“He’ll see you now,” Nancy Lytell said, referring to her husband, Michael, the San Remo County District Attorney.
“Good mood or bad?”
“Is there a difference?”
Assistant D.A. Skip Wilder joined me as we stepped into Lytell’s cavernous office. He was seated at his desk, talking into the microphone of a headset that sat crookedly atop his oversized head.
Michael Lytell was a Freedom fixture, a local boy who made good and who was content to serve a constituency of like-minded locals, most of whom he had known his entire life.
On the whole, although cranky and peevish, he knew his stuff, had a widely respected legal mind, and contributed greatly to the well-being of the county.
He was nearing seventy, a member of the suit-and-tie generation, an apparition of a double-breasted past. What was left of his once-abundant crop he kept neatly trimmed. He was clean-shaven with a prominent nose and even more prominent ears, each bearing raucous tufts of angrily protruding hair shafts. His saving grace was his sparkling brown eyes which, despite his irascible countenance, projected sly humor and genuine warmth.
He stood when I entered, inadvertently yanking off his headset as he did.
“Shit,” he said, his attention diverted for the moment.
He picked up the headset and placed it back on his head. “Bob,” he said into the mouthpiece. “Are you still there, Bob? Bob?”
He listened for several moments. “Shit,” he said again.
He removed the headset and slammed it onto his desk. “Nancy,” he shouted.
The intercom suddenly came to life. Nancy’s disembodied voice spoke to him. “Use the intercom.”
“Screw the intercom,” Lytell said. “When Bob calls back, tell him I’m in a meeting. I’ll talk to him later.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Nancy ended the conversation.
Lytell pointed to the two visitor chairs that faced his immense desk. Wilder and I sat.
“How’s Burton?” Lytell asked, leaning back in his chair.
“Weakened.”
“I’m sorry. Please send him my regards.”
“Why don’t you call him yourself? Cheer the old buzzard up. Although for the life of me I can’t figure out why, he enjoys hearing from you.”
“It’s my innate charm,” Lytell said.
“That’s what it is. I knew it was something.”
“What is it that brings you and your smart mouth?”
“Two birds with one stone.”
He turned to Skip Wilder. “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about? I never know what he’s talking about.”
Wilder shook his head.
“What are you talking about?” Lytell asked.
“The Carson murder and the graffiti scourge.”
“You know who the killer is?”
“No.”
“Then what is it you want?”
I told him.
“You want to indict the two football players?” Lytell asked. “For what?”
“Unlawful intercourse with minors.”
“And for murder?”
“No.”
“Talk to Skip. Show him proof and he’ll get you the indictments. What’s the graffiti thing?”
I told him.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “The tagger you’re trailing is the son of Gustavo Noel?”
“Yes.”
“And you want him jailed?”
“Yes.”
“Without bail?”
“For as long as I can.”
“Can you make it stick?”
“I hope so.”
“You hope so?”
“Yes.”
He turned to Skip Wilder. “He hopes so. Will you please handle this thing, too? I’ve seen this crappy graffiti and, although I hate to admit it, I think Buddy’s right, it’s a blight. I’m on board for stopping it any way we can.”
Wilder nodded. Lytell stood.
“Find the killer,” he said to me. “That’s how we’ll get ourselves some banner headlines. Short of that, don’t bother me.”
“It was a pleasure to see you, too, Mike.”
“I trust you can find your way out?”
“Not quickly enough to suit me.”
“That makes two of us,” he said.