Chapter Three

The list had impressed McCormick. Despite vivid memories of many of the names on it, the sheer number of people he'd directly or indirectly inconvenienced in the past four years was astonishing. They'd spent the evening before pulling the corresponding files and cross-checking to see which of the candidates were out on bond.

"But see, some of these folks—take Jersey Joe, or Frank Kelly for example," Hardcastle thwacked the topmost sheet with his finger, "guys like that have organizations, and just 'cause they're in the hoosegow, doesn't mean they don't still have some resources on the outside. But still . . ."

"You don't think Hawksworth would be buddying up to the mob, huh?" McCormick said dryly. "Murder yes, consorting with low-lifes, no. So that means we're looking for someone like Parnell, or Brant, former honored members of the judiciary brought down by an ex-con."

"Sounds about right."

Mark sighed and glanced over at the piles on the table. "Anything that'll shorten the list." He shifted his gaze to Hardcastle. "You know even if we narrow it down to a half-dozen, we'll still need some kind of proof—some evidence of a connection with Hawksworth."

"Yeah," Hardcastle grunted, "but there's always a paper trail. Phone records, meetings-"

"An appointment book."

Hardcastle glanced up sharply from his own musings, his eyes narrowing suspiciously despite the younger man's casual tone.

"Well, not exactly a book," Mark went on. "Modern times—it's all kept on computers these days. Easier for the secretary; saves trees."

"You didn't—" The judge cleared his throat and then repeated, more insistently. "Tell me you didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Didn't go poking around in Hawksworth's office after you found his body."

"I didn't," McCormick said sharply. "I told you, I got there right before you did. You believe me, don't you?"

"Yeah . . . sure, of course I do." Hardcastle's eyes were still narrowed. "So how'd you get it?"

"A friend of a friend . . . of a friend. Nothing illegal. Hawksworth's secretary took a couple weeks leave—she was pretty shaken up by the whole thing. Before she left she gave the computer password and a box of diskettes to the guy who's clerking for Professor Kolper."

Hardcastle looked dubious.

"It's just a list of appointments for the week before he died." Mark stood, digging into his back pocket and pulled out the paper, unfolding it. "I'm there, natch, so's Powers, but there's a bunch of names I don't recognize."

"It won't be someone from our list. Our guys are mostly in jail." Hardcastle held out his hand impatiently.

Mark handed the sheet over, watching silently for a moment as the judge studied it.

"Anything?" he finally asked.

"Dunno, maybe. Here's one—Sunday—that's the day before this whole thing started. Looks like he got together with Clement Upton."

"Saw the name—he's not in my class."

"Sure the hell isn't—he's an industrialist." Hardcastle squinted. "Retired, I think. Used to pal around with J.J. Norcross."

"Wait a sec. You're the guy who screwed up Norcross's toxic waste operation."

"I'm not the one who snuck into city hall and made off with those planning commission maps that put us onto him. That'd be you, sport," Hardcastle pointed out. "Anyway, it's a long shot, but it's worth looking into." He sighed and glanced at the paper again. "There's a couple more here—ha, here's a defense attorney."

"Hawksworth didn't seem like the type who'd approve of them."

"Maybe not, but he had lunch with one that week, Harold Tunstrow. Anyway, we're not talking public defenders here." Hardcastle wrinkled his brow. "If memory serves, he was second chair on Senator Crocker's team."

"You remember that?" McCormick gave him a look of disbelief. "That was three years ago."

Hardcastle shrugged. "More like two and a half."

"And it wasn't my fault Crocker got caught—that was Cyndi Wensek." McCormick paused, frowning for a moment, and then said, "Maybe I should give her a call—make sure everything's okay."

"Why don't I do that—she gives you the cold shoulder again, you'll be useless for weeks." The judge glanced down at the paper again, sucking in his lower lip for a moment and then muttered, "Don't suppose there's any more where this came from."

"Might be," Mark said cautiously. "I'd have to ask." There was a pointed silence and he finally added, "Do you want me to ask?"

"Nothing illegal," Hardcastle said firmly. "And in the meantime," he held up the appointment list, "I'll just do a little sniffing around Hawksworth's known associates here. See if anybody seems nervous."

00000

Mattie Groves usually ate lunch in her chambers, but a combination of pleasant weather and a yen for Mexican food had coaxed her out of her routine. It was no coincidence, though, that the pursuit of the perfect fish taco would take her right by Frank Harper's office. She even figured she'd buy him a couple of enchiladas; though she suspected it was bringing coals to Newcastle, what with the lunches Claudia packed for her hard-working husband.

Still, there were a couple of extra items in the brown paper bag as she knocked on his door and heard the lieutenant's harassed, "Yeah?"

At least she got a thin smile from him as she let herself in. He didn't stand; that was strictly courtroom protocol. On all other grounds they were old poker buddies, and on a first-name basis.

"Mattie," he said, in as close an approximation of cheerful as he was capable of, "what are you doing in my neck of the woods?"

"Martinez's." She held out the bag.

"Enchiladas?" He cracked a smile.

"Of course."

The smile shifted slightly, to make room for a questioning look. "I'm about to be pumped for information, huh? Is this is some sort of enchilada-pro-quo?"

"Hah, so little faith in humanity. It's too many years on the force." She shook her head sadly as she put the bag down on his desk and nudged it towards him. "And, actually, I had something for you—just rumor so far."

Harper's left eyebrow went up. He gestured toward the chair and opened the bag as she settled herself across the desk from him. "Dibs on the fish tacos," she added.

"You can have 'em." Frank wrinkled his nose and passed them over, along with half the napkins. "So, what's the hot topic at the courthouse water cooler?"

"Winnie Gault—you know him?"

"Judge Gault? Yeah, we've gone a couple of rounds."

"Well, this morning he comes in with his shorts in a knot—sounds like one of the lab techs got caught fudging the data."

Frank issued a low whistle.

"Exactly," Mattie nodded. "It happened yesterday afternoon. This morning he's phoning the judicial board, the D.A.'s office—everybody and their uncle, saying we need a grand jury to look into malfeasance in the crime lab."

"Huh. Not even an election year." Frank frowned. "Still, whaddaya expect? He's a stickler for details."

"That's the thing—he is—and nobody's all that surprised that he's pitching a fit, but all this started yesterday. He knew that tech had perjured himself."

"And . . .?"

"I ran into him, as he was heading out of the building. I said hi; he said hi. He didn't even mention it, and he didn't seem upset then."

"Okay, so he thought it over, and worked up some indignation. No big surprise."

"Or somebody convinced him that something needed to be done. It just seemed odd, even for Winnie. I got the name of the technician who screwed up." She reached into her purse, pulled out a slip of paper, and handed it to the lieutenant. "Ring any bells?"

"Kendall Muller? Yeah, I've seen it before, sure, lots of times. Ahh . . . medium build, sandy hair. Does mostly microscope stuff." Frank paused, his face frozen. He swallowed once hard and said, "Oh, no," then pushed his chair back to turn to the file cabinet that doubled as his oversized "in" box. "No," he muttered more insistently as he yanked the drawer open and hastily riffled through the file tabs, seizing on the relevant one and pulling it out.

"No?" Mattie said hopefully.

"No . . . I mean yes, dammit." He held the file open, fanned toward her, so she could see the report and the signature—'K. Muller'. "What are the odds?"

"Depends on who dealt the cards," Mattie said grimly. "But that gunpowder residue on Hawksworth's coat was the best piece of evidence linking him to the Power's murder. Circumstantial, maybe, but enough to keep the heat off Mark."

"Okay, so, even if they throw out everything Muller did, we'll just have them retest it."

"This still all look like coincidence to you, Frank? I take back everything I said about you being a hardened cynic." Mattie shook her head gently. "I wish I had half as much faith as you." She sighed. "You wanna tell Milt or should I?"

00000

They met in the library. It was safe neutral ground, and far less crowded than it had been the last time he'd been there, during the silent studying frenzy of dead week. Even so, Mark saw that the other party had taken a table well back from the main traffic areas and for a moment he wasn't sure if maybe he was supposed to stand off to one side and pretend they weren't together.

But, no, Joe Perillo waved him over, pointing to the empty seat across from him. Mark looked around, saw no one who didn't have his or her nose in a book, and tried to look nonchalant as he strolled over and joined him.

"I don't have a lot of time." Perillo checked his watch. "Kolper's over at Dodd Hall. I've got to pick him up in fifteen minutes."

Mark swallowed and nodded. "It won't take that long. Amy explained—?"

"That you need more, yeah."

"Don't get me wrong, that first sheet was a big help. It's just that it's like a snapshot; we'll just be lucky if we happened to get what we need from it."

Perillo frowned but it didn't look hostile. "There's a whole box of those damn disks with no labels. The one I took that list from happened to be in the desk drawer but all it had was the last week on it. I can try to find you some more but . . . damn."

Mark looked up at the sudden change of tone and followed Perillo's gaze to the sharp left. He immediately took in what the other man had found so alarming, an elderly gentleman had just entered the library. He'd obviously just spotted them and was taking cautious but determined steps toward their table, leaning on a blackthorn cane as he tottered along.

"Meeting must have gotten done early," Perillo whispered. He was already on his feet, turning toward the man.

"I thought I might find you here," Professor Kolper said, with a nod directed at his clerk. "How nice to see a graduate mentoring one of our younger students."

Mark glanced at Joe, who was easily five years his junior. Maybe they all looked like pups to someone like Kolper. At any rate, he winced, knowing he'd been recognized.

Kolper turned his head to directly acknowledge him. "Mr. McCormick, is it? I'm sure you'll be pleased to know that I have finally posted the grades with the provost." He leaned in slightly and confessed, "I suspect mine were the last."

The self-deprecatory tone was unexpected, as was the hint of a smile. Mark hesitated and then quirked a smile of his own. "Good news, I hope?"

"For some of you, yes. I find most students give regrettably pedestrian responses on final exams. Academic timidity is an ugly thing. It's rare to find a spark of originality, especially coupled with a surprising grasp of the arcane. You remind me of a student I had about thirty years back. Congratulations, young man . . . now if you could just work on your penmanship."

"I passed?" Mark looked doubtful.

Kolper nodded once, judiciously.

Mark shot a grin at Perillo. "That's one down and three to go." He sobered suddenly and added, "Not that it'll mean much if . . ."

"It's my experience that young people nowadays spend too much time worrying about things," Kolper mused, "and not enough time doing something about them. I understand, from what Dean Thomas has said, that your standing at this institution is still a matter of concern."

"You mean he'd still like to kick me out?" Mark smiled grimly. "Yeah, kinda looks that way."

Kolper's expression became sterner. "You're familiar with the term 'cui bono?' no doubt."

"'Who benefits'?" Mark nodded. "Sure."

"Someone benefited—from those earlier deaths, at least, and perhaps Hawksworth's as well, if he was killed. I would think you'd be asking this clever young man here," he nodded sharply at Perillo, "who seems to know his way around those damn computing machines, if there's anything of interest there."

"I—I ...," Perillo stammered.

"Don't try to deny it," Kolper snapped, "You're handy with those things." He shook his head slowly. "Can't abide with them myself. Give me pen and ink—words in plain sight. No secrets. Nothing hidden."

He was gazing steadily at his clerk as he added, "Maybe what we ought to do is simply transfer everything to paper. 'Print it out'—that's how they say it, am I right?"

Perillo nodded. Then swallowed hard and said, "But it's a lot of data. It would take a while and—"

"I thought those machines were supposed to make our lives easier." Kolper squinted at him and then at McCormick.

Mark cleared his throat and said, "I've had a little experience . . . with the printing-out part, anyway."

"Perfect," the professor turned back to Perillo, "there, you've got some help. See how easy that was?" He tapped his stick on the floor, two quick, sharp clicks. "And I, being the emeritus in this operation, am going to take the rest of the afternoon off. I've earned it, dealing with Thomas today. However you, young man," he lowered his chin slightly and gave his clerk a significant look, "are still on the clock."

Then he nodded once, turned, and walked away.

Perillo stared at his back for a moment. He finally let out a breath and said, "What the hell just happened?"

"Plausible deniability?" Mark offered.

Perillo darted a glance at him and shook his head. "I don't think so. You know, Dean Thomas seemed pretty pleased with himself when I dropped Kolper at his office this morning. I think Kolper's telling us we better hustle 'cause something's up."