Lucky Stiff (9 page)

“How did he die?” Brian asks, a hitch in his voice.

I start to answer, but Hurley beats me to it. “You should know,” he says.

Brian looks back at Hurley with an expression of hurt confusion. Seconds later his expression shifts to anger. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, juts his chin at Hurley, and shifts on his feet as he goes into self-protection mode.

“I don’t know how he died,” Brian says through gritted teeth. “I didn’t even know he was dead!”

Hurley stares at the kid for a few seconds and then says to Junior, “Take him back to the station. I’ll talk to him more there.”

Junior spins Brian and pushes him outside toward his patrol car. I see that the other two kids are in the backseat of the sheriff’s car. I’m guessing they’re headed for detox.

Hurley turns to me, his eyes swollen, red, and angry. He’s drooling a little and his nose is running, making him look like a rabid dog. I brace myself for the tongue-lashing I’m certain is coming, even as the word “tongue-lashing” triggers lascivious thoughts in my brain.

“Mattie, your failure to listen to me is a serious matter.”

“I know,” I say, hanging my head. “Look, I’m really sorry. It’s just that you guys were in here for so long. I was really afraid something might have gone wrong.”

“And that is exactly why it is imperative that you listen to me from now on, without exception. You’re
not
a cop. Your shooting is so bad you could be the poster child for a repeal of the Second Amendment, and you have no training on tactical maneuvers. What you did was stupid and careless. You risked our lives, as well as your own.”

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“It better not,” he says, scowling. “Because if it does, I’ll be forced to take action, even if it means you lose your job. I’d rather see you get fired than see you hurt or killed.”

I look up at him in surprise, touched by this statement. But my pleasure is short-lived.

“It would take me days to finish all the frigging paperwork,” he continues. “
And
I’d have that sleazy brother-in-law of yours on my case.”

Chapter 7

Hurley’s mention of my brother-in-law is a sobering moment. Lucien is a lawyer—a pretty good one from all accounts—and well known in town. His notoriety doesn’t come from his lawyering abilities, however, but rather from his reputation for being obnoxious, vulgar, and painfully honest. I suspect much of his career success has come about specifically because of these traits, and because his appearance is deceiving. He doesn’t appear to be much of a threat with his strawberry blond hair, pale complexion, and rumpled clothes. But once he opens his mouth, it doesn’t take long for most people to want to give in and run, or kill him and hide the body.

Aside from the fact that he’s always shown a rather prurient interest in my private life, and never hesitates to flirt with me by making lewd and lascivious comments whenever he can, he seems to be a good husband to my sister, Desi, and a good father to their two kids, Erika and Ethan. For those reasons, I tolerate him—that, and because I suspect his crass demeanor is all an act designed to intimidate and keep his opponents and others off balance. It works well, but beneath all the bluster lurks a kindhearted, fair-minded man, however well hidden.

Nonetheless, the mere mention of Lucien’s name in anything resembling polite company tends to make people turn pale and look frantically for the nearest exit. I guess that’s why Hurley curses under his breath when the first thing out of Brian Denver’s mouth once he arrives at the station is a request to call his lawyer, Lucien Colter.

Hurley shoots me a look.

“It wasn’t me,” I say, holding up my hands, though I can understand Hurley’s suspicions. I’ve been known to solicit Lucien’s help for folks in the past.

Hurley asks Denver, “If you don’t have any money, how is it you think you can afford an attorney like Lucien Colter?”

Looking quite smug, Denver says, “I don’t need any money. I did a favor for Mr. Colter a while back and he told me that if I ever needed anything, just to let him know and he’d help me out for free.”

“What kind of favor?” I ask, bracing for the answer. With Lucien, the possibilities are frightening. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that bustiers and farm animals are involved.

“I set up a computer network in his office. It was right after my parents were killed, and I was staying with Uncle Jack for a while. Jack wanted to get a lawyer to sue the guy who hit him, and he took me with him when he went to see Mr. Colter.”

I’m familiar with Jack’s lawsuit, not because of anything Lucien told me, but because I spoke to Jack when he had his last surgery and heard his tale of woe. I share what I know with Hurley. “Jack’s accident was caused by a drunk driver. After Jack’s insurance topped out, he sued the guy for medical expenses. He won a decent chunk, too, if I recall, though I think a lot of it went to pay existing medical debts.”

“Yeah,” Denver says. “Mr. Colter did good by him in the end, but it’s amazing he was able to do anything at all based on how old-school his office was. So I offered to help him out. I know a lot about computers. That’s what I’m going to school for.”

“You mean that’s what you
were
going to school for,” Hurley corrects.

“Yeah, whatever,” Denver says, shooting Hurley a killjoy look. “Anyway, I helped Mr. Colter set up his office with new computers and a network, and I showed him how to use a bunch of software. I even wrote a couple of programs for his secretary to use to keep track of stuff. I didn’t charge him for any of it, so he said he owed me one.”

Hurley and I exchange looks of resigned dismay.

“And I plan to cash in on his offer,” Denver concludes. When no one responds right away, he adds, “
Now,
please. And can I get something to eat? I’m starving.”

Hurley sighs and steers Denver into the conference/ interrogation room and gives him a phone and a phone book. Then he comes out, shaking his head. “I don’t like that kid,” he says. “He’s a little too smug for my tastes, and the fact that he was so quick to ask for a lawyer seems suspicious.”

“Maybe,” I say.

We stand together in silence for a few moments, until Hurley says, “Think there’s any chance your brother-in-law will renege on his offer?”

With that, my cell phone rings. When I look at the caller ID, I see that it’s Lucien. “I guess we’re about to find out,” I say, and then I make the fatal mistake of answering the call on speakerphone.

“Hey, Lucien.”

“‘Mattiekins’! I hear from young Mr. Denver that you’re hanging out at the police station with that detective you keep hoping to wrangle. Have you two done the ‘tube-snake boogey’ yet?”

“You’re on speakerphone, Lucien,” I warn, suspecting it’s a waste of breath. Knowing he has a bigger audience is likely to only egg Lucien on to greater depths of depravity. I avoid looking at Hurley because while I doubt Lucien is capable of feeling embarrassed, I have no such limitations.

“I want you and the cops to wait until I can get there before you ask my client any questions. He says you think he’s using drugs and he’s responsible for his Uncle Jack’s death?”

“Something like that,” I say.

“I heard about Jack on the news last night. Awful thing. So I take it the fire wasn’t an accident? You know, I just saw Jack not that long ago, right after he won a boatload of money at a casino. Wait, is that what you’re looking at for motive, the money?” His words shoot out rapid-fire and unfiltered . . . classic Lucien.

I take a second to try to figure out which of his questions to answer first, but it seems it’s unnecessary. Lucien says, “I’m pulling up out front and I’ll be right in.” With that, he cuts off the call.

I pocket my own phone, give Hurley a wincing look, and then brace myself for Lucien’s imminent arrival.

We hear Lucien long before we see him as he greets Stephanie, the dispatcher, out front.

“Hey, Steph, how’s stuff?” he says, fifty decibels louder than necessary. And a split second later, he adds, “Saw you chatting with that new English teacher in the grocery store parking lot the other day. I hear he’s single. Has he knocked you up yet?”

There is a painful silence before Lucien barks out a laugh that sounds like it’s coming from a demented hyena. “Aw, I was just poking fun with you, playing with words. Don’t you get it, Steph? The guy is an
English teacher.
” He stresses the last two words very pointedly, as if he’s talking to someone from another country, or maybe another planet. “And when
English people
are planning to go visit someone, they say they’re going round to knock so-and-so up, you know? Do you get it now?”

Unlike Lucien’s booming vocals, Stephanie’s low murmur isn’t enough to carry through the door that separates the front area from the back. It’s probably just as well, for I suspect her words could melt steel. A second later, we hear the buzzer as she releases the door to let Lucien through. He looks as rumpled and disorganized as ever: his suit is threadbare and wrinkled, his hair is wildly out of control and long overdue for a cut, and he’s carrying a tattered-looking briefcase that has dozens of sheets of paper hanging out of it as if they’re trying to make an escape.

“Sheesh,” he says when he sees us. He walks over to a nearby table and I notice his stride is a bit off. He’s waddling more than walking and has a slightly bowlegged stance. “Steph sure has lost her sense of humor since the divorce, hasn’t she?”

Neither of us says a word, knowing that Stephanie is probably sitting out front with a Lucien voodoo doll, savagely stabbing it with pins, or ripping its head off.

“So tell me about Jack Allen,” Lucien says, smoothly shifting gears. He tosses his briefcase onto the table and opens it, revealing a heap of papers leaking from manila folders. “What happened? How did he die?” He takes out a small notebook and a pen, flips the notebook open, and stares at Hurley expectantly, with his pen hovering above the page.

“He was asphyxiated and his house was burned down,” Hurley says.

Lucien’s response is a total non sequitur. “Christ, Hurley, you look like hell. Have you been crying or something?”

“Don’t ask,” Hurley grumbles, shooting me a sidelong glance.

Lucien looks over at me. “You made him cry?” He gives me a head-to-toe ogle. “You are good, Mattiekins.”

“Lucien,” I say, tight-lipped and in my best warning voice.

“Okay, okay,” Lucien says, holding up his hands in surrender. “Apparently, no one around here took their happy pills this morning. So . . . back to the subject at hand.”

“Jack didn’t die in the fire, though somebody tried to make it look like he did,” I tell him. “The autopsy showed no soot in his trachea and lungs, so he was dead before the fire started.”

Lucien digests this info for a few seconds, and then turns and shoots a questioning look at Hurley. “Motive?”

“It seems that Mr. Allen had an aversion to banks and opted to keep all his money in his house, instead. He had several hundred grand stashed there, as far as we can tell.”

Lucien lets out a low whistle. “I told him he needed to put that money into something safe. I even referred him to Cal Worth.”

Cal Worth is an aptly named investment counselor, the only one in town since Brady Harper absconded last year with both the life savings of dozens of Sorenson residents and the wife of the Episcopalian minister. This scandalous bit of hot gossip was made all the more juicy when folks discovered the message on the sign in front of the church when it happened: THE MOST POWERFUL POSITION IS ON YOUR KNEES.

Hurley says to Lucien, “You spoke with Jack after he won his money?”

“Yeah, he came to me to talk about drafting a will.”

“And did he?”

Lucien shakes his head. “He said he wanted to think about it for a while. So unless he hooked up with another lawyer, I don’t think he did. I can’t recall what he won at the casino, but his settlement with the driver who hit him netted him half a mil. There were a few unpaid medical bills, and I know he used some of the money to make changes to his house and buy a wheelchair van. I think all of that was around two hundred grand, meaning there was still plenty left. If Jack had that kind of cash hanging around the house, your list of suspects is going to be mighty long.” Lucien looks a bit smug and adds, “And that means reasonable doubt for my client.”

“You’re getting a bit ahead of yourself,” Hurley says. “I haven’t even questioned the Denver boy, much less filed any murder charges against him.”

“What evidence do you have to suggest he might have killed Jack?”

“So far, all I have is motive and possible opportunity.”

“Then why did you drag him in here? He said he was under arrest.”

“He is, for B and E and the possession of drug paraphernalia,” Hurley explains. “We found him shacked up in an abandoned house with a couple of other yahoos and enough syringes to stock the hospital’s medication room. Frankly, I have no interest in pursuing either charge if I can rule him out for the murder. But I need to question him in order to do that, and he invoked his right to counsel before I could. He’s dropped out of school, all his family ties are gone, and he’s homeless, so I have no doubt he’ll run if given half a chance. Given those facts, if I have to use the B and E and drug charges to keep him under wraps until we can sort things out, I will.”

Lucien chews his lip in thought for a few seconds and then says, “Give me a couple of minutes to talk to him and I’ll see what I can do.”

Hurley nods and gestures toward the conference room.

“This is privileged until I say otherwise,” Lucien cautions. “No turning on the recorder or eavesdropping until I come out.”

“Understood,” Hurley says.

Lucien gathers up his briefcase and disappears into the conference room, once again assuming his awkward stride. Hurley looks over at me and sighs. “I’m betting we won’t get to ask the kid a single question.”

“Maybe not,” I agree. “But at the very least you ought to collect his clothes, scrape his nails, and comb his hair for evidence. He looks and smells like he hasn’t showered or changed clothes in several days. So . . . if he did have anything to do with Jack’s murder and the fire, we might find trace evidence on him to prove it.”