Error in judgment, p.1
Error in Judgment, page 1
ERROR
IN
JUDGMENT
Also by D. C. Brod
MURDER IN STORE
ERROR
IN
JUDGMENT
D.C. Brod
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
For Donald, with love
Contents
Cover
Also by D. C. Brod
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Masquerade in Blue
Also Available
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
YOU ARE what you own. I once worked with a guy who was the human version of his Saint Bernard. Behind the massive build, the craggy, jowled face, and the thundering bark was a man who couldn’t bring himself to set a trap for a mouse. And I dated a woman who was a lot like the obscure foreign sports car she drove—exotic exterior but not much under the hood. With Mason Burke it was his office.
It was a refurbished home about a half century old, the exterior warm and comfortable—pale yellow paint and contrasting brown shutters—making you think about picket fences and fresh-baked cookies. Then you got inside and bam!—steel file cabinets, Plexiglas fixtures and stark furnishings. Even the artwork was impersonal to the point of being sterile: framed, angular swatches of colors with no apparent purpose except to complement the room’s pale grays and greens. That was Mason—warm and friendly on the surface, but turn him inside out and you had one big chunk of ice.
For all her warmth and personality, Mason’s secretary might have been hanging on one of the walls. “Mr. Burke will see you in a moment. He’s taking an important call just now.”
Mason always happened to be on the phone at the precise moment I walked into his office. And it was always important. Never calling to check the time and temperature or to find out what was playing at the cinema.
I tried to be inconspicuous as I watched his secretary go about her business. The jacket of her navy suit had slash pockets piped in white and her skirt was pleated. I’d been to Mason’s office about a half dozen times and I still didn’t know the woman’s name. She was fairly young—maybe late twenties. Too young to be so intense, I thought.
She cleared her throat without looking at me. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. McCauley?”
“How long have you worked for Mason?”
She turned toward me and said, “Four years,” adding in a silent stare that it wasn’t any of my business. Some invisible signal saved us from further pleasantries. “Mr. Burke will see you now.”
“C’mon in, Quint,” Mason said as I entered. He stood, cigar in one hand, pocket watch in the other. Noting the ten minutes he’d successfully kept me waiting in his outer office, he snapped the watch shut and inserted it into his vest pocket. Smiling, he motioned for me to sit. The smile, pleasant and unforced, somehow didn’t mesh with the rest of him.
Mason Burke was not an attractive man. He was thin and wiry with wispy red hair and huge freckles that blended into his receding hairline. I’d once heard another lawyer say that Mason had a face like the back end of an Appaloosa. But Mason had energy and an easy confidence that more than compensated for his physical shortcomings. Not only was he one of the most successful divorce lawyers in the county, he was married to a former fashion model who was about a half foot taller than him. He was also a descendant of one of the first families in Foxport.
Mason opened a silver case filled with Cuban cigars. “Care for one?” I shook my head and sat in the chair across from his desk. “That’s right,” he nodded, “you like something you can inhale. Well, I know where you’re coming from. I used to smoke three packs a day myself.” He shook his head at his imprudence, as he did every time he admitted this lapse in his otherwise exemplary life. “These things,” he gazed lovingly at the cigar. “A man can take his time enjoying one of these works of art and not have to worry about coughing up blood twenty years down the road.” The sweet, stale smell that permeated his office attested to the fact that he had, indeed, spent plenty of time appreciating this art. Mason lowered himself into his chair and watched as I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The smile deteriorated a bit.
To hear him talk, Mason believed that he and I were right on the same level: a high-priced lawyer and a reasonably-priced private investigator, both professionals, both performing a vital service. But judging from the covert inventory he took of his desk whenever I placed papers or photographs on it, he really put guys like me on a level with subway pickpockets. And I guess that’s why I called him Mason instead of Mr. Burke. He couldn’t correct me without slipping out of character.
“Here’s what I need, Quint.” He spoke slowly at first, as if he hadn’t already rehearsed and refined this speech. “I’m defending Scott Markham, the circuit judge who’s been indicted for accepting bribes.” He paused and lit his cigar, puffing on it several times to get it going. He watched me as he shook the match out. “Stop me if I’m boring you with something you already know.”
“You are a lot of things, Mason; boring isn’t one of them.”
He smiled and continued. “I’m looking out for my client here. Don’t want to see him burned, you know. And if I were Mrs. Markham, I’d be bailing out of this marriage as soon as I could. Don’t know if you heard what happened to Carl Wittenger. Had a construction business that was going through some tough times and, to ease the pain if you know what I mean, he had a little something going on the side. Wife found out and before he knew what hit him he was filing for bankruptcy. Lost everything. Now, I don’t want anything like that happening to Scott Markham. You understand?” When Mason tried to ingratiate himself with me, he had a lot of trouble with eye contact.
I nodded, realizing that I’d been treed and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it.
“I’d like to see what you can dig up on Lorna Markham. Boyfriends,” he shrugged, “girlfriends, whatever. Drinking habits. Any bad habits will do, really.”
In the few seconds I could take before he’d know I was stalling, I considered my options. If I told him I didn’t have time, he’d know I was lying and probably conclude that I was already working for his client’s wife. I was pretty sure he suspected that anyway. And if I said no, that’d clinch it for him. I’m not in the habit of turning down cases. However, there was at least one other good reason for turning this one down.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees and stared at my folded hands before I looked up at him. I spoke slowly, not so much for effect as for time to figure out how I was going to end this speech. “You mean to say that you want me to dig up dirt on this woman, this Lauren Markham, just so you have something to use against her if and when she files for divorce?”
“Lorna,” Mason said. “Her name’s Lorna.”
I nodded and looked at my hands again. “And her husband? He doesn’t know about this?”
Mason shrugged and smiled. “Like I said, I’m just looking out for my client’s interests.”
I shook my head and leaned back into the chair. “I can’t do that. It’s one thing to follow some woman around when her husband’s been staying up nights thinking she’s sleeping with his best friend. It’s another thing to follow a lady trying to catch her spitting on the sidewalk. Jobs like that give people in my business a bad name.” I shook my head. “I’m hungry, Mason, but I won’t do it.”
Mason smiled. “You’re working for her, aren’t you?”
I swallowed hard. “It doesn’t matter.”
He stared at me for an uncomfortable amount of time, still smiling but slightly distracted, as if he were looking for the answer to something. Then he nodded and said, “Don’t get moralistic on me. You and I aren’t so different, you know. We both make a living off people’s misfortunes. Oh, maybe every now and then you get a missing person to dig up, just to make you feel respectable. But the real meat of your business—and mine—comes from getting the goods on some poor slob so his spouse can stick it to him.”
I would have liked to refute that observation, but couldn’t. So I said, “Seems like you got all the answers. Why am I here?”
Mason laughed. The sound was full but without warmth. “Why Quint, we both know why you’re here. In fact, I can only think of one reason for you to turn down a job like this. What you people call ‘conflict of interest.’ I’m right aren’t I?”
“You seem pretty convinced,” I said.
His smile faded a bit and his eyes narrowed, trying to read my mind. I thought about a white dog in a snowstorm.
He leaned back into his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Quint, we’re both professionals here. And I’m sure it isn’t necessary for me to remind you that I tossed you a lot of business when you were trying to get established here. Even after that bad start you got off to. Back when you were the new boy in town. Not so long ago. Am I right?”
“Yeah, Mason, you helped me out. But I think the ‘support your local gumshoe’ spiel is a little out of line. You wouldn’t have hired me a second time if I hadn’t produced results the first.”
Mason studied the glowing tip of his cigar, then turned back to me. “Perhaps. But I don’t think I need to remind you that you’re a little old to be starting a new business in a new town. It helps to have lots of time on your side. Takes a while to build relationships. To learn the ropes, so to speak. Things you can’t pick up in the P.I. manual or whatever it is you folks call your Bible. So, when you don’t have all kinds of time on your hands, you have to take advantage of opportunities that come your way.” He leaned forward and stared into my eyes for several long seconds. “You know what I’m saying, Quint, don’t you?”
Sure I did. At my age, most career types were either scaling peaks or learning to enjoy life on the plateaus. They weren’t trying on new hats hoping there was still a chance they’d find one that fit.
Mason must have interpreted my silence as agreement. He nodded. “That’s good.” Then he leaned back into his chair and gazed at the ceiling while drawing on the cigar. “You know, there’s another reason you should help me out here. I think it takes a reasonable, sympathetic man like you, Quint, to fully appreciate Scott Markham’s situation. I don’t have to tell you, this guy’s in a bad way. You wouldn’t be trying to make things worse for him, now would you?” Mason emphasized his point with a conspiratorial wink.
I was hungry, but I wasn’t starving. I stood. “Mason, why would I try to make things worse for him? He’s got you. What more does he need?”
As I left, Mason fired the last salvo: “Hope you’re not getting too attached to this town. Don’t think there’s much future for you here.” I didn’t look back at him, but in my mind’s eye, a scrawny, spotted, cigar-smoking Cheshire cat watched me leave.
I’d parked my car directly across from Mason’s office and as I crossed the street I glanced up and down at the cars and looked for something out of place. Mason was either incredibly canny or he had someone tailing me. There was a red Jaguar parked halfway down the block and it looked like there was someone in it, but I dismissed that as a possibility. Bad form to tail someone in a car like that.
As I got into my car I wondered who could possibly have known that I’d been hired by Lorna Markham to discover the identity of her husband’s latest flame. The only one I could come up with was the lady herself. That made no sense. Maybe I’d uncover the informant when I started tailing Markham.
He was out of town until the next morning so Lorna wasn’t going to start paying me until then. I thought about what there was to eat in my refrigerator and came up blank. I could either go home and try my luck or stop someplace where I knew I could get decent food. I mentally tossed a coin and was relieved when it turned up heads. I turned onto Stone Avenue and headed toward a riverfront restaurant called The Den.
As I drove, I considered Scott Markham’s choice of attorney. Why would a circuit court judge, indicted for accepting bribes, his career on the line, hire a divorce lawyer like Mason Burke to defend him? Especially when the lawyer Markham had practiced with before he became a judge was one of the best criminal lawyers in the state, let alone the county. That was sort of like hiring some guy who advertised on the side of ambulances when F. Lee Bailey was your fishing buddy. Go figure. Anyway, Mason Burke had done all right by Scott Markham as far as Lorna was concerned. Mason couldn’t prove it, but he strongly suspected that Lorna had hired me. I’d probably have a lot of trouble catching Markham in the act after Mason told him to cool it. But then, you never know. One thing I’ve learned in handling divorce investigations: hormones die hard.
The hostess escorted me to my favorite table—nice view of the river and in the middle of the smoking section. I ordered a drink and lit a cigarette. When the drink came, I sipped it without looking at the menu. I wondered if Mason did have the clout to destroy any chance I had of building a business in this town. He probably did if he cared to bother. Maybe he was right: I should have tried this years ago when I wouldn’t have given time, or the lack of it, a second thought.
There wasn’t much light left in the mid-March day. As I sipped my drink, I watched a jogger make his way down the bike path along the river. Maybe it was time to take up jogging. The exercise wouldn’t hurt. I’d been lucky in that I’d managed to close in on middle age without ever having to be a fanatic about what I ate and how much I exercised. But that wouldn’t last. All my life people have been telling me that I look like my father. And I guess that’s true. We’ve got the same deep set eyes and the same way of looking at someone who’s full of shit. But lately when I see my dad, I see a tall guy with skinny legs who can’t suck his gut in anymore. Maybe I’d start with situps.
Pushing unpleasant thoughts from my mind, I continued to stare at the river, mesmerized. I put myself in the middle of it, flat on my back, just floating.
“You slimy bastard. Who in the hell do you think you are?”
One hundred and twenty pounds of fur-clad fury landed in the chair across the table from me, I tried not to choke on my drink and failed.
“I hope you die,” she said as, between gasps, I drained a glass of water.
When my eyes cleared, I focused on Lorna Markham. I could think of only one reason for her assessment of me. Only one she would know of anyway. I motioned to the waitress and asked Lorna what she was drinking.
“Scotch on the rocks. Just make it the bar scotch. I’m going to dump it on this bastard’s head.”
The waitress emitted an uncertain giggle, glancing first at me, then Lorna. Her expression sobered and she hurried away to fill the order.
“I should have known better. You private investigators are all alike. You go straight from my place to see Mason Burke. You just work for the highest bidder don’t you? Does Mason pay you with drugs and bimbos?” Although the venom in her tone was unmistakable, she took care not to raise her voice much above a sharply-delivered whisper. Even so, a couple of tables were unable to ignore the exchange.
“Lorna,” I tried to interrupt but she would hear none of it.
“Have I been stupid? And don’t call me Lorna. It’s Mrs. Markham to you. To think I thought that since you’d only been in town a few months you wouldn’t have been poisoned yet by that scum.” There was a special hatred in her voice when she referred to Mason. “That was a mistake I won’t make again.
That son of a bitch is like a cancer.” She seemed to drift off for a minute. The waitress brought the scotch and set it in front of her. She grasped the glass so tightly I thought it would shatter. I put my hand on her wrist. She recoiled a little but didn’t pull away.
“Listen to me for a minute, okay. Then, if you want to, you can dump the drink on my head. In fact, I’ll do it for you.”
She glared at me but didn’t speak. I took her silence as my cue to go ahead. “Yes, I have worked for Mason Burke. Yes, he asked me to his office today to find out if I was working for you. No, I did not tell him that I am working for you. Yes, he does suspect as much, but at this point he has no proof.”
“What else did he say?”
“Not much. But it took him a long time.”
She didn’t loosen the grip on her glass, but her eyes softened a little. “Why should I believe you?”
I shrugged. “Because I’ve only been here a few months. I’ve worked for Mason, but I’ve also worked for several other lawyers. You and I probably have the same opinion of Mason, but, unlike you, I can’t afford to be real fussy. On the other hand, I’ve only been in this profession a few months so I haven’t lost all my scruples yet.” I glanced at her scotch. “It’s up to you, Mrs. Markham. It’s your choice.” Then I added, “And on second thought, if you want to douse me with that drink, you gotta do it yourself. ‘Cause I don’t deserve it.” I released my grip on her wrist.
Her eyes narrowed and she pushed her shoulder-length brown hair off her face. She lifted the drink and hesitated. “So, what do you do now that Mason knows what you’re up to?” The anger had evaporated and she might have been inquiring about how the Cubs looked for the season.
