‘No problem. Look, I really have to get moving. Mind if I use your bathroom before I go?’
She came around the kitchen island, threaded her arm through the crook of Frank’s elbow and gently led him to the front door.
‘I’m so embarrassed. This building is old; like really old. The toilet is backed up and I’ve been waiting for a plumber forever. The super is an asshole.’
‘Do you need me to call you a plumber?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got someone coming first thing in the morning. I’ll be fine.’
At the front door, she hugged him.
‘If you manage to contact Mike Modine, you’ll let me know what he says, won’t you?’ she said, gazing up into Hal’s eyes.
He nodded, said, ‘I’ll try to get hold of Modine tomorrow.’
She thanked him and closed the door as he stepped into the hallway and made for the elevator. Her door had five separate locks. Taking her time, she made sure to lock each one. When she was done, she put her back to the wall and listened to the elevator doors rumbling closed, and then the faint thrum and bang of the counterweight moving as the lift descended to the ground floor.
Her eyes fell on the packages by the side of the front door. She sorted through them, feeling their weight. When she found the heaviest one, which was about the same size as a large pizza box but twice as thick, she picked it up and moved into the kitchen. She placed the box on the counter, found a pair of scissors in a drawer and began to cut away the packing tape. The lid opened to reveal a smaller, plain box inside. This box she opened with her nails. She peeked inside, then put the box down on the counter.
Glancing over her shoulder she made sure her blinds were closed before stripping naked in the kitchen. After folding her clothes neatly and placing her running shoes on top of the pile, she picked up the box.
She opened the bathroom door then sat on the toilet. The soles of her feet quickly grew cold on the white tile floor. She relieved her bladder while taking the item out of the box and studying it. It was silver, shiny, and had an oily smell. She wiped herself, stood, flushed the toilet and found the end of the cable that hung from the device. She plugged it into the socket above the washbasin and kicked the bathroom door shut.
She turned to the tub, pulled back the shower curtain that hung around it.
The tub was filled to the rim with bags of ice.
There, surrounded by the bags, Mike Modine’s dead face looked up at the ceiling. He still wore that look of surprise. It had taken a lot to get him to her apartment. She didn’t have time to wait, so she’d lured him there last night. She’d told him that her father had made another will, the night before he died. It was handwritten, witnessed and would invalidate the will her father had made some years before in Mike’s office. She said she feared her sister would try to kill her if she knew that the will existed – that her sister had killed Frank thinking he had not yet made a will excluding her as a beneficiary. She trusted no one but Mike. He had to meet her now, she was waiting outside his office for him. He met her on the street and together they went to her apartment where she had supposedly hidden the will.
Once Mike got through the door of her apartment, he hadn’t stood a chance. She used a Taser to subdue him, then got him into the bathroom and bound his hands and feet. An hour later, Mike was dead, her filleting knife was almost blunt from use, and she was satisfied that her father had not told him about his intention of cutting her out of his will. Her father had only scheduled an appointment. Nothing more. She had been playing a psychological chess game against her father and sister for years. Frank had found out. She was pretty sure of this, or at least he had some heavy-duty suspicions. And so, Daddy had to die. She had to make sure he hadn’t told anyone before she had a chance to take him out. So far, she was reasonably sure his suspicions had died with him. Considering the work she’d put into Modine with the knife – she was sure he was telling her the truth.
Mike had not mentioned the private investigators. She already knew about them, but they had not given anything worthwhile to Frank – she had seen to that.
Now, she leaned over the tub and began removing the melting bags of ice she had used to keep Mike’s body cool. These she dumped in the washbasin. Mike’s skin felt freezing, but she still ran her fingers over it, enjoying the sensation. She touched his tongue, and his eyes. Aware she was becoming distracted, she bent down to pick up the device, fresh out of the box. She stopped. Hesitated, tutted. She’d forgotten something.
‘Alexa! Play Elvis Costello, “She”,’ she said.
‘Playing “She” by Elvis Costello,’ said the sibilant voice from her device. Then the apartment instantly flooded with her song. She wanted the Costello version tonight.
The music would drown out the noise. She hit the power button on her new surgical bone saw, and hummed along to the melody as she worked.
EIGHT
EDDIE
Harper called me just after she left Sofia’s place around five in the afternoon. She didn’t get much out of her, and she was tired. We arranged to meet for breakfast the next day after my meeting with the DA.
In all my time as an attorney I’d never had a good experience with plea bargains. Even if the prosecution are offering your client a great deal on a guilty plea, with reduced jail time for saving the city the cost of a trial, it always carries a tinge of regret for me. In a plea deal, the prosecutor is the one sentencing the client, not the judge. Sure, you can bargain a little, but normally you don’t have a lot of power in that situation. Harry Ford, before he became a judge, once told me that it was the plea bargains that get you into trouble with the client. Sure, they like the deal to begin with – one year of jail time on a plea, or run the risk of a trial and conviction that carried a fifteen-year sentence. That’s a no brainer even for those clients whose brains don’t work so good. But after six months of the Department of Correction’s hospitality in a double cell at Sing Sing, with another six to go, it’s surprising how many clients begin to complain about their lawyer forcing them to take a plea – that they’re really innocent after all. Unfortunately, a lot of them are telling the truth. Innocent people plead guilty every day in every city in America because the prosecutor dangles a deal that means they can serve a little time and then get out and get on with their lives. Take a deal and serve one year or risk twenty-five-to-life? It ain’t hard to see why people take a plea.
And while I’d never enjoyed plea bargains, I enjoyed visiting Hogan Place even less. The DA’s office felt like enemy territory. Always had. Always will.
The elevator door opened at the District Attorney’s office reception, and there, behind the desk, was Herb Goldman. Sometimes I think he’s part of the furniture, and not just because of his longevity in the job. His skin could have been stretched across a couch and passed for fine Italian leather. Still, even at his age, not much gets past Herb. He knows all the gossip in the office, and he’s older than God. Probably wiser too. I approached Herb’s garish purple tie and broad smile. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.
‘How come you still haven’t been struck off, Eddie?’ said Herb.
‘They haven’t caught me yet. I thought you were dead.’