Chapter Three

Just out the door of the station, Hardcastle spotted trouble coming. Normally, Mattie Groves would be a welcome sight, but the expression on her face warned him immediately.

"Milt Hardcastle," she said fiercely, "I thought we were friends." Before he could begin a question, her scowl intensified even more. "I was sandbagged at lunch by Les Dalton in the courthouse cafeteria. He assumed I already knew Gull's Way had been shot up last night, but oh, no! I had to smile and nod and pretend I knew exactly what he was gassing about because you -" she shot a finger at his chest – "didn't have the common decency to let me in on it. Honestly," she retracted the finger and crossed her arms militantly, "some people."

"Aw, c'mon, Mattie." The judge pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "I woulda called you to fill you in this afternoon. A lot's been going on, y'know, and things just kinda got away from me a little." He closed his eyes and sighed, re-opening one just enough to gauge her expression.

She squinted her own eyes right back at him. "And I suppose you were eventually going to tell me Mark was shot? And that he's all right, even though he was filled with buckshot?"

"Yeah, he's fine." Hardcastle waved a hand in the general direction of Malibu. "Wouldn't even let me take him to the ER. Sooner or later, he's gonna have to have those pellets out, but they can wait a little longer. And anyway, you're not exactly Little Miss Forthcoming yourself. I just left Frank – " he jerked a thumb up and back, "who filled me in on the lab tech perjury hoo-ha. I notice you didn't pick up a phone last night and give us call about that."

She lowered her eyes and sniffed. "I just didn't want to go borrowing trouble, that's all. You know I don't like to look like a busybody." Seeing that got a smile from Hardcastle, she grinned back, then sobered again. "Listen, Milt, somebody's trying to kill Mark, that's obvious, and maybe even you, too. He's my client now, I take an interest in people trying to murder my clients. Milt, there must be something I can do to help. You know I get antsy standing on the sidelines."

"Well, you could take a run at Winnie Gault. Get the behind-the-scenes on his campaign to shake up the crime lab."

"Oh, no." She tilted her head and smiled gently. "I have a better idea. A much better idea."

00000

The tinted windows didn't prevent him from observing their route, which went northward for a good stretch along the PCH, taking him tantalizingly close to Gull's Way. He wondered, absently, if this might be his last glimpse of the estate. It might be that the guy with the gun just wanted him someplace where he wouldn't bleed on the upholstery.

They finally pulled off the highway, well north of Malibu. From there it was a short, winding trip up into the hills, followed by an abrupt turn into a small parking lot. The business that went with it was obviously a restaurant though the lights on the sign were out.

The sedan pulled up by the entrance. There was a fresh piece of tag-board in the window that read "Closed for Remodeling". McCormick's back-seat companion nudged him and stated the obvious. "We're here."

Mark nodded. He considered making a break for it. He thought he might get twenty feet or so before his keeper had a bead on him.

He had the door open on his side and one foot on the ground when he paused for a moment, his gaze drawn to the car on the far side of the lot. It was familiar, if only because he tended to remember vehicles he'd hot-wired. Of course it would take a closer inspection to be absolutely certain but—

The guy behind him gave him another nudge. "Go in, he's waiting."

He might be wrong about the car, but somehow being trusted to take the last few steps on his own put the whole encounter in a different light. He shelved the unpromising escape plan, got up, and crossed to the door. He cast one last look back at the aging vehicle. It might just be a coincidence. He sighed, pulled the door open, and stepped inside the restaurant.

It was a plunge into darkness after the bright afternoon sun. He stood there, blinking for a moment, then gradually became aware of a swatch of white—a cloth-covered table near the back. There was one man seated there and, as Mark's eyes adjusted, he saw the heaping plate of antipasto on the table.

Joe Cadillac, retired mobster, lifted a glass of red wine, an almost courtly salute. He took a sip and put the glass down. He gestured with the knife in his other hand—an ordinary butter knife, not a stiletto.

"You ought to try the calamari."

"No, thanks," Mark said, trying not to sound peeved. "Aren't you ever going to prison?"

Cadillac gave him a considering look and then shrugged.

"Pre-trial motions, all that stuff. Out on bond. You know what they say, kid. It ain't over 'til the fat lady sings—and I got some mezzo-sopranos that can really hold a note. Try the calamari. Got some nice prosciutto here, too."

"You aren't by any chance trying to get me kicked out of law school, are you?"

"'Course not," Cadillac said indignantly. "My son'd have me down on my knees doing Hail Marys if I tried something like that—and I've got arthritis. Anyway, you get through the next two years and I'll make you an offer you can't refuse. Always looking for a few good mezzos."

"Ah, I appreciate the offer, but no. Hardcastle wouldn't settle for Hail Marys if I went to work for you." Mark looked puzzled. "So why the dinner invite?"

Cadillac cocked his head. "'Cause my boy says I still owe you and Hardcase one, and I'd like to tell him we're evened up."

"You know something about what's been going on?"

"Not much," Cadillac gave him a piercing look, "but the word on the street is there's a contract out on you."

"Me and the judge?"

"No, just you. And that's all I know. Don't even know if it got picked up yet."

Mark grimaced. One hand went unconsciously toward his left leg. "I think it did."

Cadillac gave him an eye, up and down. "Must not be very good at his job, huh? Hard to get good help without a retainer."

"I'll remember that. Are we even now?"

"I think so."

"Then I can't ask you to keep an ear to the ground and lemme know if you hear anything else?"

Cadillac snorted. "'To the ground'? I got arthritis and lumbago."

"—And if you did hear anything, and you did tell me, then you'd be ahead. Sooner or later those mezzos are gonna run out of steam. Might be nice if you had a character witness at your sentencing hearing."

"You?"

"No, 'course not—Hardcastle."

The elderly mobster looked thoughtful. "So it's true what my son says—you're his mouthpiece."

Mark snorted. "Are you kidding? I haven't even got my first year finals back yet."

"No," Cadillac shook his head, "not like that. I mean portavoce—you speak for him."

McCormick looked askance. "Not when he's near enough to hear me doing it."

The man who'd once had an iron grip on the West Coast mob chuckled. "Still, I think my boy is right. Your word is his."

"For this, I think so. Yeah."

Cadillac sat quietly for a moment, as though he were thinking it all through. He finally said, "Listen, I'll do it for you. Not for his good word. I don't need that. I'd rather have him doin' the Hail Marys cause he owes me for keeping you off a slab."

"However you wanna slice it. Just keep an ear down for me, okay?" Mark looked around, then at Cadillac again. "And, um, one more thing. I need a lift back."

00000

It was a silent ride back down the PCH. McCormick didn't object when they turned in at the gate to Gull's Way. Going all the way back to campus to the Coyote at this point would have just meant a time-eating detour. He'd been glancing down at his watch surreptitiously on the journey back and knew, detour or not, he was unlikely to beat Hardcastle home.

The car stopped halfway up the drive, not yet within view of the house. The whole operation suggested a familiarity with the layout that gave McCormick uneasy pause. He stepped out and away from the sedan, and stood there, watching as the driver executed a neat three-point turn with the ungainly vehicle and pulled away with no farewell.

He glanced down at his watch one last time. Definitely later than he would have liked and too late to make hurrying of any benefit. He turned and trudged up the drive, hands in his pockets, rounding the final curve that revealed the house—and the Coyote, parked alongside the fountain.

That was Joe Cadillac making a statement, no doubt. He thought he'd have to work out the translation later though.

Hardcastle—apparently having spotted his approach, or maybe having heard the sedan, even out of sight down the driveway—was out on the porch. He was still too far off for Mark to make out his exact expression. It had fluxed quickly through something else but now looked to be settling on deep displeasure.

"Where the hell have you been?"

"Ah . . . a late lunch. Or maybe an early dinner."

"You walked?"

Mark shook his head, taking a quick sideward glance at the Coyote as he strolled by it. At least for the moment he was pretty sure it didn't have any explosives under the hood, assuming Cadillac's guys had moved it there and not his unknown nemesis.

"No," he'd arrived at the front steps and Hardcastle stepped aside to let him pass, "I had a ride."

"You shoulda called. I get home, see the car, you're not here. What the hell was I supposed to think?"

What he had thought was clear as he twitched once and made a beeline for his desk and the phone.

"Gotta call off the dogs," he added in a mutter as he dialed a number they both knew by heart.

"Frank?" he grumbled into the receiver. "Yeah, he's home. Sorry about the false alarm." He glanced up at the reason for the APB and made a pretty good attempt at a scowl, only partly tempered by what was obviously relief. "Uh-huh," he muttered at the man on the other end of the line, "I'll tell him."

He hung up, still holding onto the scowl. "Frank says he thought law school was supposed make a guy more reliable."

"I know; I shoulda called, but I think Cadillac might've taken that the wrong way. Me calling you and then you calling Frank and then Frank sending some of his guys around to check the place out."

"Cadillac?" Hardcastle frowned. "Why the hell did you go after him? His son isn't gonna let him take a whack at us. Hell, I didn't even put him on the list."

"I didn't go after him. He sent his guys around for me. He wanted to let me know there's a contract out on me."

"Huh," the judge grunted. "You think he really knows something? Or did he maybe hear what was happened and was just lookin' to score some points?"

"It didn't make the evening news—no visuals. You think he sits around listening to the police scanner? Anyway, he doesn't know who's hiring, or who got hired."

"Too bad."

"Hey, at least we got one guy who doesn't think we set it all up ourselves."

"I don't think we're gonna want to introduce him as a character witness."

Mark smiled thinly. "Just so you know—the feeling is mutual. But he says he'll keep an ear down and let us know if he hears anything else."

Hardcastle didn't look too happy about that but nodded once. He pulled the chair out from his desk and settled himself into it, opening the right hand desk drawer and pulling out the list he'd been laboring over the past few days.

"Might need to rearrange our prospects a little. He said 'a contract'."

"Yeah, but that's just mob-speak, I figure."

"Hired killers don't have ads in the yellow pages—it takes contacts."

"I thought we decided Hawksworth wouldn't have dirtied his hands with mob types."

"But it sounds like somebody has," Hardcastle observed. "I think we can knock a few names off this list."

"Good," McCormick said. "Progress." He fell quiet for a moment.

Hardcastle had picked up a pencil and was scribbling something alongside one of the entries. He looked up and said, "What?" as though the silence had been a question.

"Ah," Mark fidgeted and then plunged ahead, "I was just wondering what Frank said. I mean, when you told him about the skeet shooting. How long did he think it'd be before the DA gets the word?"

Meaning, of course, how long did he have before he went back to being suspect number one on their list.

"I, um," Hardcastle wasn't making eye contact. "Actually, something else came up. Fits right in with your whole conspiracy theory."

"You mean they really are out to get me?" Mark sank into one of the wingbacks across from the desk. "Not that it comes as a big surprise." He sighed. "Go on, don't keep me in suspense."

Hardcastle explained, short and to the point, about the strange coincidence of a scandal in the police evidence labs now threatening the evidence that, however circumstantially, was the only thing linking Hawksworth to Randy Powers' shooting. McCormick sat, quietly absorbing the details. It was only a moment before the gears meshed and started turning.

"But…" He frowned, and then suddenly the tumblers clicked. "But if they retest the jacket and it's negative—"

Hardcastle grinned. "Then we really will have proof that there's something hinky going on in that lab, because we know he wore it shooting just two days before he died."

"Except…" McCormick looked doubtful.

"Except what?"

"I ran into today—Hawksworth's former secretary."

"You've been busy."

McCormick shrugged. "Anyway, she says there's more then one jacket. She knows that for sure because she gets his dry cleaning done."

"Of course there is. There'd have to be if they wanted to pull a switch for the retesting."

"Okay, yeah, but what if he was wearing this second jacket the night he killed Randy?"

Hardcastle opened his mouth, then shut it without saying a word. The mental calculations were almost audible though.

"And if he was," Mark pointed out gently, "when they pull this switcheroo, the jacket's still going to test positive for gunpowder—which'll be a terrible disappointment to the conspirators, but puts us right back in the same spot we are now."

"Where's this second jacket now?"

"That's why she was at Hawskworth's office today. She thought it might be there. She wanted it ready for the funeral director once the ME released the body."

"It wasn't there, huh? At his place, maybe?"

Mark shook his head again. "Nope. She had a key. She looked. I didn't ask her if she thought it'd been stolen."

"You think one missing tweed jacket is going to raise a red flag with the DA?" Hardcastle muttered, "Somebody's already made the switch. Two jackets and one visit to Upton. I'd say we've got a fifty-fifty chance that the replacement jacket tests clean."

Mark tried to look hopeful. "That's better than—"

He was interrupted by the jangling ring of the phone. He barely avoided a visible twitch. Hardcastle reached for the receiver.

It was a terse conversation from the judge's end, though from the greeting Mark suspected the caller was Frank again. From Hardcastle's expression—grim at the outset and only becoming more so, Mark also suspected the news was not good.

"What now?" he asked as soon as the receiver had been recradled.

"The ME finally signed off on Hawksworth."

"Homicide?"

"Got it in one. Cyanide, ingested with coffee, and no source of either was found in the office."

"So someone took the cup away after he drank from it." Mark frowned. "But, hey, not me. I was still there in the office when the cops arrived."

"Come on, kiddo, it's a big building. There must be a couple hundred waste baskets. All you would have had to do is run down the stairs one flight, stick it in with a half-dozen others, under a pile of papers, and run back up again to do the search.'

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Mark said glumly.

"And I'm not even trying to think of ways you could have done it. Those guys down at the DA's office are way more inventive than I am." Hardcastle heaved a sigh. "Problem is, the cops weren't even sure it was a crime scene that night, let alone know they'd be interested in coffee cups."

"But he was poisoned, and someone made a point of making it not look like a suicide, taking the cup away like that." Mark looked up from his grim ponderings for a moment, shooting a sharp glance at the judge. "You sure you don't want to level with Frank about the skeet shooting? We bet this wrong and you could wind up right next to me in the dock on a conspiracy charge."

"I already toldja that's only incidental information, barely circumstantial—"

"Not the jacket, maybe, not by itself, but how 'bout when one of those inventive ADAs starts imagining you as the one who carried the cup off—stuffed it in your jacket pocket to protect your tuition investment. How's that other little sin of omission gonna look to everybody then?"