The Lawyer Lifeguard Read online

  “It better,” Josh said. “Because the guy who missed might try again. Does anybody know you’re here?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” Paul said. “I’ll sleep downstairs on the couch tonight.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I definitely do.”

  Chapter 15

  The next morning, I arrived at the park at first light, while the sun was breaking over the horizon and the surf was driven onshore by the wind.

  Carly Delaney was waiting for me at the tower chair, looking fine, fit, and deadly serious.

  “You’re on time,” she said, checking off the first box on her waterproof clipboard. “That’s a good start. And before you even ask? I’m going to do you a big favor—”

  “I don’t want any special treatment—”

  “Great! Because that’s my big favor,” she finished brightly. “I’m gonna bust your ass, my friend. Not because I want you to fail. But as a pal? It’s better if you wash out here than have some citizen drown on your watch.”

  “Got it,” I nodded grimly. “Do your worst.”

  She peeled off her baggy T-shirt and stepped out of her surfing shorts to reveal a taut, toned frame in a skintight swimsuit.

  Slipping the clipboard over her shoulder on a carry strap, Carly sprinted off through the shallows into the surf, then plunged in, swimming hard for the third raft, permanently moored seventy yards offshore, in water fifteen to twenty feet deep.

  Watching her slide through the water like a shark gave me serious pause. Ten years had sped by since my last lifeguard certification test, and getting back in the swim wasn’t anything like riding a bicycle.

  The test is an ordeal designed to thin the herd. Let the games begin.

  The first test is toughest of all. I had to tread water in place for half an hour with both thumbs in the air. Carly made it even tougher by needling me and joking around. It’s not easy to laugh and swim at the same time, but I managed. Barely.

  Next I swam four quarter-mile stints in the surf at top speed, doing breaststroke, sidestroke, backstroke, and front crawl. Then I swam them again, towing Carly on a plastic rescue board as she pretended to be my victim. Said victim was razzing me the whole time.

  At eighteen, the test had been a challenge. At twenty-eight, it was taking every ounce of concentration I had just to keep from drowning. Carly knew it, too. But instead of lightening up, she did her best to make every segment as grueling as possible. She fell off the rescue board at mistimed moments, and struggled desperately as I tried to keep her afloat.

  “Had enough?” she panted, halfway through.

  “Hell, no,” I said, gasping for breath. “Is that all you’ve got?”

  “It’s your funeral.”

  “People keep telling me that. Bring it!”

  And she did. She worked me through every possible contingency, until finally we reached the last line on her clipboard. She crossed it out even though we hadn’t done a thing.

  “What was that?” I gasped, only a few breaths away from sinking like a rock. “No special treatment, remember?”

  “That box is for attitude, my friend, and you’ve got plenty of that. C’mon, take my hand.”

  Reaching out, she hauled me up onto the raft, then swiveled around so I could rest my shoulders against hers, back to back. I was freezing, and Carly’s skin radiated warmth like a space heater.

  I was so exhausted I could scarcely breathe, but at the same time, I felt elated. The damned test had taken every scrap of energy I had, but somehow, I’d survived.

  I was reminded of a simpler life, before the army and law school, when we used to have fun on the beach. We sat for a time, resting, both lost in our own thoughts.

  “Can I ask you something?” Carly said.

  “Sure, shoot.”

  “It’s dumb, but it’s always bothered me. Back in the day? You know how we were great friends, partied together, and ran in the same crew?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You never hit on me. Why was that? Was something wrong with me?”

  I was tempted to wisecrack, but her tone told me it wasn’t the day for it.

  “The truth? You were my best friend, Carly. In some ways, you were like a sister.”

  “Wow, that’s the kiss of death.”

  “Besides, every time I got my courage up to make a move on you, you were with somebody else. We had great times, but terrible timing. You married Denny Delaney; I wound up in Afghanistan.”

  “Two fails,” she agreed. “But even after you came home, you didn’t say a word to me. The next thing I hear, you were engaged, working in Detroit.”

  “I came out of the army like a rocket, in a big hurry to make up for lost time. I picked up my bachelor’s in the service, then doubled up my law school classes and finished in twenty months. Directly from there, I was hired into the prosecutor’s office as an ADA. Another big mistake, by the way.”

  “How so?”

  “I’d rather help people out when they’re in trouble than lock ’em up. Anyway, then I met Serena…And maybe we were both in too big a hurry. She came on strong and got me a great job at her firm. And now I’m in this god-awful mess.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s okay, I’m still sorting it all out myself. The truth is, we weren’t getting along, and if we’d been honest with each other, and admitted it wasn’t working, she might still be alive.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “No, I don’t,” I admitted. “Any other annoying questions?”

  “Nope, because our timing definitely hasn’t improved,” she sighed. “After today, I’m going to be your boss. And the department has got strict rules about bosses and subordinates fraternizing.”

  It took a moment for what she said to sink in. “Wait, you’re saying I passed? Everything? I’m hired?”

  “If you still want the job.”

  “Hell, yes, I want it!”

  “Then it’s yours,” she said, standing up, slipping the clipboard strap over her shoulder. “C’mon, I’ll race you in.” She shot off the raft in a perfect swan dive, swimming hard for the shore, using every wave as an accelerator.

  I watched her go, making no attempt to chase her. I was so low on gas, I’d probably drown. Instead I slid into the water, using the last dregs of my stamina to manage a slow sidestroke to shore.

  Still, I felt good. The best I’d felt in…hell, a very long time. It had been a tough test. I’d been lucky to live through it.

  I just hoped I’d be as lucky to survive the next test.

  The meeting with my old boss, Assistant District Attorney Leon Stolz.

  Chapter 16

  While I was driving into Detroit in my uncle’s truck, I kept getting flashes of Bruno Corzine. I saw him raging at me in the parking garage, held back by his men. Then, looming over my hospital bed.

  Except he was never really in my room, of course. Hell, according to Hilliard, he was never anywhere but the Riviera Club, playing cards in front of witnesses. He’d given himself a bulletproof alibi. It didn’t make him innocent, but smart.

  Really smart…

  Hilliard said he was seen at the club the day of the bombing.

  Seen by whom? By cops. The Riviera was a well-known mob hangout. So notorious, that feds or Detroit’s Organized Crime Division probably had it under surveillance 24/7.

  Corzine would have known that. He probably counted on the staked-out cops to confirm his foolproof alibi. If he knew the place was staked out, he’d expect any phone calls made from the club to be monitored. So he wouldn’t have given any orders by phone, not even a burner. Because anyone could be listening in.

  He would have to send his messages some other way. Something foolproof like a gofer. Because what could be safer and simpler than a messenger?

  I straightened in the seat, my hands tightening on the wheel. With all the surveillance tech out there, he’d have to p
ass his orders along the old-fashioned way. And that was his weak spot.

  He wouldn’t have been able to use serious hoods as delivery boys, so he probably used some half-baked wannabe. Maybe the same one every time. If I could figure out which punk Corzine was using to carry his messages, I could charge him as an accessory to murder and get him to flip on his boss.

  But first I’d have to find him…

  And I couldn’t do it myself. I’d already had a run-in with Corzine—he knew me by sight.

  That made it harder, but not impossible.

  I knew I had to meet with the ADA, but the appointment was going to have to wait a few more moments. I took out my cell phone, and tapped one of my favorites. Grady Baker, the invisible man.

  Chapter 17

  Grady was an investigator who worked for Garner and Mackey by digging up dirt on witnesses, perps, and victims. He said he’d be at a Starbucks near his apartment so I went there to meet him. The place was busy, so I carried my cup to a window seat to wait.

  Grady walked past me twice before I realized who he was. Carrying my java, I fell in step with him on the sidewalk.

  “Showoff,” I said.

  “You’re lucky I’m not a hit man,” Grady said. “You were a sitting duck in that window.” Grady is a nondescript guy, like anyone on the street. There’s nothing about him that’s memorable. Most of us work hard at being noticed, but Grady’s perfected the opposite skill.

  I explained my problem. He snorted.

  “Stake out a mob guy in a mob joint? Why not shoot me in the head now and save Corzine the trouble of cutting my throat?”

  “Are you saying it can’t be done?”

  “Nope. But it’ll be a lot trickier than tailing a suburban dad with a hankering for hookers. It’ll cost Garner and Mackey double my usual rates, and lately—”

  “Bill me personally. I don’t work there anymore.”

  “Seriously? Good for you.”

  I glanced at him. He wasn’t kidding. “Why? What’s up?”

  Grady pursed his lips, choosing his words carefully. “Garner and Mackey were solid clients for years. Until their checks started bouncing.”

  “I thought Garner was loaded.”

  “He was. But he also likes gambling. A lot. To recoup, he’s been taking on clients he wouldn’t have touched in the old days. Suddenly, the firm’s flush again. The situation makes me uneasy. Investigators walk a fine line between the law and the bad guys. I can’t risk being on the wrong side of it.”

  “What do you think’s going on?”

  “Don’t know and don’t want to. You know how lawyers have rules? Well, gumshoes have a few of our own, too, like not talking out of school. I’m on the Corzine thing, Brian. I’ll call you when I’ve got something. Until I do? You might want to stay away from window seats.”

  Chapter 18

  The Wayne County prosecutor has offices on the top floor of the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice in downtown Detroit. The place boasts of stained glass windows, walnut wainscoting, and ten-thousand-dollar desks.

  Or so I’ve been told.

  I’ve never actually been to the top floor. ADAs like Leon Stolz cut their plea deals in basement cubicles, where every whisper goes on record and corrections officers are only a shout away.

  My old boss was waiting for me. Chunky, surly, and sour, Leon Stolz always needs a shave, and you can guess his lunch by checking his necktie. He treats his staff like serfs, and after I quit to join Garner and Mackey, he branded me a traitor who left public service to cross to the dark side, a defense practice. Winning my first few cases only threw salt in the wound.

  I expected to have trouble with him. He didn’t disappoint.

  “Mr. Brian Lord,” he nodded, sliding into a metal chair, facing me across a battered table that looked like war surplus. “Which of your miscreant clients are we throwing under the bus of justice today?”

  “Let’s start with Jimmy Valentine. He’s offering to trade information about a mobster for—”

  “Valentine’s off the table,” he said flatly. “No deal. Who’s next?”

  “Whoa, hold on, Leon—”

  “That’s Mr. Stolz to you.”

  “Fine. Jimmy has incriminating evidence on a mob capo, and all he’s asking in exchange is a pass on a petty gambling beef. It’s a freaking gift, Le—Mr. Stolz.”

  “But it’s one I can’t take. While I’d love to hear you pule and whine about it, I’ll cut to the chase. Word from the top floor is, no deals for anyone in Zeman’s crew, especially Corzine.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since he became the prime suspect in a certain…explosives case. There’s talk on the street that Corzine was responsible for that bomb, Brian. The DA can’t look weak on this. My orders are explicit. No deals, no wiggle room.”

  I leaned back in my chair, eyeing him. “Is something in the wind with that crew? Federal task force? OCB?”

  “If I knew, you’d be the last person I’d tell. You’re a Garner and Mackey hack now. You represent the enemy. You’re lucky I’m sharing this at all.”

  “I’m not with Garner anymore, actually. I’m on my own.”

  “They canned your ass? What a surprise. Same message still applies. No plea deals for anyone in that crew. I hope you didn’t come down here with just one lonely loser. Who’s next on your laptop?”

  I didn’t answer for a moment and eyed him instead. “Can I ask you one question, totally off the record? Just two guys in a room, who used to work together?”

  “You can try.”

  “Turn off the video recorders.”

  He thought about that one, then flipped the switch below the desk. “Okay, we’re private. What is it?”

  “You’ve seen my client list, and ADAs always know more about suspects than the defense does. They hear comments by arresting officers, off-the-cuff remarks, facts not entered into evidence…”

  He nodded, waiting.

  “You know details about the bombing—”

  “It’s not my case, Brian—”

  “But you’ve heard things!”

  “Dammit, Brian, you know I can’t—”

  “I’m asking you like this, as two guys in a room. Is anyone else on my client list connected to that case? Am I in danger, Leon? Is my family at risk?”

  He started to protest, then bit it off. Looked away instead, thinking.

  “Those are two separate questions,” he said, facing me again. “First, about connections to the bombing? The honest answer is, no, not to my knowledge.”

  “But you’ve gotten orders about Corzine—”

  “And I’ve told you what I know, Brian. My orders are to keep a safe distance from that crew, which is probably good advice. The second question, are you at risk?” He shook his head. “You’ve got some very problematic clients. One or two are…almost certainly dangerous.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Exactly what I said, and it’s all I can say without breaking protocol. I’m turning the cameras and recorders back on. Now can we get back to the business at hand?”

  And we did.

  I ran down my list. Leon bargained hard, but since trials cost money the city doesn’t have, he couldn’t pass up a chance to cut his caseload.

  We struck deals on the Walmart greeter who’d shown up to work inebriated, and a woman who’d mistakenly backed into a homeless man, and in her panic, fled the scene. But Leon wouldn’t offer a deal for Crazy Jack the biker.

  “Next,” he said, sliding a file out of his briefcase. “Sherry Molinere—”

  “She isn’t on my list—”

  “This isn’t your list, it’s mine. My office has received an allegation of an improper relationship between you and this client. I see you’re handling the case pro bono. A generous gesture for a guy who isn’t with a firm.”

  “Check your records. The public defender’s office kicked her case because of a previous allegation of improper conduct filed by her husband. He’s a stat
e trooper, Leon. He’s gaming the system. He knows which buttons to push—”

  “So your response is—?”

  “Sherry Molinere is a client. That’s the beginning and end of our relationship. And,” I added, leaning forward, locking onto his eyes, “I’d think twice before you parrot any of her husband’s bullshit to my face. I’ve had a bad week, Leon. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Why not? Dex Molinere is using you to threaten me. You’re his bitch, Leon, and you don’t even know it.”

  “Accusations of misconduct still have to be forwarded to the bar—”

  “Unless you deem them frivolous,” I said, “which they damn well are.”

  He didn’t say anything for moment, reading my mood, choosing his words.

  “I never liked you much, Brian. You’re cocky, and you wanted too much too soon. Quitting the DA for Garner and Mackey? That was a betrayal.”

  I didn’t say anything to that. He was probably right.

  “But now? You really need to watch your step. You’re dancing barefoot in a roomful of broken glass.”

  Chapter 19

  Garner

  When the man found the e-mail, it was like discovering his own obituary.

  He’d been lounging by the Olympic-sized pool of his Port Vale mansion in a silk robe, but he sat bolt upright when he saw a sender that no longer existed.

  It was from a dead woman. A ghost.

  He opened it, but there was no message. Only a blank page with an attachment. Swallowing hard, he downloaded the document.

  And instantly recognized it.

  It was a page copied from a ledger listing fund transfers from the Virgin Islands to the Nacional Banco de Panama. Every single one was from his personal accounts.

  Taken by itself, the page wasn’t incriminating. But the message was clear, because it came from the middle of the ledger. Whoever sent it had the whole file.

  The extortion was beginning all over again, but with a major difference.

  A new player must have taken over the game, because the last blackmailer was dead.