The object of my loathing sat at the defense table smirking at his attorney. I wondered how many times the drug lord watched his high-priced legal representative slouch through his closing argument in a shiny-bottom suit. As a play on jury sympathy that gimmick played out decades ago.
Having testified to my part in the police operation authorized by the juvenile court, which I represented, I itched to get out of the overheated courtroom. Instead, I squirmed on the hard bench, fearing the verdict but determined to stay for it. The prosecution’s case against Devus Dontel—Big DD—Johnson began to fall apart when a Georgia Superior Court judge agreed with legal experts that their juvenile clients need not testify to video evidence showing that they acted as dealers, spotters and runners for Johnson. The ruling was one of self-incrimination since the juveniles admitted to police, and me, that they’d purchased drugs from Big DD for clients, thus becoming dealers themselves. The prosecution went for the lesser charge of corruption. Without the video, my testimony and that of two narcotics cops and the aunt of the twelve-year-old boy didn’t appear to convince the jury. Other subpoenaed witnesses lost their memories. Johnson’s mother, a character witness, said that if her son sold drugs, which he didn’t, it was because they lost their home in the monster hurricane called Katrina.
I anticipated a short closing argument from shiny bottom and got it. He summed up by saying, “Mr. Devus Dontel Johnson didn’t solicit those kids. They were sent to him by law enforcement, by a purported guardian and finder of children.” That was me. “Shame on you Atlanta Police Department and Moriah Dru. We are in moral decay when the protectors of children send them into harm’s way.” More yackety-yak and then he raised his finger to the ceiling as if personally affronted. “Be that as it may, my client is innocent of the charges and any implied wrong doing. Video tapes can be made to lie. Not one child testified against Mr. Johnson. It’s only fair and just that accusers face those whom they accuse. We have only the words of those who sought to entrap my client …” Voice rising. “Those who sought to sully innocent children by exposing them to crime rather than protecting them from it. Shame!” He half turned toward me, and I felt the eyes of the spectators—most that were there for the defendant—crawl over me. The lawyer went back to the table, saying, “Thank you, Your Honor.” With that, he sat.
The judge, who I knew, observed me like he was sorry for what was going to happen. Then he addressed the jury and read the instructions.
The thirteen members of the jury—the regulation twelve and one alternate—glanced at their watches, most likely thinking they could wrap this baby up and get home before the traffic. I felt myself sagging just as someone sat beside me.
Lake.
Lake in his sharp Burberry. Lake—my love—still the man who could, by simply showing up, have my heart leaping and improving my day. He removed his black felt fedora and perched it on his knee.
He nodded hello, rather stony-faced I thought, and faced the bench. The judge noted his presence by adjusting his glasses as if wondering why a detective lieutenant in homicide would come into his courtroom. And, as if to avoid witnessing a possible dramatic arrest, the judge rose quickly. Lake and I stood. Bliss stretched the soreness of the wooden bench from my backside.
Lake took my arm and led through the double doors into the ante room where I fetched my black cashmere coat. In the broad hall, he said, “Buy a poor city servant a cup of coffee?”
“There’s better day-old coffee at the cop house than what’s in those machines downstairs.”
“I could use a cruller, too,” he said, his hopeful grin shimmering in his dark eyes.
The man and his sweets; cops and their crullers. “I don’t think this verdict is long in coming,” I said.
“I saw and heard.” He put his hand at the back of my waist and urged me toward the elevators. “Too bad. A scumbag is a scumbag, no matter the letter of the law.”
“I assume you mean the defense lawyer.”
His expression droll, he said, “Juries want accusers to face the accused. It’s only fair and just.”
“It is?”
“Learned counselor said so. I went up against him last year. His client’s hair and weapon wasn’t enough; he argued. He wanted an eyewitness to the murder. He lost that one.”
Crowding in with ten people, we rode the elevator to the lobby in silence. Outside, on the cracked sidewalk, Lake placed his fedora on his head, angling it ever so slightly against the crisp wind. “What’s on tap for the rest of your day?”
“Office,” I said, thinking of sitting at the computer doing what was once real paperwork. “Pearly Sue’s in Florida on the parental abduction I told you about. Dad just wanted to take his son to see his new girlfriend, which mama didn’t approve of. Neither did Portia since she wouldn’t give permission to take the child out-of-state. The real mom is still bonding with the boy after getting out of prison.”
“Isn’t it nice of these citizens—keeping us in business?”
“What a cynic.”
We came to the Superior Coffee Shop where the crullers were superior—calorie-packed, but superior. Carrying our cardboard trays, we found a round table and sat knee-to-knee. Nothing was said as I drank coffee and he ate. Chewing his last bite, Lake chased it with a gulp of coffee. Wiping his mouth, he said, “I’d like you to do something for me.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Your plants don’t need watering. They froze last week.” Winter in Atlanta can be a bitch.
“I was going to ask for you to buy me something in a cactus garden, but that’s not the favor.” His intense stare told me this was serious.
Nevertheless, I said, “Okay, you can have my donut.”
He picked up my donut. “Did you know that Linda has a brother?” He bit into the sugary dough.
“Linda Lake? A brother?” Linda was Lake’s ex-wife. Her pert blond persona popped into my mind as I sipped coffee. “I had no idea.”
“Half-brother actually. He lives in Athens.”
“Athens is a long ways away.”
“Georgia.”
“Lake, my dearest. I like your ex-wife, but I don’t keep up with your ex-in-laws.” Had I sounded snarky? Lake’s expression told me I had. “I take it a problem has arisen.”
Lake had lost interest in the cruller and laid it on the plate. A meaningful indication. He drank the rest of his cooling coffee. “Linda called me,” he looked at his watch, “about forty-five minutes ago. Her half-brother’s name is Baxter Carlisle. He owns several restaurants in Athens.” He paused, as if not knowing how to go on.
“Baxter Carlisle is Linda’s half-brother? I’ve been to his restaurants with Portia and friends many times.” Portia Devon is a juvenile judge and my lifelong friend. She attended the University of Georgia. “During my community college, I spent more time in Athens than Atlanta. So, what’s the problem?” I wadded up my napkin. “I’ve got to get back.”
“Young girls, I would say,” Lake said.
“How young?”
“At present, eighteen.”
“How old is he?”
“Fifty-two.”
“Dangerous age, but she’s age of consent.”
“That’s not the point.” Lake looked up, his eyelids half-closed over dark brown eyes. “I never knew. The family kept it a secret.”
“A Lolita complex? Linda just told you?”
“Out of necessity.”
“How much necessity?”
“Athens police brought Bax in for questioning in the disappearance of Damian Hansel, a student at the University.”
“Damian? You never know with names. Boy?” I asked. Lake nodded. “Is there a gender problem, too?”
“According to Linda, Damian is the boyfriend of the object of Baxter’s obsession. She is also a student.”
“Baxter Carlisle’s got himself mixed up with college kids?”
“Hansel’s disappearance is going public, like, now probably.”
“How old is he and how long’s he been missing?”
“He’s nineteen and was last seen Thursday evening.” He paused as if to stare across time. “Four days now.”
“What’s the name of the object of Baxter’s obsession?”
“Cho Martine”
“Interesting name. So he’s obsessed with her and offs her boyfriend? Is that the thinking?”
“Too early to off Hansel just yet.”
“What’s Martine, the teen, saying?”
“She saw Hansel on Thursday evening. They studied together for exams at their usual internet café. He went home. She went home. They live near the campus.”
“Is there an Atlanta connection that could bring you in?”
“Martine is from Savannah. Hansel’s an out-of-state student from Tallahassee, Florida.”
“We need a Gretl in here.”
Lake explained that Hansel hadn’t been seen since he and Martine parted at the café. He didn’t show for his exam Friday. Nobody saw him over the weekend. When he didn’t show this morning, a friend called Hansel’s father who came to Athens and eventually filed the missing persons report. The father also told Athens police that Damian was something of a traveler and been known to disappear to museums and internet cafes, although he never missed exams. Lake ended by saying that was all he got from Linda, and that the Atlanta Police Department hadn’t received any more information.
I thought about Linda Lake. I met her before I knew her husband was a cop. Linda was the fire department’s spokeswoman before she gave birth to her and Lake’s daughter, Susanna. She’s the opposite of me. Think of your ideal Junior Leaguer: tiny, blond, pert, gabby and currently engaged to a real estate tycoon. And, no, Lake didn’t leave Linda for me. When I met him—at the same time I was assigned to partner with him in Atlanta Police Zone Two—they had already agreed to an amicable divorce.
I asked, “Why is Carlisle suspected in his disappearance, and who said he’s obsessed with this Cho Martine?”
“Martine filed three complaints against him—all stalking related.”
I’m a sucker for missing persons’ mysteries. “It could interest me,” I said, “but Hansel isn’t a case for Child Trace. Too old.” Child Trace is my specialty private investigative agency, and I consider anyone past eighteen a full-fledged adult.
“You had a seventeen-year-old last year. Two years isn’t that different.”
“You’re right, but Hansel sounds self-sufficient. He goes off on his own, but returns. He still might.” Standing, I said, “I got to get back.”
He threw two dollars on the table with me wondering, once again, why he tips when we stand in line to get our donuts and coffee and then bus our own table. I looked around. Nobody to tip and picked up the two bucks. I waved it at him. “Thanks.”
Outside, we hurried back to the courthouse, huffing lines of condensed air. He said, “Linda is beside herself. Her name could be linked to his. Inevitably, would be, depending how the case goes.”
“Has Carlisle ever been arrested for anything relating to his complex?”
“I ran his sheet. A DUI in Clarke County eleven years back. The recent stalking charges haven’t hit the system.”
“Why not?”
“Complaints days apart. First one Friday, second Saturday, third Sunday.”
Starting after her boyfriend goes missing. “Did Martine get a restraining order?” Lake shook his head.
“What form do these complaints take?”
“Two peeping Toms and a stalking by automobile.”
“She can prove it was Carlisle?”
“One grainy photograph of a face in the window.”
We walked up the courthouse steps. I already knew most of what he had to say about the public Baxter Carlisle. He was well-known because of his restaurants. He owned three—a sports bar where college kids hung out, a steak joint where college kids take their parents on visiting weekends, and an upscale faux French restaurant for locals.
“I’ve been to the ersatz French,” I said. “I went with Portia and her mother once. Porsh and I spent a lot of time in Carlisle’s sports bar, too.”
We passed through court house security and walked down the hall toward the elevators.
I said, “So you think if I trace this Damian Hansel and find him lurking in a library, starving, thirsty, unshaven, having forgotten about his classes and exams, that will clear Baxter?”
“I think you will find out he’s dead and that Baxter is a suspect.”
“Linda thinks that?”
“She’s ...”
Sounds rattled me—the babble of heavy voices. The elevator doors had parted and Devus Johnson led his followers out. His six-foot-five, two-hundred-seventy-five pounds came barreling at us. He stopped, spread his legs, pushed his coat open and propped his fists at the sides of his waist.
My eyes met his. “I see you were acquitted.”
His gold-toothed smile took up half his cheeky face, but it wasn’t pleasant. “Not guilty!” His voice hurt my head as it echoed throughout the lobby. His glance shifted to Lake, who would not be mistaken for anything other than what he was. Devus bestowed a trademark smirk. “Well, the lady got herself a copper for a bodyguard.” He wagged his head. “In case ol’ Devus beats the rap.”
“You were acquitted, Mr. Johnson,” I said. “There wasn’t enough evidence. That’s how the law works.”
“You wanted to put my ass in jail.”
Lake warned, “Watch your tongue here.”
Pulling his coat closed, Devus said to me, “And you watch who you try to put in the box.”
“Is that a threat?” Lake asked.
Although a man of agility and speed, Lake’s six-two, one-eighty was no match for Devus’s mountain of muscle.
Devus laughed and so did the minions standing behind him. Then he leaned into me and spoke in a whisper. “I jes be sayin’ you be smart being careful.”
He moved around me. So did four men who could be linebackers for the Atlanta Falcons. Following was his mother, who’d obliquely accused him on the stand, but apparently the members of the jury didn’t think a mother’s accusations amounted to much. Nor a child finder’s.