The Zen Man (14 page)

“Who at the retreat had enough motive to do the deed?” I asked.

“Don’t know. Didn’t even have a chance to talk to her at the retreat.” He thought for a moment. “That grasshopper—Jason, no Justin—was arguing with her at the bar.”

“Lawyers say hello, they sound as though they’re arguing.”

“Can’t think of anyone else.” He smirked a smile. “‘Cept you, of course.”

“Thank you.”

“But for all your faults,” he continued, his drink sloshing on the table as he picked it up, “doesn’t mean you’re a murderer, but all that aside, I sure as hell don’t need you or your lawyer or anybody else working your high-profile case… sticking your noses into
my
business. Sooner or later, somebody’s gonna stumble on the paper trail of Deborah…what she did…I did…gotta stop it now.”

“I already gave my word.” His rambling was getting on my nerves, but I wasn’t ready to end this yet. My gut told me there was more. “What else are you hiding that can help me in my defense?”

I’d hit a chord. He blinked, grew somber.

“She called me a few weeks ago…last time I spoke to her. It was late. Two-three in the morning. She was drunk. Babbling about some affair. Pissed off, threatening…”

He stopped talking as the owner delivered the fries. I pushed them aside, not wanting him to fill his mouth with anything other than whatever he was ready to spill.

“And?” I prompted as the owner trudged back to the bar.

“I thought it was
me
she was threatening.” He gasped a laugh. “Realized it was someone else.”

“Threatening with what?”

“License investigation. Misconduct. You guys’ll be subpoenaing phone records, so you’ll shee she called me.”

“Did she mention someone whose name starts with B?”

“B?”

A body appeared next to our table. I looked up, expecting the owner had returned for something. Instead the skinny dude with the pitiful gray ponytail I’d seen earlier stood there, looking down at Lou.

“Downtown yuppie piece of shit,” he muttered.

“You must have…” Lou’s fingers drummed on the table. “…the wrong person.”

Gray Braid slammed his fist on the table. Glasses clinked. “Can’t even get a decent breakfast down here without pussies like you in my face.”

I half-stood, looking over my shoulder for the owner. “Hey, let’s not get—”

Too late. With a sickening thud, Gray Braid shoved his fist into Lou’s look of surprise. As he toppled, I lunged forward, caught him under the shoulders before he slam-kissed the table.

Gray Braid stomped away, leaving me hanging over the table, straining to hold up a whimpering bankruptcy lawyer. Nobody came to our aid. Guess the drama at our table was small stuff compared to the regular bust-ups.

I somehow hoisted Lou into a hold while snatching my jacket. Dude had fifty pounds on me. Reminded me of a scrappy gal pal who once ran a construction crew of felons in the desert—after getting irked listening to all those bad boys gripe about picking up a hundred-pound bag of cement, she leaned over, hoisted it like a goose-down pillow and carried it effortlessly to its destination. The guys stopped bitching after that.

Pretending Lou was a bag of cement—which didn’t take a stretch of the imagination—I half-carried, half walked him back through the bar and outside to the Durango, all the while ignoring his blubbering about his Ballys.

Funny what a man deems important when life deals him a blow.

If you do not get it from yourself, where will you go for it?
—Zen Saying

T
he rest of the day, I thought about Lou’s “off the record” confession. I knew how manipulative and deceptive Wicked could be, but committing crimes? Not her style. Especially with a chubby, sniveling, Messiah-complex shark like Reisman. I finally concluded she’d reeled him in with one of her soap-opera, high-hysteria dramatics, and Lou had offered the sanctuary of his trust account. Bad move that jeopardized his law license, but I wasn’t going to share his dirty little secret. Obviously Wicked wasn’t going to, either.

Earlier, after Lou’s unfortunate meet-and-greet with a biker’s fist, I’d driven him back to the lodge to sober up. The punch to his face had split a lip, but Lou refused to see a doctor. I wasn’t wild about spending the day with him, but figured it’d be worth it if he shared more dirt about possible suspects or even his own guilt. But all he did was swill my coffee and tell Nurse Laura, who kept fresh ice on his lip, how pretty she was. He might be a good Catholic boy, but he was sinning in his heart.

Late that afternoon as the sun was setting, Laura and I dropped him off at his Lexy, after which we drove to a favorite Mexican food restaurant, Patzcuaro’s, on 32
^nd
in North Denver. It’d always been an ethnically rich neighborhood—first the Scots, followed by the Italians, Jews, Hispanics, and finally what
The Denver Post
had labeled the “urban migrants,” the current-day version of yesterday’s yuppies. The influx of their money had created a community of extremes—poverty-stricken families and gun-toting kids next to renovated mansions and three-hundred-dollar baby carriages.

After dinner, around seven, we drove to Justin Tanenbaum’s place, a loft in the trendy LoDo—Lower Downtown—area of Denver, a hip neighborhood of posh restaurants, art galleries, and pricey lofts. Justin, being a hip, LoDo-kinda guy, wasn’t home. I left my card in his door.

As we drove the winding road back to Morrison, admiring the white-capped Rockies on the far horizon, Laura and I brainstormed the identity of the mysterious B. We mulled over the lawyers at the CrimDef retreat whose names began with B and came up with two—Bob Nelson and Rachel Benning—but they’d never worked with Deborah, and from what I knew, had never socialized with her either, so no motives there. Laura tapped into the Internet on her cell and researched Denver law firms whose offices were on streets that started with B, but we had no idea if the lawyers on those streets even knew Wicked, so we canned the B Street approach. Next, we brainstormed which graduates of Colorado University Boulder might’ve had it in for Wicked, but I could only recall one, Eddie Walsh, who now practiced family law in Connecticut.

The next morning, as Laura and I were in our respective chairs, sipping our first cup of hot java, I reached the inevitable conclusion of what we needed to do next.

“No way in hell,” she muttered, sliding me a you’ve-lost-it-now look.

“Way.”

She set down her coffee, those violet eyes turning a stormy gray. “I hate bugs.”

“We’re not
really
doing it, just pretending.” I smiled. She didn’t. “And lucky for us, I have a few white jumpsuits that’ll fit the parts perfectly.”

“Not those painters’ overalls with Acme Exterminators stitched on the back.”

“You peeked.”

“Hard to miss them, hanging next to that powder-blue shirt with Colorado Delivery Services stitched in yellow on the pocket.”

“Go Nuggets. Private investigators need such disguises when they work undercover.”

“But you said those overalls were for you and some beefy barista who wanted to play PI. No way one will fit me. I’ll look like the Michelin Man.”

“More like the Michelin Woman, but it’s a moot point.” Catching her look, I quickly added, “Because you’d be gorgeous even if you were wrapped in a big, fat circus tent.”

“You should quit while you’re ahead.” She dragged a hand through her tangle of morning hair and sighed wearily. “And where are we doing this faux bug hunting?”

“Wicked’s.”

“In her…
house
?”

I nodded.

“But…it’s locked.”

“I know where she keeps—kept—the key.”

“Isn’t that trespassing?”

“Yes. It’s only burglary if we take something….”

She muttered something about G. Gordon Liddy and Watergate before downing another sip of coffee.

“You don’t have to go.” I didn’t want to involve her in a felony. Okay, maybe I did, but I didn’t want her to be caught. “I can do this by myself. I’m sure lots of exterminators work alone.”

“No.” She sat up, set down her coffee cup, and clasped her hands in her lap. There was both a delicacy and strength in her face as she stared at me, the storm in her eyes ebbing. “I’m in it this deep—I’m going all the way.”

I felt something shake loose inside me. Me, the guy who’d defended murderers, had attended more autopsies than I could count, and only yesterday had carted a blubbering lawyer out of a hard-core biker bar, felt undone by a woman’s sweet sincerity.

I had the urge to convince her otherwise, admit it was a dumb idea to drag her into felonious activities, but I’d barely had those thoughts before they triggered others that rocked my psyche with a gut-hard truth. I needed Laura as I hadn’t needed anybody else, ever, in my life. Couldn’t go through this
mishegas
without her. Didn’t want to live without her, although that was such a stark possibility, I knew it’d be like going through life with my leg cut off, my heart cut out.

Did I tell her all this? No. Didn’t trust myself to speak. Told myself it was because I didn’t want to blurt another fat tent comment, but the truth was deeper, more complex. It was more than needing her, it was being one with her. She was it, my last lover, the one with whom heartache ended. The one I never wanted to make cry, never wanted to hurt, always wanted to hold, to be her comfort even as she took her final breath. Asking her to marry me represented all these things, but I had a knack for asking at stupid-ass moments, so how was she to know?

As our gazes held, something inside me warmed, like a truth walking out into the sunshine. Not only did she know, she’d known all along.

“The greatest wisdom is seeing through appearances.”
—Atisha

“S
o, uh, let me go over this again.” Garrett turned off the ignition of his Toyota 4Runner. “If I see a cop or anybody else staring at the dead lady’s place…dead…whoooaa, still can’t believe it happened in the pool, man.”

“Don’t think about it,” I said from the backseat where Laura and I were doing a last check of our equipment.

“Better yet,” muttered Laura, “don’t get stoned before your apprentice PI gigs.”

We were parked around the block from Wicked’s home—once upon a time mine, too—in Capitol Hill, named for the nearby state capitol that sits, big surprise, on a hill. What had once been the stomping grounds of the nineteenth-century Denver elite had evolved into an eclectic neighborhood crowded with gentrified brownstones, quaint coffee shops and retail stores, elaborate multi-story condos, and high crime.

The last category which we were now joining. Garrett being the high of high crime.

“If anybody asks what you’re doing parked here,” I added, “say you’re looking for your lost dog.”

“Don’t have a dog.”

“Describe Mavis.”

“That’s sad, man.”

“Just do it.”

Laura gave me a roll of the eyes as though to say “oh yeah, he’s our lookout all right.”

I slid open the back door and we stepped into the slushy, snow-plowed street. Bracing ourselves against the winter chill, we ambled down Downing Street, looking like Mr. and Ms. Michelin out for a stroll. Our cameras, latex gloves, cell phones, and a few zip-lock bags were stuffed in our various pockets. I’d thought about carting the investigative paraphernalia in a tool box, but didn’t want to chance dragging another object along and risk leaving it behind. You think you’re cool, know what to grab if the situation gets hot, but I knew from experience adrenalin rushes can scramble brains.

As we walked, I tugged my Nuggets baseball cap down low on my forehead. In my criminal defense days, I’d learned the best disguise was a baseball cap because it covers the hair and masks the shape of the head—two key identifiers cops ask of witnesses. Sunglasses would have been good additions, too, but I didn’t want us looking like the Blues Brothers gone Ghost Busters.

After reaching my former home, a quaint Victorian number Wicked had loved and I’d agreed to buy because she had, I fumbled behind a loose brick on the inside wall of the yard, found the key. Amazing she’d never thought to change locks or locations of keys, which I chalked up to laziness. We walked around the side of the house, entered through the enclosed back porch, a sleeping porch in another era. After removing our boots, we proceeded inside.

We entered the kitchen, which looked pretty much as it always had—yellow walls, overly cheery yellow and white curtains, a worn linoleum floor.

The living room was like seeing someone years later and having difficulty recognizing them through the wrinkles and gray. The beige walls had been repainted a deep adobe that gave it a Poe-like ambiance. Wicked had always liked Danish modern, but those pieces were overwhelmed by several monstrous, ornate antiques. I recalled her grandmother had died a few years ago, figured they were from her estate.

“Her office is down the hallway,” I said, leading the way.

Like the kitchen, that room hadn’t changed much from when I’d lived here. Small and functional, it contained the pine desk I’d refinished for Wicked, several bookcases filled with law tomes and research books, a metal file cabinet, a corner table with an iPod, speakers. The room had a faint scent of vanilla, probably from the cream-colored candles on top of one of the bookcases. An old armchair that used to be in the living room was nestled in a corner with a direct view of a wall-mounted flat-screen TV. The table next to the armchair was cleared, although I could see the telltale rings of drink glasses that had littered the surface.

“Was this also your office?” Laura asked.

“No, I worked at our law firm. She had an office there, too, but spending time there would’ve meant she might be forced to do
real
work, so she stayed here instead.”

“You okay?”

“Never dreamed I’d say this, but…looking at this place, I feel sorry for her.”