go down.”

“I don’t think so, Cary.”

“I don’t care what you think.”

Myron sighed. “Christian gave you a reasonable explanation for being at Nancy Serat’s house. You got nothing else, ergo you got nothing. Besides, imagine the headlines if Christian’s innocent. Young DA Makes Major Blunder. Tarnishes Name of Local Hero for Own Gain. Hurts Titans’ Chances for Superbowl. Becomes Most Hated Man in State.”

Roland swallowed. He hadn’t considered that. Blinded by the lights. The TV lights. “Sheriff Courter, what do you think?”

Backpedal time.

“We have no choice,” Jake said. “We have to let him go.”

“Do you believe his story?”

Jake shrugged. “Who the hell knows? But we don’t have enough to keep him.”

“Okay,” Roland said with a weighty nod. Important man. “He’s free to go. But he better not leave town.”

Myron looked at Jake. “Not leave town?” He laughed. Hard. “Did he just say not to leave town?”

Jake was trying to hold it in. But his lip was quivering pretty good.

Roland’s face turned red. “Infantile,” he spat out. “Sheriff, I want daily updates on this case.”

“Yes, sir.”

Roland gave everyone his most frightening glare. No one fell to their knees. He stormed out.

“Must be nonstop laughs,” Myron said, “working with him.”

“Gobs of fun.”

“Can Christian and I go now?”

Jake shook his head. “Not until I hear all about your visit with Dean Gordon.”