The Zen Man (9 page)

When the character of a man is not clear to you, look at his friends.
—Japanese proverb

T
he next day, I met Sam for lunch.

“I spoke to the investigating detective.” He flipped his red silk tie over his jacketed shoulder as the waiter set fish and chips in front of him. The scent of oil, fish, and vinegar infused the air. “Did you know your rock designer—what’s his name?”

“Garrett.”

“Garrett ate some acid and E before holing up in that dirt pit the night Debby was murdered?”

“Christ, he must’ve been flying.”

“Anything else?” the waiter asked.

“I’m sure he was smoking pot, too,” I muttered.

Sam waved off the waiter as he shoved a thick piece of battered cod into his mouth.

“I didn’t know about the candy flipping.”

Sam finished chewing, swallowed. “I’m not sure all of us know completely what Garrett knows…or might remember.” His cell phone rang. Sam set down the fish, wiped his fingers on his linen napkin while checking his Rolex. “Need to get this.” He flipped open his phone. “Sam Wexler.”

While Sam chatted to someone who apparently had an outstanding domestic violence warrant, I ate my reuben and checked out the dining room of Katie Mullen’s Irish Restaurant and Pub.

Along the far wall was a stately Victorian bar where once an old mahogany one used to be when this place was called the Supreme Court Café because it was a mere dash from the Denver District Court. Despite the pricey makeover, it was still a popular watering hole for Denver’s legal eagles. I’d spent a bad couple of years dashing here myself, staking out a seat at the bar where I’d down vodka tonics while dealing drugs.

This morning, when Sam had suggested meeting here for lunch, my head had literally ached with memories of sliding baggies, grams, and eight-balls into people’s—most of them lawyer’s—hands at the old Supreme Court Cafe. I almost said no, but remembered the place had changed hands and decided I’d not be haunted by old, tainted ghosts. For the most part, that was true.

“Did Garrett mention seeing her murderer?” Sam asked, putting his cell away.

“You talked to the lead detective. What’d he say Garrett said?” I’d had a serious man-to-man with Garrett before he talked to the detectives that no matter how “sick” he thought the moniker G-man, he was
never
to refer to himself as that or even hint he wanted to be my apprentice. I had enough problems without looking like the leader of a hippie investigator cult.

“Detective gave the party line. Told me to read it when it’s published in discovery. Mentioned, however, that Garrett had been whacked out of his head, in a sleeping bag, listening to an iPod.”

“That’s pretty much what Garrett said to me, minus the complete inventory of chemicals.”

“Which hole was he in?”

“The unfinished hot spring.”

While Sam mulled that over, I took a bite of the pickle, crunchy and tart, worthy of a storefront deli from Denver’s old west side.

“Did he
hear
Debby or the murderer?”

I shook my head. “Garrett had his ear plugs in, listening to his iPod.”

“During winter? At nine-thirty in the evening?”

“Is that what the detective said? The murder occurred at nine-thirty?”

He dabbed a fry in some ketchup. “That was in the police report. So what was he doing hanging out in a dirt hole? Had to be near freezing.”

“It’s a very warm sleeping bag. One of those designer numbers rich kids take to Nepal.”

“He’s rich?”

I shrugged. “Considering he never seems to finish jobs, I’ve decided he’s a trust-fund baby. Only plausible explanation I can come up with.”

Sam frowned. “Oh. Anyway, wonder why the detectives didn’t find that BlackBerry.”

“Apparently it was partially covered by a rock. Maybe someone accidentally kicked it there. Or maybe Mavis carried it there in her mouth. She has a thing for metallic objects. Once buried a vegetable grater near cabin four.”

“Your dog’s weird.” Sam wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. “Got news for you. The BlackBerry belonged to Debby.”

“I know.”

He paused, napkin mid-air. “How?”

“I turned it on and looked at the contacts list.”

An odd look, somewhere between surprise and oh-shit, crossed his face. “Other than leaving your fingerprints, did you tamper with evidence in any other way?”

“Chill, Sam. I was wearing latex gloves.”

“Latex?” He snorted something unintelligible. “How many other incriminating pieces of polymeric substance are around the lodge?”

“Even you know PIs use latex gloves in their work. Besides, it wasn’t just me. Laura was wearing latex gloves, too. She’s the one who showed me how to look up information on Deborah’s BlackBerry.”

He rolled his eyes like a vaudevillian actor. “So what did you two see during your tampering party?”

“Read an entry.
Forward file to ARB re B?
Written on the day she died.”

He frowned, rubbed his thumb along his bottom lip. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Considering an attorney in Colorado is obligated by law to report another attorney’s misconduct to the attorney regulation board—ARB—appears ol’ Debby was ready to report some attorney’s bad deed, although that question mark makes me think that she was undecided.”

“I’d figured out that much, except for the question mark.”

“So, who do you think is B?”

“Beats me.” He tossed his napkin on the table, looked for the waiter. “But I have to be in court, so let’s socialize this later.”

“I got it,” I said, indicating the bill, “but before you go, I pulled a trash hit on Iris’s place.”

His voice had the delicacy of an engine low on power fluid. “Iris DaCosta? Christ, Rick, she’s almost a judge.”

“Look, you said she had motive. Anyway, she only had her recycles out.” A small white lie. I didn’t want him going apoplectic over my trespassing adventure, especially as I found so little.

He smiled sourly. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the lawyer and you’re the client. That means I got a license, and I tell you what to do. You’re a great investigator, but you haven’t been hired. Simmer down.”

“But that’s what I do, Sam. Investigate. Especially as this is about
my
life,
my
freedom.”

“Stupid to investigate your own case, Rick.”

“Who’s better? And in case you forgot, after my law license was suspended I had no work, no way to support myself, no fucking skill other than being an attorney, so I did the only other thing I knew, investigating cases, and I’ve done hundreds of them in the last five years, so I know my shit.”

He nodded, his expression clearing. “All right, I get what you’re doing. Makes sense to investigate your own case. We sure don’t have the bucks to hire a PI. But I can’t put you on the stand. A defendant telling the jury what witnesses said they saw?” He left the question hanging.

“I’ve already thought of that. Laura will be primarily conducting the interviews.”

“Laura? What does she know about investigations?”

“She’s managed all kinds of people, was a senior manager at TeleForce before they downsized. She’s smart, articulate, thinks ahead.”

“Can she handle being cross-examined by Brett Crain?”

I made a pfft sound while waving off the question as trivial. Truth was, I wasn’t real sure that would go so well.

“Look, I’ve got court.”

“We’ll discuss Iris’s and Lou’s motives soon?”

“Sure. One thing to think about—Lou practices bankruptcy law.”

He waggled his fingers in a good-bye as he walked away. I thought about Lou Reisman, who I recalled seeing once or twice that evening at the retreat—always jovial, always with a high-ball glass in his hand. Had a reputation for being shrewd in court. So what if he handled bankruptcy cases.

Then I got it.

B for bankruptcy?

He’d be my first interview.

Nora Charles
: Oh, Nicky, I love you because you know such lovely people.
—The Thin Man

L
aura picked me up outside Katie Mullen’s Irish Restaurant and Pub, where I’d been watching a Salvation Army Santa across the way on the 16
^th
Street Mall, ringing his heart out.

I slid into the passenger’s seat. “Take Court up to eighteenth, hang a left, then another on California.”

At two-thirty, we arrived at the law firm of Lou H. Reisman, P.C., one of many law firms located in the prestigious 17
^th
Street Equitable Building, built in 1892. At nine floors, it was the first official high-rise in Denver—being prestigious and lofty, lawyers flocked to it then and now. We were greeted by a frosty-eyed receptionist in a pink and gray polka-dot dress with an attitude of angry superiority peculiar to women who’ll never rise above this station in life.

I’d barely inquired if Mr. Reisman was in before she snapped, “Mr. Reisman is busy—”

Mr. Reisman obviously wasn’t aware how busy he was because he came sauntering by at that very moment, probably on his way back from the men’s room down the hall.

He paused, blinking brown eyes that matched his Italian wool suit. His pasty complexion and fleshy body told a story of a man whose extracurricular activities revolved around lobster thermidor, Kobe beef, and single malt Scotch.

I stepped forward, extended my hand. “Hello, Mr. Reisman.”

“Are you with the Denver PD?” he asked as we shook.

“No, I’m Rick Levine of Levine Investigations.” I nodded to Laura. “And this is my associate, Laura Fitzhugh.”

His gaze darted to Laura, back to me. “I recall meeting Ms. Fitzhugh at the dinosaur lodge, and you, Mr. Levine, years ago in court.”

He said my name as though he’d stepped in things that smelled better. “Thought you were in jail.”

“Out on bail,” I said pleasantly. Considering his glee to see me again, it was time to fast forward. “Look Lou, I’ve got thirty days to find the real killer, and because of that tight time clock, we need to ask for your help by having you answer a few questions.”

He gave his head an almost imperceptible shake, but before he could come up with some bullshit excuse, I fell back on the old phrase that strikes at any lawyer’s heart if he still has one.

“Lou, everybody’s entitled to a defense. Think of it as community service.”

His chubby fingers fluttered lightly on his jacket. “I only have a few minutes, but I’ll answer what I can.”

Within a minute or so of those few minutes we were sitting in Lou’s office, a décor built around a massive cherry wood desk dotted with framed photos of wife and children, piles of paper, and a marble desk set with the scales of justice etched in antique brass.

“For obvious reasons,” I said, as Laura and I sat in the pair of oak chairs facing him, “my investigative associate will ask the questions.”

His leather swivel chair whined as he sat. I held up the digital recorder. “Do you mind?”

Lou stared at the device, nodded brusquely. I guessed he would agree—any lawyer who’s used to being on the record with a court reporter wouldn’t think twice about being on the record in his own office.

As Laura pulled a sheet of paper from her purse, I recited the usual into the recorder.

“Today’s date is Wednesday, December fifteen. This is Rick Levine and Laura Fitzhugh of Levine Investigations with Lou H. Reisman in the latter’s office. Mr. Reisman, is this being recorded with your permission?”

“Yes.”

I nodded to Laura to start.

She cleared her throat, then began reading the first question from the list we’d prepared. “We’re looking for a reason why the person who’s guilty of Deborah Levine’s murder would have to kill her…”

Not a single facial muscle twitched in Lou’s face as he listened to the question. After contemplating the far wall for an inordinately long minute, he began speaking in a somber, authoritative tone.

“In our society, Ms. Fitzhugh, it seems people have all sorts of reasons to kill lawyers. And while I don’t want to speculate wildly, Deborah was an aggressive, creative woman who had a colorful personal life.”

The comment about Wicked’s personal life was more telling than he thought. My cross-examiner instinct took over.

“Exactly what about her recent colorful personal life,” I said, cutting off Laura as she dutifully began reading the next question, “would make you think that someone would want to kill her?”

He shifted in his seat. “Mr. Levine, the sheer number of liaisons your former wife enjoyed, even while you two were married, would give rise to suspicion about motive to kill. And after all, you are the only one here who is on bond for a capital crime. Revenge is bitter, strange fruit.”

Fucker. I nodded to Laura to kick off question two, then changed my mind.

“Given your comment about her aggressive, creative nature,” I interrupted, “does that apply to her law practice as well?”

“Yes. She was…controversial.”

I made a hold-on gesture to Laura as I mulled over the word
controversial
. Wicked had been many things, but controversial was hardly an adjective I’d pick for her. Controversial connoted being clever or daring, attributes the dull, lazy Wicked lacked.

He was hiding something.

“Did you two ever discuss cases?” I asked.

“We discussed her issues at times, yes.”

“At times,” I repeated. “Did such times include the past month?”

He looked surprised. “No.”

“How long ago?”

“I can’t directly recall, but it’s been a while.”

“How long’s a while?”

He made a dismissive gesture. “At least a year. My phone logs and records support these assertions, sir.”

Vague, noncommittal lawyer bullshit. This didn’t feel right, but more general questions would only get more vague, noncommittal answers, so I decided to go for the gold.

“Were you aware she was thinking about reporting another member of the Colorado bar to the disciplinary authority?”