didn't impress me. One way or the other I would have handled it myself.
“You're not as tough as you think. They might come back. Let me walk you to your car.”
“That's really not necessary. I'm fine,” I said, but he followed me anyway. We didn't say much as we walked toward the car. I didn't look at him as I unlocked the door and climbed in.
“I need to talk to you,” he said.
I started my car. ‘About what?”
‘About Celia and her boy. What are you doing now?”
“Going to pick up my son.”
“How about later? Can I call you?”
I thought about it for a minute, wondering what he could tell me and if it would be worth my time. “Okay,” I finally said.
I was halfway down the street before I realized I hadn't given him my telephone number. Then I remembered that my number, address, and every other bit of personal information that he needed to know about me was laid out on the top of his desk in triplicate.
CHAPTER SIX
E ver heard of a guy named Larry Walton?” I asked my friend Jake Richards. We were sitting at his kitchen table drinking red wine. After my run-in with Brent Liston, I needed something stronger, but manners and the fear of looking like a lush prevented me from asking. Jake dropped his eyes the way he does when he thinks, and I took the opportunity to gaze at his face. He got better with age. The gray in his hair and beard gave him a distinguished, wise demeanor, yet still managed to play up the kindness in his eyes. He had the kind of face I could never get tired of looking at.
“No, I can't say that I have.”
“What about Brent Liston?”
“Jesus, Tarn, I hope you're not having dealings with him?” He sipped his wine and scowled, which made me smile.
“Well…”
He laughed despite himself. “Try to stay out of trouble, Tamara.”
“I'm already in it.”
“What am I going to do with you?” I was tempted to tell him, but swallowed some wine instead.
“So what do you know about him?”
“He is bad news, as simple as that. One of my guys defended him on an assault charge, and he got pissed at the way the judge ruled and threatened to beat the dude up. Like I said, bad news. He hasn't threatened you, has he?” His forehead wrinkled with concern, which reminded me of Jamal and his need to protect me.
“No, not really What about Rebecca Donovan? Ever heard of her?”
“Is she related to Clayton Donovan?”
“I don't know.”
“What does she look like?”
“I haven't seen her yet, but I think she's what some people might call ‘ninety’ “
Jake laughed. “‘Hincty’? I haven't heard that one in a while, but I guess that's probably what some folks would call the honorable judge's wife. I don't know if that's what I'd call her, but Rebecca is the quintessential judge's wife in the ‘here come da judge’ tradition. She was, anyway. How is she involved in this?”
“I don't know yet. So they're divorced?”
“No, she's widowed. He died last August.”
“Was he murdered?” The thought that Brent Liston could somehow be tied to the judge's demise crossed my mind.
“Judge Donovan? No. Died in bed, in a hospital. Walking pneumonia.” Jake shuddered slightly, like a man reminded of his own mortality. “I argued a case before him on a Monday and was at his funeral a week later. Shook everybody up. Everybody.”
“You liked him then.”
Jake shrugged noncommittally ‘As much as you can like somebody who was crazy as all hell and just this side of shady. The judgepushed the limits. Took chances. Rode the wild side, as they say. Sky diving, Harley the whole bit. But he was always fair to me. A lot of the prosecutors used to say he ruled for the bad guys because he identified with them, but when he threw the book at somebody he threw it hard.”
‘And Rebecca was the lady who cleaned up his messes?”
Jake thought for a moment. “There really wasn't all that much to clean up. If the judge was anything, he was discreet. There was a lot of
“You're not as tough as you think. They might come back. Let me walk you to your car.”
“That's really not necessary. I'm fine,” I said, but he followed me anyway. We didn't say much as we walked toward the car. I didn't look at him as I unlocked the door and climbed in.
“I need to talk to you,” he said.
I started my car. ‘About what?”
‘About Celia and her boy. What are you doing now?”
“Going to pick up my son.”
“How about later? Can I call you?”
I thought about it for a minute, wondering what he could tell me and if it would be worth my time. “Okay,” I finally said.
I was halfway down the street before I realized I hadn't given him my telephone number. Then I remembered that my number, address, and every other bit of personal information that he needed to know about me was laid out on the top of his desk in triplicate.
CHAPTER SIX
E ver heard of a guy named Larry Walton?” I asked my friend Jake Richards. We were sitting at his kitchen table drinking red wine. After my run-in with Brent Liston, I needed something stronger, but manners and the fear of looking like a lush prevented me from asking. Jake dropped his eyes the way he does when he thinks, and I took the opportunity to gaze at his face. He got better with age. The gray in his hair and beard gave him a distinguished, wise demeanor, yet still managed to play up the kindness in his eyes. He had the kind of face I could never get tired of looking at.
“No, I can't say that I have.”
“What about Brent Liston?”
“Jesus, Tarn, I hope you're not having dealings with him?” He sipped his wine and scowled, which made me smile.
“Well…”
He laughed despite himself. “Try to stay out of trouble, Tamara.”
“I'm already in it.”
“What am I going to do with you?” I was tempted to tell him, but swallowed some wine instead.
“So what do you know about him?”
“He is bad news, as simple as that. One of my guys defended him on an assault charge, and he got pissed at the way the judge ruled and threatened to beat the dude up. Like I said, bad news. He hasn't threatened you, has he?” His forehead wrinkled with concern, which reminded me of Jamal and his need to protect me.
“No, not really What about Rebecca Donovan? Ever heard of her?”
“Is she related to Clayton Donovan?”
“I don't know.”
“What does she look like?”
“I haven't seen her yet, but I think she's what some people might call ‘ninety’ “
Jake laughed. “‘Hincty’? I haven't heard that one in a while, but I guess that's probably what some folks would call the honorable judge's wife. I don't know if that's what I'd call her, but Rebecca is the quintessential judge's wife in the ‘here come da judge’ tradition. She was, anyway. How is she involved in this?”
“I don't know yet. So they're divorced?”
“No, she's widowed. He died last August.”
“Was he murdered?” The thought that Brent Liston could somehow be tied to the judge's demise crossed my mind.
“Judge Donovan? No. Died in bed, in a hospital. Walking pneumonia.” Jake shuddered slightly, like a man reminded of his own mortality. “I argued a case before him on a Monday and was at his funeral a week later. Shook everybody up. Everybody.”
“You liked him then.”
Jake shrugged noncommittally ‘As much as you can like somebody who was crazy as all hell and just this side of shady. The judgepushed the limits. Took chances. Rode the wild side, as they say. Sky diving, Harley the whole bit. But he was always fair to me. A lot of the prosecutors used to say he ruled for the bad guys because he identified with them, but when he threw the book at somebody he threw it hard.”
‘And Rebecca was the lady who cleaned up his messes?”
Jake thought for a moment. “There really wasn't all that much to clean up. If the judge was anything, he was discreet. There was a lot of
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