CHAPTER 60

“Maddox has already lawyered up,” Jake says as I enter the conference room.

I step over to the windows and gaze out at the night sky.

“Can’t say I blame him,” I tell Jake. “He’s facing a dozen counts of murder and one count of attempted murder, not to mention obstruction of justice.”

“According to the news reports, Maddox is at the station on South Beretania now, refusing to talk.”

“Who’s his lawyer?” I ask.

“Russ Dracano. He’s all Maddox could afford.”

“That’s what you get for working for the State.”

Jake laughs. “Guess so.” Then he turns serious. “Where’s the kid?”

“Chelsea picked Josh up and took him home after court. I’ve already told Tatupu that no cop will be allowed to question him until after Erin’s formally acquitted. And, even then, not without me present.”

Suddenly the door to the conference room swings open, squeaking and scaring the hell out of me.

“Congratulations,” Flan shouts, slapping his palms together.

Following him is a girl of about seventeen, slender with curves in all the right places, a smile that hits you hard in the chest.

I nod to both of them. “Couldn’t have done it without you, Flan.”

“Gentlemen, I’d like you both to meet my daughter Casey.”

She sets her purse down on one of the plush conference room chairs and shakes Jake’s hand, then holds it out for me. I think of the used condoms, the footprints on the ceiling of Flan’s jalopy, and say, “Sorry, I think I’m coming down with something.”

“Maybe swine flu,” Jake says.

Casey covers her mouth with her hand. “Is that still going around?”

We all look at her.

“I’ve had a sore throat and fever,” she says. “And it burns like hell when I pee.”

Flan’s shoulders slump. He puts an arm around her and says, “We’ll pay a visit to the doctor in the morning, honey.”

“Two murder cases, two acquittals,” Jake says to me to break the silence. “Son, you’re on fire.”

“Poor choice of words, old man,” I tell him. “Damn poor choice of words.”

“Well…” he says, standing from his chair. “What do you say we all head over to Whiskey Bar to celebrate?”

“You guys go on ahead,” I tell him. “I’ll meet you there.”

As soon as they leave I’m on the conference room phone dialing Erin’s number. Although we’ve had no opportunity to discuss it at length, I know she’s upset over the hot tub footage. Not because she’s embarrassed by it, but because of how it might affect our future together. Along the same lines, she is fiercely concerned that the end of the trial will mean the end of our relationship, something I have never once hinted at.

I wait five or six rings, then hang up without an answer. Technically, her trial is not over and at least for the time being, Erin remains out on bail. Still restricted to her home. I wonder briefly whether she’s sleeping. Whether she’s sleeping alone.

I remove my suit jacket and set it down on the conference room table, then head to my office to shoot Erin an e-mail.

“Sandy,” I say softly as I pass my favorite oil painting. “Of course, Sandy.”

I sit behind my desk and pop the top on a Red Bull. Then I open my e-mail account. Six new e-mails appear in bold, one from Ryan Flanagan. The subject line reads DIGITAL COPIES—STATE VS. SIMMS. I immediately open the e-mail and download the attachments.

There are just a few photos, a half dozen in all, those in which the subjects’ eyes had looked like the devil’s. But their eyes are all clear now.

What the fuck is this?

I zoom in on the first photo. The guy with the Boston Red Sox hat suddenly seems familiar. Thin as a rail and without the red eyes I can see that one iris is blue, the other brown. A condition known as heterochromia. I looked it up on the Internet a while back, but now for the life of me I can’t remember why.

I pull my cell phone from my pants pocket. I open the clam shell and speed-dial the number to Flan’s cell. He doesn’t answer; I leave him a voice mail and tell him to call me back right away at the office. Then I toss the cell on my desk and head back to the conference room.

As soon as I enter the conference room I notice Casey’s purse sitting on one of the chairs. I hesitate to touch it, but it’s drawing me in like a magnet, covered as it is with capital F’s performing 69 on one another.

Just as I pick it up, the office phone rings. I lift the receiver, still studying the handbag, and flatly mumble the words, “Kevin Corvelli.”

It’s Flan. “Hey, Kev, you called?”

“Yeah,” I say, sounding as though I’m in a trance. “Casey left her handbag here.”

“Just leave it on Hoshi’s desk. I’ll pick it up in the morning. Unless you want to carry it with you to Whiskey.”

I shoulder the receiver and turn the purse over in my hands. “You buy this bag for her, Flan?”

“No,” he says. “It was a gift from one of her two dozen boyfriends.”

The little leather Fendi is a bit worn but not all that old. I hold the handbag to my nose. It smells harshly of soap.

“Which boyfriend?” I say.

I hear Flan call over to Casey. “Hey, sweetheart, which one of your boyfriends gave you that handbag?”

I can’t hear her answer. Then Flan is back on the line. He says, “Kev, you still there?”

“I’m here,” I tell him as I snatch my suit jacket off the conference room table.

“The handbag was a gift from some grease monkey named Dominic.”