Faith, Hope & Charity

A Faith Lehane Mystery

by

STFarnham

AKA Lancer47

AKA LancerFourSeven

Chapter Four

"Hey officer," I said, looking him directly in the eyes with as much sincerity as I could muster, "I just walked in and found him like this. I mean, do ya see a gun anywhere?"

"KEEP YOUR HANDS UP!" he shouted.

Fuck, this guy was wound tighter than a seven day clock with a ten-day wind. I guessed he hadn't ever walked in on a murder scene before. I tried again, "Officer, I own this house, I just got here, I didn't have time to do anything like this. There's a bunch of witnesses at the diner in town that'll swear to when I left there, including a cop in town." I knew the timing wouldn't actually prove that I couldn't have done this, but I was trying to defuse the guy before he fucking shot me, either accidentally or on purpose.

"Please," I continued, "why don't you call for some detectives, and maybe crime scene investigators? Call your supervisor."

"You don't tell me what to do missy!" He was still nervous, maybe even more so. What was this guy's problem? Fuckin' asshole.

"Can I put my hands down? My arms are tiring," I said quietly while making my eyes open a little more than is natural to try to give him the ol' big brown eyes brimming with tears thing. It worked when I was eight, why not try it now?

"NO! Keep 'em up!" He shook his head and droplets of sweat dripped down his forehead and arced off his nose.

"Okay, okay, it's just that I'm getting tired. And it's scary with you pointing that big gun at me for no reason at all. This is my property, after all." I'm such a kidder.

"Nice try girl, but I know Roger Wilkerson there, and he's the owner, or was before you shot him."

"You're wrong officer, I inherited this property from my Aunt Helen, Roger didn't get this house – he got the one on Cape Cod." The cop looked puzzled. But then he came to a decision; I could see it in his eyes – a hardening of his gaze. I could see his muscles contracting along his arm. He was going to shoot me. Before he could pull the trigger I reacted with Slayer speed: I turned sideways and stepped to him while reaching out with my left hand to grab his wrist, just behind the gun. I pressed fairly hard with my thumb on the nerve cluster in his wrist. I twisted around and slipped my right hand under my left and liberated his gun, which I plopped down on the maple counter of the kitchen island. Then I swung him around and pushed his face down to the counter. He tried hard to fight me every step of the way, but he was no challenge to my slayer strength. I had him face down on the counter and I was able to keep him under control with my left hand wrapped around his wrists behind his back. He was far more frightened now than he was before, he continued to struggle, but there was nothing he could do.

I said, "Don't worry officer, I ain't gonna hurt'cha, I'm just disarming you to prevent you from hurting me." I flicked the safety lever and released the the catch for the clip of his worn Beretta 9mm. I put the gun down again and found the deputy's extra clips on his belt pouch. Then I frog-marched him to the big round oak table, in a roomy bay window overlooking a generous garden with the ocean visible over the bluffs beyond. I put him in a chair and shoved it up to the table. Now I could back up. "If you move officer, I will hurt you, just don't move and you'll be fine." He was sweating and pale.

I found some baggies, and some paper towels, and carefully unloaded each clip, making certain I wasn't adding my fingerprints to anything and put them in the baggie. I unloaded the bullet that was still in the chamber of the gun, then snapped it shut and put it back in his holster, along with his empty clips. "Okay," I said, "now call your damn backup. Do your fucking job!"

He reached for his radio and called it in.

"Base! Base!" he cried, warily glancing at me, "I caught a murder. Murderer, I mean, at the old Wilkerson place! Send people! Backup, and you know, all that!"

"Randy? Is that you?" a querulous female voice came out of his radio, "Don't you be foolin' around over official channels now!"

He answered, "I ain't foolin' around Tiffany, Roger Wilkerson's deader'n a doornail on the floor in the kitchen, with this biker chick standin' over 'im! Get the Chief out here, right away!"

"Are you serious? Roger dodgers really dead?"

"Yep, deader'n the Herald Tribune."

"Okay, hang on, I'll send the crew out there."

"Officer Reardon, out!" He looked at me, a little more relaxed now, and said, "Okay, now what Ms. Lehane?"

"Well, we could wait outside."

"Uh, okay," he said.

I marched him out the kitchen door to his patrol car and put his bullets in the trunk. We walked around the house to the front steps and waited. When I could see another car arrive at the top of the hill, I said, "Now look, if you say anything about my disarming you, you'll look like a complete idiot." A car marked 'Police' pulled up next to us and Officer Reardon walked over. A large red-faced man in a tan and black uniform got out of the car. He looked like he'd slept in his clothes for a night or two. He glanced at me and glared when I nodded to him with a friendly smile, then went on into my house with his officer. He was the same guy who'd given me the hard look back in town, before I got to the diner. I snaked my phone out from my front pocket and hit 'Lawyer' on the speed dial.

"Woodman & Weld," the receptionist warbled in my ear.

"Hi, this is Faith Lehane. I need to speak to Bill Eggers – it's kind of an emergency."

"Yes ma'am," she answered with gratifying response. Much better than the original frosty reception I got from her this morning. After a couple of clicks I heard:

"Bill Eggers."

"Uh, hi. This is Faith. I walked into the Wilkerson house out here on Long Island and I found Roger Wilkerson dead on the kitchen floor. Seconds later the village idiot masquerading as a cop found me standing over the body and detained me. I'm outside while he and the Police Chief check out the crime scene."

"All right Faith, don't say anything to the police except for your name – and don't bullshit around, give them your real name. But otherwise, don't volunteer any information, don't answer any question, don't even ask for water. If they give you a glass, don't touch it. Stand mute – you understand me?"

"Yeah Bill, I do."

"How come he let you have a phone?"

"He hasn't arrested me yet and didn't search me."

"Great," he answered, "Has he read you your rights?"

"No."

"Alright, I'm gonna send another lawyer out. His name is Stone Barrington. He handles our criminal work..."

"But I'm not a criminal! Well, not anymore anyway."

"Uh, yeah – I don't want to hear it. Look, Stone used to be a homicide detective in the City, so he knows what he's doing and can cut through the cop's bullshit. Trust me, he's who you need."

"Uh oh, I think the rest of the troops are arriving, I better put the phone away before they notice it."

"Okay, sit tight, say nothing except, 'I want to talk to my lawyer.' Don't mention that you already have, here's Stone number."

He read it off, we said goodbye and I entered the number into my phone. Then I checked to make certain it was set on 'silent', and slipped it back into my pocket. I sat down on the low stone wall to the side of the steps.

A few minutes later a van pulled up. It was labeled:

New York State Police

Bureau of Criminal Investigation

Crime Scene Unit

I actually cheered up at that, these guys might actually know what they're doing, unlike the locals. Then a couple more police cars arrived, and two more cops got out and stomped into the house. A minute later all the cops and the Chief came out, apparently ejected by the State guys. They didn't look happy about it, but what could they do? Well for one thing, they could hassle me, the fuckers.

The Chief said to me, "So why'd you kill 'em, sweetcheeks?"

Oh great, idiot Randy didn't fall far from the tree. I answered, "I want to talk to my lawyer."

One of the newly arrived cops drawled, "So, you think you're a jailhouse lawyer?"

Shit, these guys are all inbred. "I want to talk to my lawyer."

"Oh crap, what are you, a broken record?"

"I want to talk to my lawyer."

"Hey! You say that one more time and I'll..."

I said very slowly, sneering right into his face, "I – want – to – talk – to – my – lawyer."

"I'll wipe that smile right offa yer..."

The Chief intruded, "Forget it Bob. Let's take her back to the station and call legal aid..."

This time I said, "No, I want to talk to my lawyer, not yours. I just need a phone to call him."

"So where's a pretty little girl like you get the scratch to afford her own lawyer?"

"I have the firm of Woodman & Weld on retainer, and I want to talk to my lawyer."

I could tell by the blank looks that they weren't familiar with W&W, but they understood the retainer part.

"Get this chief, a retainer!"

The Chief commanded, "Read her her rights and formally arrest her, then drive her to the station."

He didn't sound stupid anymore.

As we trooped into the station, I could see that Officer Randy was worrying about his bullets, but couldn't figure out what to do about it. He was just dumb enough to put the fear of looking stupid in front of his brother officers above telling them about how he had been deftly de-bulleted. And he couldn't open his trunk and get his bullets out of the baggie in front his buddies without getting a lot of hard-to-answer questions. His silence helped me more than him, I think. Of course, he may have been confused about my actions, too.

They gave me a phone call, then they put me in an interrogation room and uncuffed me. I guess they figured that I couldn't overpower them and escape. I wasn't planning on disabusing them of that notion since I couldn't see that it would gain me anything. They still hadn't got around to frisking me. Besides the phone, I had a stake in each boot, a wire hidden in the stitching of my belt (very useful for decapitating demons that prove resistant to getting staked in the heart – not so useful while stuck in a cop shop), a combination tool in my jacket pocket that included pliers, screwdrivers, some bent thing I couldn't identify, and a wrench; credit cards, money, and an emergency magical help-come-get-me thingy – it looked like nothing more than a smooth pebble and tended to follow me around in a very subtle manner. Even if they found it and took it away and locked it up somewhere, sooner or later it would end up back in my pocket – a very useful property for an alarm button.

I gazed out a window covered in heavy metal mesh and drifted off into violent daydreams about ways I should've tortured Robin and his fling. I've reformed of course – I wouldn't actually do it anymore – but it soothed me to imagine slipping my knife slowly between his ribs...

An hour later I was half asleep, my eyes almost but not quite completely shut, when I became aware of people talking behind the mirror on the wall. I knew this was a one-way mirror of course, and I'm sure most people couldn't hear quiet conversation from the other side, but Slayer hearing does come handy sometimes. There were three cops talking about me. It seems Randy was disgusted that a 'murderer' could be so relaxed so soon after doing the deed, but the other two were doubtful that I was guilty of anything other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The State Crime Scene guys showed up and one did some tests on me, including a Gun Shot Residue test. Luckily, I hadn't shot a gun in quite a while, so they had nothing to hold me on. But they did anyway, until my lawyer got there.

I walked down the steps with Stone Barrington. The way he handled the cops was pretty impressive. Of course they didn't actually have any evidence, so they had to let me go sooner or later in spite of their extreme suspicions. But Stone managed it sooner, with only a stern warning from the cops not to leave the area. I asked him, "Do you know if they impounded my motorcycle? Or is it still at the house? You do know about my house, right?"

"Yes, Bill Eggers filled me in." We stopped by a very expensive looking Mercedes. Stone held the passenger door open for me and said, "I'll take you back to your house while we talk."

"This is one nice ride," I said.

"Yeah, it's a Mercedes E55 AMG.

"Nice."

"Let's talk business. First of all, you know about attorney-client privilege?"

"Yep, all about it."

"I expected so. Since I am 'of counsel' to Woodman & Weld, and you have them on retainer, we already have a legal relationship."

"What does 'of counsel' mean?"

"It means that I take care of anything that is too messy for the fancy lawyers in the office to get involved with. Criminal law, mostly. It's a legal fiction that keeps the squeaky clean, clean. Woodman & Weld is an exclusive law firm that deals mostly with very wealthy clients. But, it seems that even the extremely wealthy occasionally run afoul of the law, and of course they have very privileged children that break the law with some monotony, so they need me from time to time."

"I see it must pay well."

"So tell me Faith, did you kill your cousin?"

"No. I was trying to figure out how to get him to be a little friendlier to me, but he was bound and determined to piss-off everyone around him."

"Okay, I believe you. Although if the GSR hadn't been negative I might not be so certain."

"There is one little thing I should tell you about."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, it's kind of embarrassing but potentially troublesome. See, when Patrolman Randy walked in on me, he was very nervous. In fact, far more nervous and upset than the situation warranted–"

"Even with a recently dead body on the floor?"

"Yes. I could see in his eyes that he intended to shoot me, so I disarmed him."

"WHAT?"

TBC