The conference room looks like a paper recycling center gone amok. Documents, manila folders, and legal pads litter the table, chairs, and floor. A half dozen courthouse-generated printouts hang from the ceiling-high bookcases, thumbtacked at eye level. They’re rap sheets, a couple of them long enough to touch the floor.
The Kydd sits in the midst of it all, jacket and tie gone, sleeves of his wrinkled shirt rolled up to his elbows. He’s traded his contacts for an old pair of horn-rimmed glasses. He’s immersed in a file, leaning into the single arc of soft light thrown across the table by an old brass lamp. He doesn’t look up-doesn’t seem to notice-when I join him.
“A little light reading, Kydd?”
He lifts his eyes from the page and blinks, then points with his file toward the printouts. “Any of these guys…,” he says, shaking his head and tossing his glasses on the table. “Any one of them could’ve done Howard Davis. They all had trouble with him. And they’re all up to the job.”
I sink into one of the old upholstered chairs, and the Kydd leans back in his. “I took a look at the crime scene photos,” he says, “then decided to start with the most recent releases.”
That makes sense. Whoever murdered Howard Davis was enraged. If it was one of his parolees, it was almost certainly a recent release. Not someone who wasted much time planning; not someone who weighed the pros and cons in any detail.
“Howard Davis got six new assignments during the past four weeks.”
I rest my head against the chair’s soft spine and look toward the rap sheets. “Anybody interesting?”
The Kydd leans forward and points to one of the shorter printouts. I recognize the intensity in his eyes. He’s on to something.
“Yep,” he says. “Frank Sebastian. He’s pretty interesting. Out three weeks and already hauled in once for violating parole. Nothing big-just failed to check in with Howard Davis when he was supposed to. He got off with a warning.”
The Kydd stares at the floor, elbows on his knees, then looks up at me. “He screwed up again, though-big this time. Knocked over a gas station with two other thugs late Sunday night. One of the conditions of parole was that Sebastian refrain from enjoying the company of these particular gentlemen. The surveillance camera got good shots of all three of them. The station owner fingered them, too, in a photo lineup on Monday.”
I sit up straight and the Kydd nods at me. “Revocation hearing scheduled next week, first thing Tuesday. Old Frank’s going back to the Big House right now, for parole violation. No need to wait for the armed robbery trial.”
The Kydd straightens up and runs his hands through his hair. “Trouble is, he hasn’t been picked up yet. He’s running.”
A low whistle sails into the room. Harry fills the doorway. “You’re good, Kydd,” he says, throwing his jacket and briefcase on top of the cluttered table. “You’re damn good.”
The Kydd grins. “Damn good” is the highest praise Harry doles out.
“Anything from the lab?” Harry crosses the room and drops into the chair next to mine, loosening his tie.
“Not yet,” I tell him. “Geraldine says we’ll have everything by the end of the day tomorrow.”
Harry leans back in his chair, adds his scuffed shoes to the chaos on the table, and winks. “Cross your fingers.”
We all laugh. The chance of finding a match of any kind with Frank Sebastian is slim to none. Pointing a finger at a third party to create reasonable doubt is one thing. Proving that the third party is, in fact, guilty is quite another. It happens only in Hollywood scripts and Perry Mason reruns.
“We do have a small problem,” the Kydd says, his tone apologetic. “When Sebastian got hauled in the first time, for failing to report, our friend Stanley wanted to lock him up on the spot. A violation is a violation, Stanley said. It was Howard Davis who convinced Judge Long to give Sebastian another shot. Davis told the judge to ignore Stanley, said Stanley would lock up every last Boy Scout in the county if he could.”
Harry and the Kydd laugh out loud, and I reluctantly join them. It’s really not funny, though. The prosecution will have a party with that information. We’ll end up arguing that Frank Sebastian murdered the one guy who spoke up for him. Sometimes I hate this business.
Harry leans over and gives me a pretend punch on the arm; he knows what I’m thinking. “Not a big deal,” he says. “Davis wasn’t going to give Sebastian a break on this one. And Sebastian knew that. That’s why he’s on the run.”
“Listen to this.” The Kydd’s grinning again, holding up the transcript. “Stanley told Judge Long that he had no discretion. Stanley said the judge was duty-bound to send Sebastian back to prison; the rules don’t allow for anything else.”
Harry laughs again. “The rules according to Stanley?”
“He told the judge he shouldn’t listen to Davis, that Davis is a disgrace to the criminal justice system.” The Kydd looks up from the transcript, eyes wide as if he can’t believe what he just read. “Stanley actually said that.”
Harry leans back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Can’t argue with that. I hate to agree with Stanley about anything, but he’s got a point there.”
“What was the ruling on that one?” I ask.
The Kydd shakes his head, his grin growing wider. “Judge Long didn’t respond. But Howard Davis did. Davis asked the judge, ‘Where the hell’d you find this little guy?’”
We’re all laughing again.
“That’s how the transcript ends,” the Kydd adds, pointing at the document in case we don’t believe him, “with ‘Where the hell’d you find this little guy?’”
Harry stops laughing and looks sympathetically, almost mournfully, at the Kydd. “You know you’ve had a bad day,” he says, “when you feel a kinship with Howard Davis at the end of it.”
“End of it?” The Kydd shakes his head. “I’ve got two more files to review.”
“Not tonight you don’t,” Harry says.
The Kydd arches his eyebrows at me. I shrug.
Harry stands and takes his wallet from his back pocket. “You look like hell,” he says, pushing a fifty into the Kydd’s shirt pocket. “Go get a steak.”
“What? I don’t want a steak.”
“Then get a lobster,” Harry says. “Get whatever the hell you want. But whatever you get, order a decent wine with it. Then go home and get some sleep.”
The Kydd leans back and looks up at the ceiling, considering.
“You look like hell,” Harry repeats. “Get out of here.”
The Kydd puts his hands in the air, surrendering. “Okay, okay,” he says. “Lobster sounds pretty good now that you mention it.”
Harry slaps him on the back and heads for the steep staircase that leads to his second-floor apartment. The Kydd starts packing his briefcase. I head up to my office to do the same.
The Kydd’s car is barely out of the driveway when the door between my office and Harry’s living space opens a crack. “Hey, Marty,” Harry whispers. “Come here a minute.”
I leave my desk and walk toward the door, but I can’t see him. He’s behind it. “Why are you whispering?”
He doesn’t answer.
I open the door and Harry whisks me inside, closing it behind us. I’m stunned.
Harry’s living room, normally something of a mess, is transformed. It’s uncluttered-tidy, even-lit only by the glowing logs in the fireplace. On the coffee table is an ice bucket, a fine Fumé Blanc perspiring in its cubes, and two long-stemmed wineglasses. An even longer-stemmed yellow rose (my favorite color) stands tall in a vase between them. The mellow sounds of a saxophone drift softly through the room.
“One hour,” Harry says, slipping both arms around my waist and pulling me close, beginning his signature version of a slow dance. “Let’s take one…goddamned…hour…for us.”
My mind jumps back to the image of Harry stuffing a fifty in the Kydd’s shirt pocket. I feel like a high school senior whose prom date just bought off the little brother. I look up into Harry’s hazel eyes and drape my arms over his shoulders. He pulls me even closer then, pressing his cheek against mine.
“You’re good,” I tell him. “You’re damn good.”