CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The lawyer they fixed me up with was an average-size man, one or two years younger than myself, with thinning fair hair and watery blue eyes. We talked in the interrogation room. The lawyer drew two columns on a yellow legal pad and headed them for and against. The evidence piled up against me was all circumstantial and no prosecutor in the country would want to go into a trial court with it.

Or so I thought.

The lawyer looked uncomfortable and cleared his throat. "The police have disclosed two other relevant facts that have just emerged. First, a roll of insulated electric flex and a bubble-pack of batteries, of the same type as the two recovered from the scene, have been found in the trunk of the VW you've been driving. There were two batteries missing from the pack."

I groaned. "What's the second?"

"Ryder had been at his desk completing paperwork up to Sunday lunchtime. The scenario the detectives are favoring is that the bomb was rigged sometime between twelve-thirty Sunday afternoon and nine the following morning. They say you're having trouble accounting for three or four hours on Sunday afternoon."

The lawyer meticulously wrote down everything I told him about my trip to the track. Then asked, "You're sure there's no one who can confirm that you were at the track?"

"Positive. I didn't speak to anyone, though I saw a couple of guys there that I knew."

"Did they see you?"

I shook my head.

"Then they're no use to us. You could have been there for only a few minutes before slipping away to rig the firebomb."

"I thought you were supposed to be working for me."

The lawyer's face reddened slightly. "Sorry, I'm only trying to put myself in the prosecutor's shoes. You didn't hold onto your admission stub?"

"No. I tossed it. I would have kept it if I'd known I was going to need an alibi."

"Can you remember the names of the winning horses?"

"No."

The lawyer gave me a doubtful glance and said nothing more for a while. He chewed on the end of his pencil as he concentrated. "How do you account for the batteries found in your car?" he asked softly.

I told him about hiring the VW from one of the other Exxon employees and that I hadn't had call to open the trunk. For all I knew, they could have been there for months.

The column under 'For' was still empty.

"Have you any idea why somebody would want to kill Ryder?"

"Ryder was running a scam. He was screwing fifty bucks a week out of the paroled ex-cons."

"What proof do you have of this allegation ...sorry, extortion?"

"None, but one of the others might testify."

He chewed on his pencil some more. "We'd be safer not opening that particular can of worms at the arraignment. It only hands the prosecution additional motive. It might be worth mentioning it to the detectives after the hearing and suggest they check it out."

It was gone midnight before the lawyer was through. He packed up his pencil and pad and advised me to try and get some sleep. He didn't leave me any false promises.

I spent the night in a holding cell with two other men. One had been picked up for dealing, the other for robbing a liquor store at gunpoint. They swapped glances and kept their distance from me.

In the morning we were allowed a shower and given an electric razor to shave with before being escorted to a police wagon and driven to the courthouse.

My lawyer was waiting for me as I was led into the courtroom in handcuffs and leg restraints. He was wearing a new cream linen suit, which probably owed

more to the press interest my arrest had provoked, rather than any effect he expected it might have on the judge. Nicole Cantrell gave me a dirty look from the press section.

A somber Floyd sat three rows from the back. There was no sign of Robin.

The formalities took less than thirty minutes to complete. Menendez and the Fire Department's investigator gave evidence after both preliminary post-mortem reports were accepted by both lawyers. Shapiro was called to confirm that I was still on parole.

I couldn't blame my lawyer. He entered a plea of not guilty to the charges and gave it his best shot, but we both knew it was never going to be enough. The judge smacked his gavel and confined me to the Metro Dade county jail until the indictment hearing in six weeks' time. A request for bail was denied.

I had expected to be taken straight back to the cells. Instead, the court bailiffs led me into a small room at the rear of the building. The walls were lined with empty, dusty shelves, and an dilapidated desk and two chairs were the extent of furnishings. The desk calendar was two years out of date.

Morrell was waiting for me. He was standing motionless, arms behind his back, staring out the window. He turned round and indicated a seat in front of the desk.

"I prefer standing, unless you're going to have them take these off." I tilted my head back to show I meant the cuffs.

"Leave us," he said to the bailiffs. "I'll let you know when I'm through."

"Come to gloat?" I asked when we were alone.

Morrell's face was passive. "It's time we talked."

"I thought we'd done enough of that. You've got what you wanted. Now why don't you piss off and leave me alone."

"Did you kill Ryder?"

"What's it to you?"

"Did you kill Ryder?"

"No. I was set up," I said. What an original excuse; Lake Butler's commonest defense.

"They made a damn fine job of it. Who do you think it was?"

I shrugged. "How about you for starters? Nobody likes being made to look a fool on network tv."

"I don't work that way and I don't believe you do either."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You were tipped for a medal before you got kicked off the Olympic team. You could have taken Ryder apart that time in his office when you had the chance, but you didn't. You slapped him around a little and left it at that."

"Tell that to the police. They don't see it quite the same way."

"They see only what somebody wants them to. We both know you're no arsonist."

"Why don't you say what you've come here for? Then get lost?" I said irritably.

Morrell's smile was that of a man holding four aces against a pair of deuces and playing for the largest ante of the game. "I could have you sprung."

"Bullshit."

"You could be out of here in a half hour. The arraignment hearings are still in progress and I could have the detectives brought back. I'm sure the judge could be persuaded to review his decision if vital new evidence was to be submitted."

"What new evidence?"

"I want some cooperation from you first."

"Like what?"

Morrell leant back in his chair. "I know you were counterfeiting. I know Kove and Benedict were your partners. I know you destroyed the cache before or during the fire you started. And I also know, now that your print room has been disassembled, that I'll never be able to prove any of it."

"So you're after a confession. You're prepared to withhold evidence until I agree to a tradeoff."

"You shouldn't judge others by your own standards. I have no intention of withholding evidence. I'll produce it as soon as I'm asked. But then I might not be asked."

"I'll talk to the detectives," I said.

"Of course you will, but how much time will they waste following up scurrilous allegations made by an ex-con against a respected Secret Service agent."

"I'll have my lawyer subpoena you."

"And I will be happy to cooperate when that time comes. Have you given any thought about why you were set up?"

More than you could possibly know, I thought bitterly.

Morrell answered his own question. "Your actions since release have clearly incurred someone's displeasure. Obviously they wanted to make sure you were stopped."

"They've succeeded. I can't do much from inside the city jail. I'm told they lock the doors at night."

"It's not something I would joke about," Morrell said gravely. "Has it occurred to you why they went to all the bother of killing Ryder and the cashier? Why didn't they just kill you and have done with it?"

"Maybe they thought the Secret Service still had me under surveillance," I said hesitantly.

"But there is one place even we can't follow you."

I didn't much like what Morrell was saying. A cell block killing could be had for a carton of cigarettes, with no shortage of takers. "So it is a confession you're after."

"What good would that be? You'd rescind it immediately and claim it was given under coercion. Without concrete evidence, we would have nothing."

"Then what the hell is it you want?"

Morrell stood up and approached me. He stuck his face in mine, so close I could smell the toothpaste on his breath. "I want you to tell me what's going on. Who made the anonymous call to us about your cache?"

"I don't know." It was the first time I had indirectly admitted to there being a cache. The acknowledgment didn't seem to give Morrell any satisfaction.

"Where's Kove?"

"I don't know."

"But you know he's dead, don't you?"

"Don't be fucking dumb. If you spend one night in jail, it could be your last. Now tell me what happened to Kove?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Morrell backed off and sat down again. He thought for a moment, then asked, "How come you place an advert in the Herald before you called on Peter Culpepper? Wouldn't it have made more sense to speak to him first?"

I swallowed hard. "I was already in the downtown district reporting to my parole officer. I didn't want to have to make a second trip."

"Don't mess me around. You already knew that something had happened to Kove."

"If I had, I wouldn't have wasted my money on the advert."

"You visited the vault the night you shook our surveillance in Boca Raton, didn't you? My men saw the state you were in when you returned to your car. You were badly shook up. You had an ink stain down your shirt."

"It was paint."

Morrell ignored me. "I had our forensic people check out the vault. They didn't find a single fingerprint − not that I had expected them to. But they tested the floor with leuco-malachite, and no matter how old or how hard you try to remove them, l-m will always reveal the former presence of bloodstains by turning green. They found a lot of blood; too much to have come from a minor injury. According to expert opinion, anybody hemorrhaging that badly wouldn't have stood much of a chance of surviving."

"Maybe one of the construction workers injured themselves," I suggested futilely.

"I checked. Health and safety have no record of any accidents at that site. At first I suspected you might have had another partner I didn't know about and Kove killed him before placing the anonymous call to us. Now I'm not so sure. For the last forty-eight hours I've been covering a lot of the same ground you'd been over. Listening to people tell the same stories they told you."

"I'm glad to hear you've been keeping busy."

Morrell's stare turned to disgust. "I must have made a mistake when I attributed you with some intelligence. Can't you see that I'm trying to help you?"

"Then stop withholding evidence."

"Talk to me. Tell me what you found in Boca Raton."

"Nothing. I found nothing. And I have nothing to trade."

"Even if it means spending some time in jail."

"At least there I know what sort of men I'll be up against."

The disappointment was plain on Morrell's face. He nodded slowly, stood up and opened the door.

"I'm all through here," he said to the waiting bailiff.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It was late evening before myself and five other prisoners were loaded into the back of a police wagon for the short trip from the courthouse to the Metro Dade jail. The guy who had held up the liquor store rode with us. The dealer made bail. On our arrival at the jail, we were rushed through processing and served a late dinner in an empty refectory.

It was a homecoming of sorts. The cell I was allocated was in the same block I had spent three months while awaiting my trial for arson. I recognized one of the guards as he issued me with a pile of bedding. He didn't look at my face, only the paperwork that accompanied me. The cells had been designed for two prisoners, but most had been converted to hold three by the simple process of bringing in an additional tubular-steel cot bed. Each cell had a stainless steel toilet and a sink the size of a chowder bowl fixed to the wall.

I relaxed slightly once the cell door had clanged shut behind me; if there was a threat to my life, it was unlikely to come from my two cellmates - at least not during lock-down. My meeting with Morrell had left me badly shaken. From now on I could trust no one. Not even the guards.

The vacant bed was, predictably, the bottom of the bunks. I tossed the folded bedding on to its stained mattress and introduced myself to my cellmates.

"Steve Stricker."

"Howdy," said the man in the top bunk, turning on his side to take a good look at me. "They call me Spider, Spider Black. This here is Edmondo Rodriguez. He don't talk English."

"Buenas tardes," I said to the Cuban. "Yo soy Steve Stricker."

"Encantado."

Rodriguez was a slight man, with a narrow, pinched face and protruding ears. He had a squint which made it impossible to tell if he was looking directly at you or someplace else. Black was a biker, with long, greasy-brown hair, and heavily tattooed. On his chest was a garish Angel of Death astride a fire-spitting Harley. A scroll on his right upper arm promised fidelity to the Sons of Lucifer. He was clean shaven but sported straggly pork chop sideburns.

"What's your rap?" Spider asked.

"Arraigned as a suspect in a murder inquiry."

"Ain't that something, Rodriguez? I've got myself a motherfucker of a widow-maker as bunky"

The Cuban stared up uncomprehendingly.

"Fuck him," Black said. "He's in for pimping. What sort of bitch would let an ass-wipe like Rodriguez run her? Must have been his burro he was renting out."

I started to make up my bed. The pillow they had given me stank of urine.

"Who are you supposed to have killed?"

"An ex-employer. His office was fire-bombed."

Black slapped the bare wall with his meaty palm. "I like it, I like it. Once tried something close to it myself. Poured a bottle of Mexican brandy over a Texan cowboy who was eye-balling my woman. Damned rot-gut wouldn't light. I swear, next time I'll use French cognac."

I lay down in my bunk, my thoughts turning to Andy and his time in Raiford. It must have been hard for a man like Andy; if it hadn't been for my fight training, I might never have made it through Butler. Luke Cross assumed that Andy's family had paid for the protection, but I wasn't so sure. With only his guile to defend him, could Andy have sent a message to Angelo offering him a cut on a counterfeiting deal in return for protection? Something that would have been easy for Angelo to arrange.

Every way I looked at it, I kept coming back to Angelo. Perhaps Morrell was right and there had been a fourth partner all along. One whom Floyd and I had never known of. But each time I found a fresh reason to suspect Angelo's involvement, some obstacle would present itself to prevent me from fully believing it. Why would a man with the best part of a million dollars in his bank account bother making deals with Angelo. For a fraction of his money, Andy could have been better protected than the Federal Reserve.

I threw the foul-smelling pillow onto the cell floor and propped my head against the wall. I knew I could last one night, maybe two, without sleep, and then what?

The night passed without incident. It was during breakfast in the refectory that Morrell's prediction started to take on an ugly reality. I stood in line, with Black in front and Rodriguez behind, for a plate of cereal, toast and coffee. We carried our tin trays to a rectangular table next to the wall and joined four inmates already sitting there. I made straight for the seat against the wall. I remembered my last breakfast at Butler and how confident. I was sure that it would be the last time I ate prison food.

The giant was sitting alone three tables away and I could feel his eyes burn through me as though they were live coals. He had to be fifty-six inches across the chest and six-eight in his socks. His blonde hair was parted in the center and swept back into a ponytail. His forehead seemed to have been chiseled from granite and he had a chin that jutted out like a cowcatcher at the front of a train. His stare never lifted from me as I toyed with my cereal; all appetite gone. He didn't speak to the men on either side of him, just kept on eye-fucking me.

I asked Black if he knew who the jolly gruesome giant was.

"That's Billy Masterson," he whispered, lowering his head. "And if you want my advice, stay well clear of him. He makes Norman Bates seem like a guy worth knowing."

I had to pass Masterson's table on my way out. His eyes followed me every inch of the way. I considered walking up to one of the guards and taking a poke at him. That would land me a spell in solitary. But what was the point? The other guards would almost certainly give me a stomping and right now the last thing I needed was to be handicapped in any way. Besides, it would only delay the inevitable. I cursed myself as a stubborn fool for not accepting Morrell a terms.

The city jail's rules are less strict than at Butler and the exercise yard was kept open from breakfast through dinner. If Masterson made a move, I would have preferred it to happen in an open space. The three of us walked out into the bright morning sunshine. Already a couple of dozen inmates were in the yard. A group of Hispanics were lifting weights. Rodriguez wandered over to join them.

"What has you spooked?" Black asked. "You don't look too good. Has it something to do with Masterson?"

"It might have."

"Need any help?"

"It's my problem. I'll deal with it."

Black wasn't to be palmed off that easily. "Say the word and I'll have four a' six Sons of Lucifer watching your back."

Butler had taught me the hard way never to accept favors. Sooner or later they have to be paid back.

"I can handle it," I said, sounding more confident than I felt.

Black stripped off his T-shirt and revealed the rest of his tattoos. His back had a skull wearing a Confederate forage cap against a background of the South's battle flag. We sat halfway up the basketball bleachers and watched two men go one on one.

Masterson emerged from the main building and glanced around the yard until he found me. He headed straight over. He looked enormous.

I stood up and stepped down to level ground. There was no subtlety in Masterson's attack, he pulled a shank from his waistband and lunged towards me. I easily side-stepped him and landed a punch in his kidneys as he went past. The home-made knife was an eight-inch section of slender steel rod taped to a length of dowelling. A weapon designed for stabbing, not slashing. To kill rather than maim.

He came at me again. His skull looked as armor-plated as a water buffalo's and landing a punch against it would break every bone in my hand.

"Fucker," he hissed, as I dodged him again and connected with his other kidney.