Murder in Paradise Read online

  “What about me?” Hilliard asked.

  “You’re not axed. But let’s clear the air. Detroit averages a killing a day. In Port Vale, we get two or three a year, mostly domestic disputes that get out of hand. My perps are usually waiting for me on their front steps, bawling their eyes out when I roll up. So Buchek had one thing right. A car bomb is definitely over my head. I’ve never worked one. So catch me up. Where are we on this?”

  “Since the Towers and with ISIS, every bombing triggers Federal attention,” Hilliard said. “TSA, ATF, the whole alphabet shows up whenever they happen. The teams checked the car, did the forensics, and then went back to Quantico or DC or wherever they came from. This one wasn’t a terrorist attack.”

  “How do they know that?”

  “The mope who crafted the bomb is already doing triple life in Jackson Prison, but a few of his builds are still on the market. Strictly local street gang stuff.”

  “So this is a gang thing?”

  “We don’t know what it was,” Hilliard shrugged. “Brian Lord’s fiancée was killed. It looks like he was flattened, roughed up pretty good. He’s a defense attorney with a lot of low-rent clients. There’s a good chance he pissed one of them off.”

  “So they might try again? Terrific. That’s all we need to kick off tourist season. Fireworks. When a bomb goes off in Motown, it barely makes the papers, but not here. Port Vale’s a resort town. Peace and quiet’s what we sell. Lord’s a local boy. His family is here. Whatever he got himself into in your city, I don’t want it showing up on my streets like a stray cat. Are we clear?”

  “Crystal,” Hilliard nodded.

  “Good. Then let’s try to get something useful out of him.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Definitely not muscle. I don’t mind bouncing a perp off the walls if he’s got it coming, but Lord’s an Afghan vet and an attorney. Tick him off, and all we’ll get is his name, rank, and serial number.”

  “So?” Hilliard asked cautiously.

  “Let’s try making nice instead,” Paquette said sweetly. “We’ll feed that boy a whole lotta rope. See if he hangs himself with it.”

  Chapter 6

  “Brian?” the older woman said, pulling a plastic chair up beside my bed. “How are you, son? Do you remember me?”

  “I should,” I said. “You look fam—you’re Chief Paquette’s wife, right?”

  “I was,” she nodded. “Arlo blew out his pump a few years ago chasing down a crack dealer. As head of the 911 division, I was next in line. I believe you were in Afghanistan at the time with my Bobby Ray. Thank you for your service, son.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I felt my eyes closing…

  “Stay with us, Mr. Lord,” Hilliard said. “Can you tell us what happened the day of the bombing?”

  What happened? I tried to think. My head was throbbing and—

  “Serena was going to the beach,” I said quickly, before I faded out. “She wanted to stay at my family’s cottage over the weekend.”

  “Alone?” the chief asked.

  “We’d been squabbling, so we thought taking a break might help, but—” I shook my head and pain flashed across my eyes.

  “Mr. Lord,” Doctor Crane sighed, “you really should wait awhile before you—”

  “No,” I managed, “I can do this. I need to. Serena had packed enough crap for a European tour and I was late for court. I was griping about her luggage as I hauled her suitcase to the car, and—”

  I stopped and stared up at the chief and the lieutenant.

  “That’s all I’ve got. Everything’s a blur after that.”

  “That suitcase saved your life,” Hilliard said. “It absorbed most of the blast. The explosion shattered every window on the block. You were thrown backward twenty feet, and landed behind a garden wall. It shielded you from the secondary blast.”

  “Secondary?”

  “When the gas tank blew up,” she added. “The car was on fire.”

  “Fire? My god, was Serena—?”

  “The coroner’s report was inconclusive,” Hilliard said quickly. “Her family took her body home to LA. The ceremony is tomorrow. Closed casket. You, um, you are specifically not invited, Mr. Lord.”

  I didn’t say anything to that. There was nothing to say.

  “That’s enough,” the doc said. “This man has multiple contusions, third-degree burns, and may be concussed. He needs rest. Don’t you people have hearts?”

  Hearts.

  “Hearts,” I echoed, wonderingly. That was it! For a swirling moment I could actually see one. A big red heart, on a card. And then…it vanished like mist.

  “What is it, Mr. Lord?” Hilliard asked.

  “I had it. Just for a second. Couldn’t hold on to it.”

  “Steady down, son,” the chief said. “It’ll come back.”

  “You really should stop this now,” the doc said.

  “No,” I said. “I want to help. I need to.”

  “Go on, Mr. Lord,” Hilliard prompted. “Anything at all.”

  “Um, after the blast? I woke up in a hospital in Detroit. Henry Ford, I think. It was the middle of the night and nobody was around. A bedside TV was on, and I realized from a newscast that days had passed and Serena”—I swallowed—“had been killed. But it seemed impossible—I mean, she had been leaving for the goddamn beach!”

  I broke off, about to lose it completely. Dr. Crane started to interrupt, but the chief waved her off. After a moment, I pulled it together and went on.

  “I guess I wasn’t thinking straight—”

  “Which is symptomatic of a concussion, sir,” Dr. Crane said.

  “All I could think was, it was all a mistake. That if I could get to my folks’ cottage at the beach, Serena would be there…” I trailed off again, realizing how loony that sounded.

  “How did you get here?” Hilliard asked.

  “Uber. Hired a ride.”

  “With your suit all splattered with blood?”

  “It was a Detroit hospital,” I said.

  That explained the situation. Even the chief smiled.

  “Do you have any idea who planted that bomb, Mr. Lord?” Hilliard asked. “An enemy? A disgruntled client, or—” She stopped speaking because I was staring at her.

  “A client,” I said. “That’s it.”

  “What is it?” Hilliard asked.

  “Just before,” I said. “The image of a heart came to mind. A valentine. This is about Valentine.”

  “What kind of a valentine?” the chief asked.

  “Not a what,” Hilliard said. “Valentine’s a who.”

  Chapter 7

  “Jimmy Valentine is a loser of a client,” I explained. “When I left the prosecutor’s office to work for Garner and Mackey, Jimmy was on the list of castoffs that came with the job.”

  “Garner’s offices are on Cadillac Square,” Hilliard said, nodding. “Big step up for an ADA.”

  “I didn’t make it on my own. Serena was a paralegal with Garner for years. When we started dating, she got me in. But new hires are bottom of the food chain so I inherited the shit list, the clients nobody else wanted. Jimmy Valentine topped that list.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Nobody. Jimmy’s a small-time loan shark out of Warsaw Heights. Got busted in a gambling raid in Dearborn. His case is an open and shut loser. Unfortunately for him, it’s also his third fall.”

  “So he’s facing a stiff sentence as a repeat offender,” the chief said. “That’s his fault, not yours. Why would this Valentine have a beef with you?”

  “He doesn’t. But he thought I could get him a deal with the DA’s office. Offered to swap some evidence against Bruno Corzine.”

  That got their attention.

  Hilliard’s eyes widened. “Jesus,” she said. “Corzine’s an underboss with the Zeman crime family. How is Valentine connected to him?”

  I almost said “a murder,” but caught myself in time. I shoo
k my head. “Sorry. Valentine’s information falls under attorney–client privilege. Corzine’s not a client, so I can give you what I know about him, but that’s as far as I can go.”

  “What about your late fiancée?” Chief Paquette asked. “Does she get a vote in this?”

  “Serena’s death is on me,” I conceded, “but I can’t compromise Valentine’s rights without spitting on everything I believe in.”

  “Lawyers are bound by legal restrictions,” Hilliard said. “We get that, Counselor. So what can you tell us?”

  “My old boss, Assistant DA Leon Stolz, caught Jimmy’s case. I called Leon, offered to trade what Jimmy knew for a plea bargain. He said he’d get back to me. But word must have leaked out. Next day, Corzine and two thugs were waiting by my car. He warned me to blow off Valentine’s deal, or I’d be sorry. And he was right. I am sorry I ever heard of Jimmy Valentine.”

  “Where did this confrontation with Corzine happen?” Hilliard asked.

  “My firm’s parking garage, off Cadillac Square.”

  “Were there any witnesses?”

  “Only the thugs with Corzine.”

  “Did they lay hands on you? Rough you up at all?”

  “Bruno’s goons held him back. Thank God, or he would have torn my arms off. Why are you wasting time with this crap? You want to know who planted that bomb? I’m telling you who planted it.”

  “No, son,” the chief said mildly. “You’re telling us about a dust-up between you and a couple thugs in a parking garage. With no witnesses to back your story, and no hard evidence it happened at all.”

  “Your evidence is being buried in LA tomorrow, lady. She’s my deceased fiancée.”

  “You were an ADA, Brian,” Hilliard put in. “How many cases did you prosecute?”

  “I’m…not sure. I was second chair to Stolz for…maybe a hundred. I flew solo on forty or fifty more after that.”

  “Then you know the rules of evidence. If we hauled this Corzine into a courtroom right now, what kind of a case could you make against him?”

  I started to argue, then slowly closed my mouth because she was right. I had nothing.

  Damn! I wanted to punch the wall or something, but I couldn’t. I was still handcuffed to the bed frame.

  “Corzine aside,” Chief Paquette said. “Could one of your other clients have done this?”

  “I—guess that’s possible. Haven’t thought about it.”

  “If we could take a quick look through your files…?” Hilliard began.

  “Attorney–client privilege, Lieutenant. You know I can’t turn them over.”

  “Can’t? Or won’t?”

  “Even losers have rights,” I said. “Sometimes, it’s all they’ve got. Am I under arrest?”

  “No,” Hilliard said, “not at this time.”

  “But I’m under suspicion, right?”

  The fact that she didn’t answer was answer enough.

  “If I’m not busted, then could you please uncuff me and leave?” I said, closing my eyes. “I’ve got a killer headache.”

  Chapter 8

  Hilliard, Paquette

  Outside in the corridor, the two policewomen faced each other.

  “No confession, no big breakthrough,” Bev Hilliard said. “But you got a lot more out of him than Buchek would have.”

  “Not nearly enough, though,” the chief said grimly. “The coffee they serve here’s terrible, but at least it’s hot. Let me buy you a cup.”

  They rode the elevator down to the cafeteria in silence, both mulling over what Brian Lord had told them. In the bright, noisy cafeteria, they filled paper cups at a tall urn, then took a table in a corner, away from the other diners.

  “Have you worked with Buchek long?” Chief Paquette asked, eyeing Hilliard over the rim of her coffee cup.

  “Not at all,” Hilliard countered. “We’re on different units, so I just met him today. Frankly, I didn’t like him much.”

  “Me neither. He’s pushy.”

  “Bet you didn’t like when he was razzing on Port Vale.”

  “No, he was right about it being a small town. We’re forty thousand in summer, half that when the snow flies. But we’re only twenty-five miles up the road from the most violent city in America.”

  “You’re not from Port Vale, though,” Hilliard said. “Not with that accent.”

  “South Alabama. I met Arlo at a police convention in Mobile. After three dates, I married him and moved up here. But I was Alabama Highway Patrol twelve years before that. I run a small-town force, but I ain’t no hobby cop.”

  “So I’m gathering,” Bev nodded.

  “So this Corzine Lord talked about,” the chief said, “do you know him?”

  “Know of him,” Hilliard said. “He’s a thug on the rise in the Zeman crime family.”

  “The Zemans I’ve heard of,” Paquette said. “Last of the old Purple Gang. They used to run hooch across the lake ice from Canada during Prohibition. Locals say some of those trucks are still at the bottom of the lake with their skeletons sittin’ at the wheel.”

  “I’ll bet their hooch is better than this coffee,” Hilliard said, and both women laughed, relaxing a little.

  “Thing is, these days the mob’s mostly into white-collar crime,” Hilliard said. “Union skims, credit card fraud, identity theft. Scams that work best when they don’t draw attention.”

  “And bombs draw a whole lot of attention,” the chief nodded. “Is this Corzine that stupid, do you think?”

  “He has a rep as a dangerous man to cross, but he’s no fool. He’s never done time.”

  “Maybe we can fix that,” the chief said. “But we’d best get a move on. That boy upstairs? He did two tours overseas. I got two officers who did time in the Sandbox. It ain’t like our daddy’s wars, where you served your hitch and then came home. Nowadays, they go back tour after tour, in combat almost the whole time. A lot of these heroes come back and have a hard time adjusting, and if Brian believes Corzine did this thing, there’s a chance he won’t wait long for us to settle up. He might decide to settle it himself, up close and personal. And if he does, his life will be over no matter how it comes out.”

  “Then we’d better beat him to it, Chief,” Hilliard said. “If we’re going to work this together, I’ll need a desk and a connection to the enforcement nets.”

  “Come downtown, use my office,” the chief said. “We got computers, Wi-Fi, the works. I only play Angry Birds on ’em myself, but my people can hook you up.”

  “You’ve never played Angry Birds in your life.”

  “Never once,” Chief Paquette admitted. “But I designed our 911 Emergency System.”

  “My god,” Hilliard said, “all that cornpone’s just a front, isn’t it?”

  “No ma’am, I’m redneck to the bone and proud of it. But up here, if you sound like you’re from Alabama, folks automatically subtract twenty points off your IQ. It used to piss me off somethin’ fierce. Now? I find it real useful sometimes.”

  “You take ’em by surprise,” Hilliard said.

  “See? You’re a smart city girl. Two minutes and you’ve already got me figured out.”

  “Not even close,” Hilliard smiled. “But we’re making a start.”

  Chapter 9

  After the two policewomen left, I slept like a dead man. Which was appropriate, because when I woke…

  Bruno Corzine was standing beside my bed, glaring down at me.

  Gasping, I bolted upright.

  “Hey, hey!” a woman’s voice said. “Take it easy!”

  I slowly released her, blinking as Corzine’s shape shifted into that of a tall, slim, African American nurse in hospital scrubs. She was only checking my pulse.

  She couldn’t have looked less like Bruno Corzine if her hair had been dyed purple.

  Still, his image lingered in the room after she left. And I wondered how long it would take for the real Bruno to track me down and finish the job.

  I needed to get the h
ell out of here. The sooner the better.

  But nothing’s ever simple.

  At six in the morning, Dr. Crane popped in to check her handiwork, then had an orderly help me into a wheelchair and roll me off to an elevator to the basement lab.

  A cheerful neurosurgeon gave me a thorough examination. I read charts with slanted lines, and followed the path of her fingertip back, forth, up, down, and sideways.

  Did I know what year it was? Yes.

  And the president’s name? Knew that, too.

  How about the day of the week? A little foggy on that one.

  In the end, even though she said I was the healthiest bombing victim she’d ever treated, she opted for an MRI anyway, just to be on the safe side.

  Afterward, I got some good news and bad news. The good news: though I’d suffered a number of physical traumas in the explosion, I was not concussed. If the radiologist’s report confirmed her diagnosis, they could cut me loose later in the day.

  The bad news? When they rolled me back to my room, Marvin Garner, the senior partner at Garner and Mackey of Cadillac Square, was waiting for me, and I could read my future at the company in his plastic, executioner’s smile.

  Chapter 10

  “Brian, my boy,” Garner said. “How are they treating you?”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll be out of here in a few hours.”

  “No rush, of course,” he said, glancing around uncomfortably. “You’ll need time to rest and recover.”

  “Not in here,” I said. “I hate hospitals.”

  “I suppose not.” He flashed me that plastic smile again. I’d only met him one other time, on the day I signed on at Garner and Mackey. After that, I’d seen him around the office occasionally, at a distance. With his shock of silver hair and a three-thousand-dollar suit, I thought he looked vaguely presidential. But today? Up close? He looked sleek and slick, and I was empty and aching, and in no mood for phony sympathy.