Try Try Again Read online

  “Yes,” she said, “that’s what I think. Someone wanted Barnes dead, and worked through another intermediary, not just Charley, to make it happen.”

  “Someone with money.”

  “OK,” she said. “Maybe not super-rich, but – with say a hundred thousand to spend on this.”

  “So – who’s on the suspect list?”

  “Ah – I don’t have a list.”

  Brent looked up, annoyed. “You’ve got nothing!”

  “You’re the God damn prosecutor; go find somebody to prosecute!”

  “Fishing expedition, and you can’t even find the creek.”

  She looked down at her drink, swirled it in the glass.

  “You don’t have any resources, do you,” Brent said, in a more kindly tone. “Without a law firm behind you, you’ve got no leverage, and you didn’t have much leverage even then, or so I heard.”

  Liv and Brent looked at each other for a few seconds.

  “Look,” Brent said, “even suppose we ID some mastermind, a second prosecution would be a lot chancier than the first, would require a lot of investigation, and I’ve got other cases to think about, and not much staff to think with. Besides, it’s not my problem; why don’t you go to the FBI?”

  “It may not be your problem,” Liv retorted, “but it could be your opportunity.”

  Brent paid the bill, then left. Liv finished her drink and left, too.

  Charley Wayne Dukes, pursuant to an impressive amount of paperwork, was scheduled to be transferred to the Frackville, Pennsylvania, State Penitentiary, about an hour drive from Grantwood. This was the nearest State facility and had several vacancies, especially after the latest prison riot. The warden was pleased to host such a famous criminal, and one who seemed not likely to be a discipline problem.

  After a few days, Liv called Brent’s office and ascertained Charley had indeed been transferred to Frackville. She called the prison and was informed Prisoner Dukes was being ’processed’ (like meat, maybe? she thought) and she could see him any time after, oh, three days unless it’s an emergency. The word “emergency” was spoken with unhidden venom. Those lawyers, the implication was, always said everything was an emergency. Disrupted standard prison procedures, they did, caused everything to get confused. A blot on the Commonwealth.

  Three days later, she called the prison and was assured she’d be able to meet with their new prisoner, seeing that she was his attorney of record and might be planning an appeal, even though she was no longer with her previous firm. Actually, of course she wasn’t his attorney anymore, and there wouldn’t be an appeal, but she didn’t mention that.

  But before seeing Charley, though, she thought she should revisit the Stirrup Bar and Grill. The trial over, perhaps a few tongues would be loosened. Maybe someone would remember more about Art. Art had been the sore thumb, the sport, the square peg, to cite only the three most convenient metaphors.

  Besides, Liv thought, she’d enjoyed her hours there, the house bourbon, even if it was undistinguished and watered, the honesty of the people who hung out there. Not honesty in the sense of no brushes with the law, but honesty in the sense of not caring what impression they were making. Impressions were things they’d lost, along with the need for them.

  She didn’t think the Stirrup’s regulars would be broken up about Charley, considering he hadn’t been a regular, but – who knows? She needed the closure, anyway. And – oddly enough – she thought of those people at the Stirrup, as her friends. Friends-to-be, anyway. Drinking buddies. Almost. Lacking anything better. Or anyone closer.

  She was apprehensive, because she hadn’t been able to get Charley off. That, of course, had never been a possibility. But maybe the Stirrup crowd didn’t know that. They could be angry. They could be dangerous when angry. Oh, well, I’ll do it anyway. No, just skip the whole thing. Yes, I’ll go there. No. Yes. No.

  Yes.

  Thursday late afternoon, it was raining on I-83 as Liv approached the Baltimore Beltway headed for I-95 and D.C. She’d never felt safe driving in the rain, had even researched auto accident statistics by weather condition. That had made her feel even less safe. Nonetheless there she was on her way to the Stirrup, where she arrived about ten o’clock that evening.

  Cautiously opening the door, she found herself immediately in the center of fifty or sixty cheering men, and a few women as well. Mike called out “Let’s hear it for the lawyer!” and there was a chorus of shouted “Goddamn right!”s and “You did it!”s and “Fuck, yes!”-es. She stood amazed, and her normal lack of confidence cranked up two more notches.

  Bella showed Liv to a table and ordered a whiskey; “the best in the house” which was Old Grand-Dad, eighty proof, but what the hell? The others gathered around and almost pounded her on the back, but didn’t quite. All were yelling at her, grinning, raising beer bottles of various provenance or glasses of whiskey.

  She sat down, finally, and Mike and two other men sat across the table from her. “You’re famous here, y’know.” He waved his arms around somewhat recklessly. “You kept Charley alive, didn’t let that creep give him the chair.”

  “Injection,” said Liv, still not believing the crowd really meant what they were saying, but no one heard her say “injection.” Might as well be “chair,” she thought, since neither grim reaper technology applied to Charley now.

  Whiskey arrived and was consumed, and Bella stood around looking obvious. An embarrassing situation was avoided when Liv paid for the drinks, for which she received another round of huzzahs.

  There was a moment of quiet as drinks were being guzzled. Liv took the opportunity to say “I’m here because I believe Charley was forced to do the killing. He didn’t do it because he wanted to, he did it because, for some reason, he had to. It wasn’t just to make money. Does anyone here know more about, ‘Art’ that used to sit with Charley, for example? I think ‘Art’ might have put some pressure on Charley, had something on him. – Or anyone else? – Or anything else?”

  Heads moved sideways back and forth, looks assumed a hang-dog, shit I’d love to be able to tell you, but… expression. Gradually, the crowd drifted back to other tables or the bar, leaving Liv alone with Mike. With an embarrassed glance at her, he got up and left also.

  My fifteen minutes of fame, she thought. And it cost me two hundred bucks. But she felt pleased, warm inside and not just from the whiskey. That fifteen minutes was more sincere, than anything she’d ever got from anyone at Holmes & Epperly.

  She sighed and began to get up from the table, when a man she’d never noticed before came up to her. “Maybe I can help,” he said quietly. She sat down. He sat down.

  He said nothing. After a few seconds, Liv smiled at him and said, “What’s your name?”

  “Eddie,” he said, “Eddie Vernon. Not that that means anything.” He relaxed slightly, and said no more.

  Well, Eddie,” said Liv trying to move the conversation forward, “what did you want to tell me?”

  “Ah – you know that Art guy?”

  “Yes. He spent some time here with Charley Dukes.”

  “Yeah. But look: I was in in here one night and Charley and Art were in some heavy shit seemed like and Charley was looking real desperate, very unhappy. And a man came in – just an ordinary guy but pretty well dressed, went over to the bar and ordered something. He turned around and looked surprised. I was sitting right over here, y’know.” (He motioned to another table with his shoulder.) “That look on his face looked, real, y’know – not pretend, like he was surprised seeing Art. He carried his drink over to the table where Art and Charley had their heads together, and laid his hand on Art’s shoulder, not mean-like, but not like great friends either, like… like…”

  Liv put her hand on Eddie’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Like that?” she said. “Just friendly?”

  “Yeah,” said Eddie. Liv returned her hand to her drink. Eddie’s face turned just barely red.

  “Yeah. Well, Art turned his head and
looked up at him, and this new guy said something I couldn’t make out, except he called Art, ‘George.’ And Art, he gave a big frown and shook his head and stood up and said something in the new guy’s face and the new guy turned and left the club.” Eddie paused. “And that was it. He called Art, ‘George.’”

  “Maybe he thought Art was somebody else,” Liv offered.

  “Didn’t look like that. It looked like Art knew him, warned him off or something like that.”

  “So – perhaps Art’s real name was George?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

  Anything more?”

  “No, that’s it.”

  “Well that’s very helpful, Eddie,” she said, reaching for her purse and holding it tightly.

  Eddie saw what Liv was doing, said “No no, no money. You bought us all drinks, y’know. Besides it wouldn’t look right. My buddies wouldn’t understand. Maybe they wouldn’t like me anymore. So no, thanks.” But his eyes still lingered on her purse.

  Sybille Haskin had been thinking about the trial, and Charley Dukes, and Sebastian George. George could be trusted, she knew; but if the FBI or the police found him, and connected him to Barnes’ murder, then who knows what he would say to save his skin?

  And Charley Dukes – that was the other weak link. But Charley didn’t know about her, surely. George wouldn’t have told Charley anything about her. But – accidents happen. What if Charley Dukes made some deal with the authorities to connect them with George. And then George …

  Well, this whole mess began because George didn’t kill Charley after Barnes’ death. He was supposed to do that, if those security types’ bullets had missed. Now, Charley Dukes was still alive and would probably say anything to make a deal, reduced sentence perhaps. George had told her that he “had something” on Dukes that would ensure his silence, but that was too vague to be trusted.

  No, Charley would have to go. And perhaps George later, if necessary. And if Charley were killed, then George would be scared and hide. Unless, that is, she asked George to have Charley killed. Trust would have been restored, and she could take care of George at her convenience.

  But there’s always that other worry: George would suspect Haskin was working for Conning, as the person with the most to gain from Barnes’ death. Not a certainty; but a suspicion, in the right hands, could be deadly enough.

  Sebastian George received a coded message from Sybille Haskin, giving a date and time and a series of scrambled numbers that, when unscrambled in an agreed sequence, were the latitude and longitude of the Silver Diner restaurant in Merrifield, Virginia.

  George was uneasy about this meeting. He hadn’t managed to kill Charley, as he was supposed to. Charley knew nothing about George other than what he looked like, George believed, and nothing at all about Haskin. But Haskin didn’t know that. He knew she was as cautious as he was. If he were Sybille Haskin, he’d arrange for the killing of Charley Dukes – and perhaps Sebastian George as well. But George was a professional. A kind of immunity. Perhaps.

  Haskin ordered a salad. George had a cup of coffee. Haskin made a few pointless remarks. George nodded his head. Then Haskin asked if George had the right connections to get Charley Dukes killed without it looking like a hit. George nodded his head. Haskin said fine, do it. She left the remains of her salad.

  George began to think of his contacts at Frackville State Prison. Quite a few people, he realized. Some guards, some convicts, even a prison official or two. Any of those would do.

  On her drive home from the Stirrup, Liv tried to put off thinking of the implications of what Eddie had told her, at least until she reached the relative comfort of a now-dry I-83 and could relax a little. When that happened, she turned her mind to the possibilities, ticked them off. Her fingers raised and lowered on the steering wheel one by one.

  Her count of possibilities was almost to thumb: One, she muttered, Eddie Vernon had mis-identified Art and she’d learned nothing. Two, George was a cover-name and the stranger hadn’t known that and now Liv had learned – well, probably very little. Three, Art was a cover-name for George. Four, both Art and George were cover names and the mysterious stranger was really named Algernon or Billyjoe or John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt or something else, or –

  Ah - wait a minute. It occurred to her she hadn’t asked Eddie the complicated question, the real question: if he thought Charley had overheard Art’s being called George. She thought to turn around and go back, but changed her mind. Let’s see how Charley will react to hearing the name “George,” she thought.

  She exited the interstate onto US-322 and was soon home. Upon entering, she found she’d received a letter from Charley. She was very tired and she’d be seeing him early tomorrow anyway, so the letter could wait. She collapsed into bed and slept late again.

  Meanwhile, Sebastian George had heard some disturbing news. One of the Frackville prison guards he had cultivated (that is, both paid and threatened) reported a woman lawyer had asked to visit Charley Dukes, and the request had been granted. So Saunders hadn’t given up. What was new that she might have found out?

  And Charley had written a letter to his lawyer. It had been cleared by the warden’s office, but the guard hadn’t been able to find out what it said.

  Word of Saunders’ visit would, sooner or later, get back to Sybille Haskin, unless George did something about it very soon.

  He made a few calls.

  As she drove to Frackville, home of the eponymous prison, she ran over in her mind exactly what she needed from Charley. They might limit her visit to fifteen minutes, but probably she’d be allowed as much time as she needed. It all depended on the warden and his fear of liberal groups who were inclined to sue him for various constitutional infractions. It also depended on whether or not the warden had called the Grantwood prosecutor’s office and been told Liv was no longer on the case – or if Holmes & Epperly had notified them already. In that case, Liv would just be an ordinary visitor without attorney privileges.

  She was annoyed at having wasted her time on a man who, even though facing twenty years or more, had told her nothing. Why, she wondered, with all his options gone, would he bother covering anything up? What hadn’t he told her? What did those conspirators, if there were conspirators, have to hold over him?

  Anyway, her most important question would be about ‘George’, the name that had been overheard at the Stirrup.

  As Liv approached the prison, she could see something was wrong. Sirens were sounding, the guard towers were crowded with so many guards they could hardly move, and the line of cars waiting to get into the prison complex stretched for a good quarter-mile. Most of the cars were being turned around.

  Liv, after that, didn’t think much of her chances to be admitted to the prison grounds; but she was not only admitted, but given an escort directly to the warden’s office. That, she thought, was not a good sign.

  The warden’s office was in a controlled uproar, and she had to wait twenty minutes in a small room until she was summoned to see him. She’d met Warden Rollins before, and had a good impression of him. But then, she thought, she wasn’t one of his prisoners.

  “Good morning, Ms. Saunders,” Rollins said, motioning her to a chair and not getting up. “I don’t have much time for you because there’s a problem here. Under control now, but we had a pretty grim couple hours.”

  “What happened?”

  “There was a disturbance at mealtime this morning, and three prisoners were attacked. Knifed. You know how knives get in here, we do a sweep every so often but they just come back, but anyway the reason I could see you now – needed to see you – is that your client, Charley Dukes, was one of the men attacked. And he was killed.”

  Liv was still with shock. All her autonomic body functions seemed to have stopped cold. For a moment, she could say nothing.

  “We’re sorry about this, Ms. Saunders. We do try to keep prisoners safe and almost all the time we do that, keep them safe I mean, but every
so often you know how it goes and they sneak knives in here, their visitors do, even though they’re guarded, but what can we do with not enough budget and not enough authority to run this place the way we should, as I mentioned to Mr. Nielsen just the other day?”

  Liv still couldn’t say anything. Rollins looked at her with what seemed to be a measure of sympathy.

  “Just one more thing, I hate to say but I do, have to say it I mean, Dukes had no known relatives and so if you’ll consent to sign for his personals, you should take them just in case of relatives later. Not much.”

  He drew a breath, leaving Liv hanging as to what not much referred to.

  “Not much in the way of personals, that is. I’ve looked them over myself and there’s nothing that could tie in to any criminal connections or threats. But I’d appreciate if you’d just sign for them please.” He handed Liv a bulky envelope with a broken seal. Liv signed.

  “Sorry I can’t help you longer, but our investigation, you know.” He rose.

  Liv stayed in her chair. “Who killed him?” she asked. “Why? Were there any witnesses?”

  Rollins waved his hand. “Too soon, still investigating. We’ll report everything to the proper authorities and then as his legal counsel, you’ll be entitled to see them. But not now. Please.”

  He escorted her to the door of his office, motioned for a guard to take their guest back to her car and make sure she made it safely out the gate. The guard said, “Yes, sir,” and did as he was told.

  Outside the prison gates, Liv pulled over at the first wide spot in the road. She examined Charley’s personals. The warden had been right: there was nothing useful there, a comb and a few coins, an old magazine or two. Then she pulled Charley’s letter out of her purse. Should have read it last night, she thought. Maybe he knew he’d be attacked and she could have done something.

  Liv felt wave after wave of guilt rush over her, until it dawned on her that nothing in the letter would have raised any urgent alarms. No threats, no danger. Charley seemed almost happy.

  She read it again, more slowly this time;