The Zen Man (13 page)

“Good eye.”

He grinned, proud of himself. “So, am I yours and Laura’s apprentice, like that Watson dude? The three of us could be a posse, man.”

Somebody must’ve been looking for Wicked’s BlackBerry, unaware it had already been found. I thought back to who already knew about Garrett finding it. Laura, Garrett, Ziggy, myself, Sam, as well as the Jeffco detectives who’d interviewed Garrett. Which meant, everybody in the Jeffco Sheriff’s Department also knew because everyone would have instant access to the detectives’ online reports.

I knew this was a dead-end question, but had to ask. “Don’t suppose you saw any footprints?”

“Nuthin’. There’s almost a foot of snow out there. Whoever was messin’ around had to have done it before we got dumped on.”

“Who was messing around?” asked a soft voice.

Laura stood at the foot of the stairs, dressed in jeans, a red over-size sweater that hung to her thighs, a pair of white satin slippers with little bows. She’d pulled back her hair in a loose ponytail, which opened up her freshly washed face.

“The noises last night,” I answered. “Garrett noticed that the large rock, the one under which he found the BlackBerry, had been moved.”

“Yeah,” Garrett said, bobbing his head, “turned over, as though someone had been looking for somethin’.”

Her face paled. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, she headed for the counter. “I knew there was someone out there last night,” she murmured. “It’s the killer. He’s returned for the BlackBerry because information about him is on it.”

As she retrieved several mugs from the cabinet, I got a carton of milk out of the fridge. “Or information about her.”

“Thought you didn’t think it was a woman.”

“I don’t. But it’d be crazy to dismiss the possibility. Maybe Wicked and the killer had exchanged text messages that could be revealing. Or maybe it’s simply the fact the killer’s phone number is on there.”

“Heavy,” muttered Garrett.

“Since you’d like to be an apprentice PI,” I said, “got a job for you. Mind driving to Broomfield? Roads should be fine.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Good. Need you to drop off several bags of towels to a private forensics lab. I’ll call ahead so they’ll be expecting you.” I thought about Garrett’s alter-reality. Better to spell things out than assume he knew better. “Whatever you do, don’t open the bags. They’re evidence from the crime scene of the night the woman was murdered. You open them, you’ll contaminate the crime scene, and our chance to gather evidence is blown.”

He pressed the air with his palms in a no-need-to-explain-got-it-under-control motion. “I understand, man. Okay if I take Zig with me?”

“Sure.” My cell phone rang. Pulled it out of my pocket, didn’t recognize the number in the caller ID. I wasn’t taking any cases, but couldn’t risk missing a call if it was about mine.

I flipped open the phone. “Levine.”

“Rick? Lou Reisman. I…need to talk to you.”

I glanced at the clock. Barely nine-thirty, but from the thickness of his speech, it was obvious he’d been drinking.

“Go ahead.”

“Not on the phone. I’m at the Hazin, can you meet me?”

Hazin was a dingy biker bar on the outskirts of Morrison, the last place I’d expect a dilettante 17
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Street lawyer to be tipping a few. On the other hand, it was the only bar open at this hour.

“Be there in fifteen.”

I splashed some milk into the mug Laura had handed me, took a slug, began spouting orders.

“Laura, find directions to Genetic Technologies in Broomfield for Garrett. Get he and Ziggy some latex gloves, too. Don’t want them even
looking
at those bags without ’em, and they keep them on until
after
the bags are dropped off. After they’re on their way, do me a favor and check every local motel, hotel, bed and breakfast, whatever, see if you can find out if a short, pudgy, probably well-dressed guy in his early forties checked in during the wee hours this morning. Doubt if they’ll tell you anything, but make up a story—say he’s your brother, family’s worried about him—maybe some soft-hearted, naïve employee will spill.”

Her left eye twitched slightly. “All right. But why?”

“Will explain in a minute.” It was time to officially hire our new apprentice PI. “Garrett, you’re the newest part-time member of Levine Investigations. Anything the three of us say is confidential, and when we’re working on a case for an attorney—which we are as this is my homicide defense case and Sam is our attorney—all our communications are privileged. Memorize that word.
Privileged
. If anybody asks you a question about my investigation, you say you can’t discuss anything because all information is protected by privilege.”

“Privilege.” He nodded solemnly. “Sick.”

“And you’re not to call yourself the G-man, remember?”

He nodded. “I am so, noir.”

Whatever. I turned back to Laura. “Here’s the deal. Lou Riesman is at Hazin, waiting for me. Wants to talk.” I looked around the kitchen. “Didn’t we leave the digital recorder around here?”

“In the utensil drawer.” She leaned against the butcher block table. “Wow. You thought he’d be inventing new ways to avoid you.”

“Yeah, well, something’s making him open up.” Something that looked like a BlackBerry, I surmised. I pulled open the utensil drawer, snagged the recorder. “I’m thinking he may have been the one bumbling around our property last night. Snow storm got bad. He couldn’t drive all the way back to Denver, so he drove down the hill to a place in Morrison and spent the night.”

“Oh my God.” She licked her lips nervously. “
Lou’s
the murderer?”

I threw on my Nuggets jacket, swiped the keys to her Durango off the key rack. “All I know is he wants to talk.”

As I headed out the door into the brisk cold, I damn near salivated at the idea of getting a confession from the sonofabitch who’d framed me for murder. I wanted to see that pudgy, fat-headed prick cry, beg for mercy, whimper and grovel after all he’d put me and Laura through. And I wanted every last sniveling, self-pitying drivel from his lips recorded ever-so-clearly for that bastard D.A. Crain.

Not exactly Deadhead thoughts, but when your life’s on the line, and the law’s breathing fire down your back, it’s only human to step off the path. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get shown the light in that strangest of places. Just need to remember where you came from, and how to find your way back.

Trudging through the snow toward the parking lot, I suddenly smiled, feeling happier than I had in days.

The most dangerous thing in the world is to think you understand something.
—Zen Saying

I
stood outside Hazin and read the words burned into the weathered wood over the door—
Hazin: to move cattle or horses slowly along in the direction you want.
I suppose that was wishful thinking on behalf of the owners, whose clientele were mostly a hard-drinking, Harley-riding, rebel-minded crowd who prided themselves on bucking authority.

Tire marks and vehicles in the snowy parking lot told a story. Someone had arrived on a Harley a few days back and left the bike here—maybe dude or dudette lived nearby and always parked here, or was on a bender and would pick it up later. Other recent arrivals included a beat-up Ford pick-up and a shiny black Lexus, license plate CUINCT. See you in court. Two things in life irk me—Blondie’s music and lawyers’ vanity license plates. Spoken from the guy who had the MLO YLO plate, but at least I wasn’t pitching a blood-sucking shark business.

Inside Hazin, it was dim and cramped, the air heavy with the stench of booze and leather, topped with a wincing trace of Lysol. Mounted along the rough-hewn walls were trophy animals—bobcats, deer, rattlesnakes—amid antique rifles, wagon wheels and vintage saws. In a nice juxtaposition the cheap speakers played a biker minuet—the jarring, disturbed Black Sabbath hit “Paranoid.” Along the right wall was a wooden bar, manned by a tubby guy with wiry salt-and-pepper hair who I vaguely recalled was the owner. I weaved my way around the hodge-podge of small tables, past the swinging kitchen door scrawled with the words
I Woke Up This Morning Sticky, Broke, and Confused.

An older dude in a black leather jacket was slouched at one of tables, a skimpy gray braid snaking down his back. He caught me staring at it, gave me a bad-ass eye. At another table sat a pock-faced kid and a girl, nibbling on fries and each other. In the last booth in the shadowed area at the back sat a squat figure. Lou, nursing a drink.

“Welcome to our humble little village,” I said, sliding into the seat across from him. My eyes had adjusted enough to the murky light to see the Ralph Lauren logo on his sweater. “What brings 17
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Street to Main Street this fine winter morning?”

He cradled his highball glass with both hands. “Thish is an important follow-up to our previous discussion.”

I shrugged out of my Nuggets jacket, thinking how many times I’d used almost the same words to a client. Except Lou was drunk enough to think such legal intercourse made sense, as though he met a lot of his clients at biker bars at ten in the morning.

The owner sauntered up to our table, scratched his scraggly beard while asking for our order. Lou waggled his almost empty glass. I ordered a root beer and fries, the latter for Lou as he needed something more than booze for breakfast.

“It’s obvious you’re worried about something,” I said, pulling out my recorder. I set it on the table between us. “It’s not on yet.”

He nodded, killed off his drink.

“I also want you to know that my motive to kill Deborah is minimal, so it’ll be a problem for the D.A. to prove motive at trial. I didn’t owe her money, I’m happy in a new relationship, and I was even missing the car less.”

He frowned. “What car?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

I paused, figured it was time to add a little Clint Eastwood to my PI-cool. I leaned slightly forward and said in my best make-my-day snarl, “You and I both know I had a reputation as a fighter in the courtroom when I was a lawyer, and I guaran-fucking-tee you that no stone will go unturned should I go to trial on first degree. So tell me your darkest, dirtiest Deb story.”

The muscles in his face visibly sagged.

“I didn’t kill her, Rick.” He cleared his throat. “You can turn on the recorder now.”

I punched the On button, got Lou’s permission to be recorded, nodded at him to start talking.

“I did cases with Deborah Levine,” he said, “she was a colleague, a friend.”

“You mean you were one of her former colleagues who hadn’t slept with her?”

Lou held up his left hand, wriggling his wedding ring. “Good Catholic boys don’t cheat on their wives. Never have, never will.”

“Lou, if you didn’t kill her, why are you here, out of your element, drinking in my town?”

He dropped his hand, stared at the recorder. “I have something to tell you…”

I waited for him to finish. When he didn’t, I egged him on. “Is it about prowling around my property in the wee hours this morning?”

The owner showed up with our drinks, set them heavily on the table. Lou slid him a twenty, told him to keep the change. After taking a fortifying slug, he finally answered my question.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about the person who was in Morrison nine hours ago, prowling around my property, obviously looking for evidence.”

“Am I dressed as though I’ve been prowling around the wilderness?”

I laughed. “Unincorporated Jefferson County is hardly the wilderness. Let me see your shoes.”

He shrugged, slid a Bally leather loafered foot from underneath the table. Clean, smooth leather.

“There’s no snow on them.”

He sniffed. “They’re Italian leather. I cover them with non-skid covers in bad weather.” He reached under the table, held up a wet plastic bootie, the bottom ridged with tread and road salt stains. No dirt from our property.

I flashed on there being no real footprints in the ground the night Wicked was killed. Murderer had to have worn similar covers over his or her shoes. Although those had no identifying tread marks as no prints were found.

“You said you wanted to tell me something.”

He motioned at the recorder. “I changed my mind. What I have to say next is off the record.”

I feigned turning it off. In this light, he couldn’t see the faint digital display and its recording seconds ticking by.

He shuddered a release of breath. “Here’s the deal. I’ve only begun to rebuild my career, Rick. The reason I started practicing bankruptcy law is because my criminal defense practice was tanking, taking me down with it. I have a wife and three sons, two of whom are almost in college.” He took another drink. “Eighteen months ago Deborah…presented me with a proposal…before I go further, I want your word that this never leaves this shithole. And that means no subpoenas before trial, no more impromptu interviews in my office, no nosing around my goddamn life.”

“You have my word.” I meant it. With his off the record comment, couldn’t use the recording in court even if I wanted to.

He eyed me for a moment, nodded, then continued. “Eighteen months ago, Deborah brought a case to me…client had substantial assets that needed to…I said substantial, right?…they had to disappear.”

I nodded, catching the drift. “And did they disappear into your trust account?”

He made an affirmative grunt.

“So, you helped Wicked—Deborah—hide money for a client, you got a fee, and both of you got by with fraudulent concealing of assets. If this leaks, you’ll be disbarred, with the possibility of some prison time.” I took a sip of my root beer, pondering the trust he had placed in me. “Why’re you telling me this, Lou?”

“Because, Rick,” he said, raising a toast to me, “I know that you’re a man of intelligence and discretion.”

If he hadn’t slurred the word intelligence, I might’ve believed him. I thought about other smart people, like Sam, and wondered why he’d fingered Lou on that list. Did he know Lou and Deborah had twisted the law with that trust account hide and seek? I wondered who Lou would finger.