A Devil's Bargain Read online

  Darren’s somber expression brightened and he nudged her shoulder with his.

  “Do I really do that?”

  “It’s become a theme, yes.”

  “Am I a handsome brooder? Like, smoldering and mysterious?”

  Theresa snorted and kept reading her glossy magazine.

  “You found out something when you went out and looked at the body, didn’t you?”

  “Later, Izzy. Once the cops are done.”

  “It’ll be a while longer. I just pissed off the detective in charge and told her to get a warrant if she wants to come in here.”

  Theresa stopped reading. Through a curl of cigarette smoke she said, “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good for you,” the tavern owner said and returned to her magazine. “You gotta show people your teeth every now and then.”

  Darren stood up.

  “I have to get out of here.”

  “Wait. What?” Issabella said.

  Darren frowned and he looked to her like he was weighing options in his head.

  “You’re leaving?” Theresa said. “Seriously?”

  “No, I guess not actually.”

  He sat back down.

  “Good.”

  “They’d search me for sure if I tried to leave now. Izzy, I really wish you hadn’t decided today was the day to start getting lippy with the fuzz. Generally I’m for it, mind you. But right now is not the best time.”

  “Oh my God,” Issabella said as she stared at him.

  “Yep,” he agreed.

  “What?” Theresa said.

  “Izzy just figured out that I stole some evidence from the crime scene.”

  “And it’s still on his person,” Issabella whispered, and felt a wave of sudden anxiety rush into her. “He can’t get searched because he’s a walking, talking, smirking felony. Right?”

  Darren nodded his head once and, despite the roiling storm of panic rising inside her, she marveled at how utterly untroubled he looked. It was impressive, Darren’s ability to show no sign of stress over the reckless decisions he routinely made. Impressive, in the awful way a daredevil motorcyclist is impressive in that moment just before his stunt goes disastrously wrong.

  The situation solidified itself in her mind and she blurted, “We’re getting arrested.”

  “Positive thoughts, kid. Anyway, there’s nothing to be done now. If we tell the detective we changed our mind about the warrant and she can come on in, it’ll make her suspicious as hell. All we can do now is sit tight and wait for them to get the warrant and come search the premises. Unless she gets a warrant to search everyone on the premises. In that case yeah, you’re right, we will definitely be getting arrested.”

  Theresa had been silently watching the two of them, her expression as blank as an accomplished poker shark. She stubbed her cigarette out in Butts the Ashtray Unicorn, folded her arms in front of her on the bar and said, “No more drinks for you, Fletcher.”

  “Tell me this is...” Issabella started, but trailed off.

  “Do you trust me, Izzy?” Darren said, and slipped his hand into one of hers. “At the end of the day?”

  Issabella looked at Theresa, but there was no help there. The big woman just shrugged and lit another cigarette. Issabella scanned the little bar, the menagerie of rescued unicorns, the booth in the far back Darren had been practicing law out of before the two of them met and went into business together. She remembered her life before that. Young and inexperienced, brimming with fears about the future and doubts about her own abilities. She hadn’t been that person for a while now. She’d seized opportunities. Made a name for herself. Built a practice. Darren had been a large part of that.

  “I trust you,” she agreed.

  “Good. Thank you.”

  “If I get arrested I’m ratting you out immediately.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Like, before they can even get the cuffs on me.”

  “Crystal clear, kid.”

  “Okay then.”

  Less than half an hour passed in relative silence before the cops hammered on the front door and demanded entrance. Darren uncoiled from his seat and unlocked the door. He held it wide and two uniformed cops marched inside, followed by a gaggle of crime scene technicians.

  Detective North stepped across the threshold after them. She stopped and shot a scowl at Darren.

  “The other lawyer.”

  “That’s exactly what it says on my business card, believe it or not.”

  Detective North pulled a sheet of paper out of her breast pocket and held it out to him.

  “Here’s your warrant. Go sit down with your friends and don’t move until I tell you to.”

  Issabella watched the detective’s eyes crawl methodically over the room, taking it in without any apparent interest or reaction, until they came to a stop on Theresa Winkle.

  Without looking away from Theresa, she said, “Alright, everyone get to work.”

  The cops and technicians fanned out through the bar.

  “You’re Theresa Winkle, the owner of this establishment?”

  “Yep,” Theresa said and blew a long jet of smoke. “You want me to fix you a drink?”

  Detective North’s smile was slight and mean, revealing large, uneven teeth. She reached around her back and pulled out a set of handcuffs.

  “I’ll pass, but thanks,” she said. “How about instead, you stand up and put your hands behind your back. Theresa Winkle, you are under arrest for murder.”

  Chapter Two

  Detective North shut the rear door of the squad car.

  She waited for the patrol officer to pull away from the curb with Theresa Winkle in tow before turning to Issabella and saying, “See, that’s the nice thing about being a cop. I don’t have to tell you shit. You want answers? Save them for whichever prosecutor gets assigned to the case. Until then, become scarce. I’ve got a crime scene to process and neither of you gets inside until I say the scene is cleared. Have a nice night, kids, and see you in court.”

  The detective marched back inside the bar.

  “We missed something,” Darren said.

  “This is my fault,” Issabella said.

  She watched the front door of the tavern swing shut, leaving them alone in the darkness on the curb. Darren peered down at her.

  “She has something from the crime scene that we didn’t see.”

  “I pissed her off. This is her answer to that.”

  “She doesn’t look that green. You think a veteran Detroit murder cop is going to rush an arrest just to stick it to a lawyer who got uppity with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, there’s no way to know that right now.”

  Issabella stared at the closed door across the street. Behind the bar, the technician’s floodlights still illuminated the sunken heap of the Packard Clipper. Silhouettes of crime scene workers flitted in and out of the light like busy, intent insects.

  “So standing up for the fourth amendment is uppity now?”

  “You don’t have to convince me, counselor.”

  “No, you’re right. She has something. Something big enough to justify an arrest.”

  “And we won’t know what it is until Theresa is formally arraigned and they answer our discovery demand. That could be a couple days. Let’s get to work, Izzy.”

  “She looked so confused when they put her in the car, Darren. It broke my heart seeing her...seeing her scared. Theresa’s never scared. Not that I’ve seen.”

  “I know. All the more reason to get a head start. We put our feelings for her away and get to work. Right?”

  She nodded, so he wrapped an arm lightly around her shoulders and the two of them headed for th
e black Lexus parked nearby. He fished in his pocket and passed the keys to her.

  “I had a couple drinks.”

  “I know.”

  Once she was behind the wheel and he was seated beside her, Issabella put the car in drive but kept her foot on the brake.

  “I guess this is where you tell me about what you stole off the dead guy,” she said.

  “Let’s get some distance first,” he answered and snapped his seat belt in place. “And some food. Rifling corpses gives me an appetite.”

  * * *

  “It’ll be second degree,” Darren mused and swallowed a gulp of coffee.

  Issabella shook her head and chewed a forkful of salad.

  “First degree,” she said. “But with all the lesser included offenses as alternatives for the jury.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “True. But you were making a guess so I made one, too. Assume the worst.”

  Darren didn’t say anything more. He was silent for a long while. She said something and he didn’t respond, so she raised her voice an octave.

  “Don’t drift off, Darren.”

  “Hmm? What did you say?”

  “I asked you if you liked the chicken. I’m considering it.”

  Darren glanced at his plate, apparently back in the here and now.

  “It was a little dry from the heat lamps. Try the filet mignon.”

  “Steak’s too heavy. If I eat a big meal I’ll just want to fall asleep right away. I can’t work if I’m asleep. Neither can you, by the by. Have another couple cups of coffee. Is it good? I bet casinos have a vested interest in supplying palatable coffee.”

  The demographics of the MotorCity Casino Hotel’s buffet room, at three in the morning, consisted of two criminal defense lawyers, several senior citizens tossing their government money to the winds, and a few of the hardcore full-time gamblers who were under-dressed in sweat pants, flip flops and fanny packs. They ate with a mechanical efficiency, eager to get back to their occupation, to pull the lever or flip the card that would get them even, get them back to the feeling, the heady and precarious knife’s edge certainty that their fortunes were part of a mathematical truth, an inevitable equation that would not solve itself out until the perfect moment came due.

  A pretty girl appeared at the table. Darren ordered a carafe of coffee and stared through the glass that walled the buffet’s dining room, out into the lights and noise of the casino floor.

  “This isn’t about Theresa,” he said.

  “So tell me about what you stole off the dead guy,” she answered. “No, wait. I’m going to get something substantial in my belly. Tell me when I get back.”

  Issabella stood up and Darren said, “Filet mignon, kid. Trust me.”

  When she came back from the cluster of buffet stations, Issabella had a tuna sandwich on wheat bread, three wedges of cantaloupe, and a dollop of chocolate mousse soufflé on her plate.

  “Amateur,” Darren said.

  “Let’s hear it,” she said and took a bite of her sandwich.

  Instead of answering her, Darren reached in his suit coat and produced his wallet. He opened it on the table and selected a slate black card. He slid it across the table and leaned back in his chair, watching her.

  Issabella set her sandwich down and took up the obsidian card. She turned it over in her fingers a few times, scrutinizing its surface. It was heavier than a normal credit card, slightly thicker. It did not give at all when she attempted to bend it.

  “What is this?” she said finally. “Is this a credit card for people so rich they don’t even have to have their names printed on them? Is this your secret credit line?”

  “Almost,” he agreed.

  Issabella went back to her sandwich and left the card lying on the table between them.

  “Congratulations. I’m curious.”

  “It’s an access card. It opens doors, Izzy. Secret doors. That’s what Gil Sharps had in his wallet. A special pass key to secret places.”

  “Now I’m more curious.”

  “Gil Sharps also had a gun holstered under his left armpit. I don’t know what make or caliber. I didn’t feel like getting my prints on it.”

  Issabella ate a spoonful of chocolate mousse. Darren thanked the waitress when she set his coffee on the table. He poured a third cup and sipped it.

  “So he was a government agent of some sort,” Issabella mused. “He’s got a pass card to high security places and he packs a sidearm. Is that what you’re saying? Like a CIA guy or something?”

  “I wish. Government agents have accountability.”

  “You don’t really believe that.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Maybe a long time ago they did.”

  “Point conceded, Izzy.”

  “So what’s worse than a government agent?”

  Darren’s wallet was still splayed open across the table. He pulled out a stack of half a dozen credit cards, his State Bar of Michigan identification, a gym membership, his auto insurance’s roadside assistance card, and still others that Issabella didn’t recognize. He fanned them all out on the table in an elegant arc, the way a professional card dealer might fan out a deck before the first hand of the game.

  “The lady picks a card,” he said and shot her a wink.

  Issabella arched a brow and said, “That was actually pretty smooth.”

  “I know. I ran a one-man casino out of my dorm room at Highcrest. I kept it rolling for a year and a half before some freshman lost too much of his Daddy’s money and decided to rat me out to Dean Farthing.”

  “Highcrest?”

  “Highcrest Academy. For the young leaders of tomorrow. Well, the male ones. The male leaders of tomorrow.”

  “A prep school for entitled rich kids, you mean.”

  “You know, they warned us the peasantry might prove envious. Pick a card, Fair Izzy.”

  Issabella reached out and picked a card. She glanced at it and saw that it was Darren’s Wayne County Public Library card.

  “You’ve never actually used this, have you?”

  “Not really the point.”

  Darren made a show of shuffling the remaining assortment of plastic cards. When he was finished, he fanned them out again and said, “Okay, put your card back in. I’ll close my eyes so I don’t see where you slip it in.”

  When it was done, Darren opened his eyes and began shuffling the cards again.

  “How was the tuna?”

  “Not as good as the filet mignon, I’m sure.”

  “You have a bit on your mouth,” he said, and stopped shuffling the cards long enough to reach out and wipe a knuckle over the corner of her mouth before leaning back again.

  “Thank you,” she said and patted her mouth with her napkin to be certain.

  Darren held the pile of cards in his left hand.

  “Do you remember your card?”

  “Yep. Woefully disused library card.”

  Darren offered her a crooked grin and once again fanned his deck of plastic cards across the table.

  “Do you see your card?”

  Issabella peered across the table. The library card was not among the group.

  “It’s not there. So what? Do you pull it out from behind my ear? I hope that’s not where this is going.”

  Darren frowned. His fingers ran through the cards, searching.

  “I guess I’m out of practice...”

  Issabella rolled her eyes and said, “That’s it? You lose the card? This trick sucks.”

  “I said I was out of practice.”

  “Clearly. Can we get back to serious business?”

  “By all means.”

  Darren scooped up the cards and began fitting them
back into the wallet’s pockets. Issabella set her plate to the side and reached to pick up Gil Sharps’ black access card. When she did, there was something underneath it. She looked.

  Darren’s library card was there.

  “How the heck...” she started to say with a swell of appreciation for the trick, but fell silent as she saw that there was yet a third card, this one resting beneath the library card. Her excitement over the trick died and she stared in silence. It was identical to the one Darren had pulled off of Gil Sharps.

  She glanced up at Darren. His crooked grin was gone and he was watching her with a heavy, knowing weight in his eyes. Issabella picked up the second black card so she was holding one in each hand.

  “This other one is...yours?”

  “Yep. I’ve had it for years.”

  “You have the same card as Gil Sharps.”

  “Yes. I do.”

  She held one of the twin cards closer and squinted at it, looking for any mark or symbol that might identify it for what it was. She was about to give up, but then she tilted the card just-so.

  Etched ever-so faintly along the top were the words The Fletcher Group. When she tilted the card just a little, the words were lost again. But she’d seen it, she knew.

  “That’s bad,” she said and set the cards back on the table. “I mean, it has to be, right?”

  “It certainly isn’t good.”

  “What are they for?”

  “Access. The Group’s offices are as secure as you can get. If you don’t have one of those on your person, you can’t get inside. None of the doors or phones work unless you’re carrying it with you. Luther had one issued for me the day I passed the bar.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Darren reached out and picked up the two cards.

  “He assumed I was going to report to work the next day.”

  “Because you’re a Fletcher.”

  “Because I’m a Fletcher.”

  A cold, sick feeling swam up the channels inside her and Issabella recognized the heaviness in Darren’s eyes as a mirror of her own dawning dread. She knew what it all meant.

  “It really isn’t about Theresa,” she said. “If he had his own Fletcher Group access card, then Gil Sharps works for Luther. He works for your brother.”