Officer Swink pulled his police motorcycle onto the North Central Expressway from Interstate 635, cranking the throttle hard to pull into the bumper-to-bumper traffic. He had another hour to go on his shift, and his unspoken but strongly implied citation quota had not yet been reached this month.
Before he had ridden a half mile, he saw a black VW beetle weaving down an on-ramp. The mere sight of the car was enough to get his dander up: the mag wheels and windows so tinted they looked spray-painted black were two strikes against the driver. The VW's driving habits didn't fare much better; the driver forced his way in front of a church bus, which screeched to a halt behind him. A textbook case of failure to yield. Swink was smiling so broadly his eyes nearly squeezed shut.
The bug was four vehicles in front of him, but right now it might as well have been forty miles away. Traffic had stopped completely, and on either side of him, portable concrete walls, the bane of traffic law enforcement, blocked him behind a Le Sabre with a serious oil-burning problem. Knowing he couldn't pull the bug over immediately, he made a note of the ramp's location.
Traffic crawled along for another ten minutes, then the retaining wall vanished, giving way to empty but unfinished pavement. Nothing his motorcycle couldn't handle, provided he watched for the protruding steel reinforcement rods still poking through the surface.
His single red light flashing, Swink zipped in front of the church bus. A flock of children in the bus applauded him, along with the old man driving it. Apparently the violation had irritated more people than just Swink.
Behind the bug, Swink tried to peer into the rear window. The oval was completely blackened; another clear violation of the law. Also, the bug's brake lights were not working.
There's three.
The bug did not immediately pull over onto the partially finished pavement, which irritated Swink further.
He shouted over his PA: "PULL OVER NOW."
The bug pulled over. Again, not as quickly as Swink would have liked. I'm going to enjoy this.
Jackpot. The bug had an out-of-state tag. California. And it was one of those vanity plates, which Swink hated. It read, simply: REPO.
As he pulled up behind he bug and stopped, flipping the stand out with a boot heel, he saw that he had misread the plate. It was actually an Oklahoma tag, IEX-1095, one he could call in. Given the black windows and the erratic driving, he smelled danger. Better call it in, he thought, reaching for the radio mike.
When the dispatcher responded, Swink blinked his eyes. The plate now was from Texas, QUP10-1, with an expired sticker. Blood vessels swelled in Swink's temples. Then he called in that number.
According to the dispatcher, the plate had never been issued by the state of Texas. Bogus. That's four. And this one's going to jail.
Swink called in a backup, and the dispatcher told him one was a minute away. He glanced back to the northwest and saw a Caprice cruiser about two hundred yards away, stopped in traffic. Another fifty feet and he would have unfinished pavement to drive on.
Swink approached the car, unsnapping his holster as he walked up to the window. He didn't like this; normally he'd be wearing a Kevlar vest, but he was sunburned from mowing the lawn the day before and had left it at home. He prayed he hadn't made a fatal mistake by doing so as he tapped on the driver's window.
The window rolled down slowly. Inside, Swink saw nothing but darkness and wondered briefly if there was another window, or a curtain, or something. The blackness was absolute. He saw nothing inside, the driver, the steering wheel, not even the door locks.
Swink was about to ask the driver to step out of the car when a deep, demonic voice rumbled from inside.
"You're blind."
Darkness poured from the car's interior, reaching out like a fist and wrapping itself around Swink's face; the cop staggered backward, held his hands up in front of his face, seeing nothing. Then he touched his eyes, which were open, but just not sending signals to his brain.
As he reached for his gun, the darkness briefly robbed him of his breath. When he regained it, he screamed in rage as he listened to the bug speed away.
On a late Monday afternoon, Paul Bendis left the Criminal Courts Building in downtown Dallas, near the historic West End District. He gave his briefcase a jaunty swing as he entered blazing sunlight, pleased with himself for helping his drug dealer walk away from an open-and-shut case of cocaine possession.
It doesn't get much better than this, he thought. Who said lawyers were worthless?
Earlier that day he had been a little down over the demise of his youth. Today I turn forty-five. Today is going to really suck, he remembered thinking when he got up that morning. He looked forward to the trial of Donald R. Wallbrook, a.k.a. Presto, with the same enthusiasm he reserved for root canal work. The best he had thought he could arrange for his client would be time in a minimum security prison, but something had told him to go to trial instead of plea bargain; he still couldn't put his finger on it, but despite what appeared to be good reason to bend over for the prosecutor, he fought it through.
He glanced over at his client, who was walking out of the building with him, a tall man in his thirties who could pass, with the right clothing, as someone ten years younger. Presto was smiling in the bright Dallas sunlight, his smile a flashing billboard for Paul's abilities.
Hell, yes, I'd be smiling, Paul thought. I should be smiling too, but . . .
The case had been dismissed, but the police would be watching them both for some time. He didn't like the attention, but being the number one criminal lawyer in Dallas County had its drawbacks. Not just that, but Bendis specialized in drug-related charges, which annoyed the detective division even more. Big-time drug related charges, the kind Presto had just squirmed out of, by luck more than anything else.
"That witness sure screwed things up," Presto said, still smiling.
Paul grunted, a sound that meant either amusement or annoyance. "You could say that."
In this case "screwed up" meant that the prosecutor's prize witness showed up in court so drunk he needed help getting onto the witness stand. Then he incorrectly identified Presto, pointing to the bailiff when asked if he saw the individual who sold him the coke.
Paul was about to tell him that the screw-up in question was the only reason he was walking free, but that would have taken away from the aura of omnipotence he'd been cultivating for years.
"Well, yeah, they didn't have much of a case anyway. Just a chance to let a rookie detective get his feet wet in the courts."
Presto snorted back, suggesting he didn't fully believe Paul.
"You just wait, buddy boy, they'll be after you again. Watch your ass a little more carefully. Use middlemen from now on. Get out of the line of fire."
They stopped at Houston and Main, a stone's throw away from Dealy Plaza, where Kennedy was assassinated. Tourists were swarming over it as usual, with the usual amateur sleuths looking for clues that several million other sleuths had somehow managed to overlook in the past thirty years. Presto glanced over toward the slow curve of Elm, under the County Annex building, where Oswald allegedly shot the president. Standing here with his guilty, yet unconvicted, felon felt somehow appropriate.
"Would you look at that," Presto said, shaking his head. "This ain't no place to be doin' that."
Paul looked over to what Presto saw. What appeared to be an old black man and his son were walking toward the Annex Building, smoking crack in a glass pipe. Paul looked away.
"So where'd you park that Beamer, Bendis?" Presto said after crossing Main. The dealer had a deep, raspy voice that added years to his apparent youth. Paul was running today, and he had happened to see an empty meter a few blocks from the courthouse. The usually skeptical lawyer had taken this as a sign that good things would happen to him all day.
"Down here on Commerce . . . yeah, there it is," he said. The new BMW had less than a thousand miles on it, but already it was an old friend. It had tinted windows that allowed him to do all sorts of secret things inside it. He was considering doing one of those things right now.
He frowned at the white glob of pigeon drop ornamenting the windshield, then climbed into the Beamer, glad to be out of the Dallas sun. Bendis loosened his tie as the car revved, and started the air conditioner, which cooled them off after the initial furnace blast from the vents.
Presto crouched into the tight space, his knees up to his chest, an angular, middle-class skeleton trying to look comfortable on leather upholstery.
"You got yourself a new one, didn't you?" Presto said, sniffing the car's new air.
Paul didn't answer him. He reached over and opened the glove compartment, looking for the brown bottle and minispoon.
First things first, the lawyer thought as he sniffed two heaps of the white powder, one up each nostril. Then the sun rose on his afternoon, giving everything a pink tint. For the first time that day, he felt alive. The coffee he had for breakfast had done little to revive him, and as a general policy he didn't go into court coked up. It looked bad. Also, if he started doing that, he might become an addict and have to stop altogether and start going to those twice-damned Cocaine and Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, and he was damned if he was going to let a harmless little powder take over his life when he had so much going for him and was raking in three hundred grand a year from clients. Like. Presto.
His thoughts racing, heart pounding beneath his rib cage, he consciously slowed down his breathing. That was one side effect he didn't like from coke—sometimes it kick-started the old kicker a little too hard. That will pass soon enough.
He knew not to ask Presto if he wanted any. Presto didn't do coke. Or drink. Or smoke. Or even drink coffee. The man was an absolute health nut, eating acidophilus and psyllium husk pills like candy, along with dark green veggies, beta carotene, vitamin E, a walking "special foods" pharmacy. Privately, Paul thought he was a little nuts, but then almost all the dealers he'd ever represented avoided their own product. At least, the successful ones.
The cellular phone on the floor between them chirped, an annoying sound that, for some reason, he didn't find so annoying right now.
"Yeah, what is it?" Paul said.
"Oh, Paul," Yanni, his wife said, an edge of hysteria cutting through his euphoria. "Oh Paul oh Paul oh Paul . . ."
Paul grimaced, and forced calm into his voice, genuinely annoyed. "Yes, dear. What's wrong?"
His reply was not so much a question as it was an acceptance that he would have to listen to his wife for five or more minutes describe a completely mindless problem that had no hope of being solved. She did this only when he was in his car, never at his office when the call was relatively cheap. Half his carphone bill could be attributed to Yanni describing, in minute detail, how the clothes dryer killed the cat by slow-cooking it over a seventy-minute cycle, or how the paperboy came by and demanded payment in coke, or any number of situations a moron with an IQ of fifty could deal with. But not his wife. Not Yanni.
Since getting angry tended to multiply the length of the conversation by a factor of five, Paul tried to sound understanding. There was always the "whoops, I drove out of range" explanation for hanging up.
He listened to her sob for ten seconds, then sat up straight. There might be something to this after all.
"The police called," Yanni said, finally. "Daryl's in trouble."
Which can mean anything, he thought, biting his tongue. "Could you be a little more . . . specific?"
"The police called and said they were questioning him about some murders."
Oh, good God, Paul thought, getting angry. That little worthless juvenile delinquent of a son would have to go and screw up like this.
"When did this happen?" Paul asked patiently.
"Last night, or this morning. Oh, I just don't know. They want one of us to go over there, right now, and pick him up."
Paul groaned, his patience slipping. "Go where?"
"You don't have to shout!" Yanni shouted. "The phone works perfectly."
"I wasn't shouting," Paul replied. "Why don't you start from the beginning?" he said calmly, thinking, before I defy the laws of physics and strangle you over the phone.
"The police called from the Winton house. They are questioning your son about some murders over there. Right now!"
Paul rubbed his forehead. Oh, boy. "What was he doing over there, for crissakes?" He had to think a moment. Where did that kid say he was going last night? Wasn't it over to Adam's house and study trig or some bs?
"How am I supposed to know? He talked to you. He doesn't tell me anything."
"You said murders. Is that exactly what the police said: murder?"
"Ummmm," Yanni articulated. "Well, no. Deaths. Isn't that the same thing?"
Paul shook his head, glanced over at Presto, who was staring out the window.
"No. It isn't," Paul said.
"Well, anyway, they said they found several bodies over there."
"Is Daryl under arrest?"
"Well, no. I don't think so."
"Did you talk to Daryl?"
"I said he doesn't talk to me. No, I didn't."
"Give me their number."
He wasn't about to go over there in person. Cops, even homicide, had a way of knowing when one was on coke, even when there were absolutely no physical signs. But he couldn't just drop this, which was his first impulse: if Daryl was under arrest, the boy needed to be told to keep his filthy mouth shut until he sent someone from the law firm over to deal with it. If he blurted some kind of made-up confession, it could cost thousands of dollars and months of court time, which he didn't have right now to spend.
Yanni gave him the number, and Paul promptly hung up.
"What was that about murders?" Presto asked casually.
"Nothing." Paul grunted. "My wife doesn't know what she's talking about."
Paul called the Winton number. A male voice answered.
"Winton residence. Officer Demaret speaking."
Paul cleared his throat. "This is Paul Bendis. Daryl's father. What's going on over there?"
A pause, as the officer conferred with someone else, then, "It would be better if you just came over, Mr. Bendis. This is a serious situation."
"Well, that's kind of hard to do right now. I'm in a traffic jam and I have an appointment with a client in . . ." he glanced at his watch, "one hour." The latter half of the excuse was true.
"I see. Well, your son Daryl called the police this afternoon after finding his friends dead. There was some kind of all-night party, according to the neighbors."
"Dead. How did they die?"
Another long pause. "I think it would just be better—" the officer began.
"I told you, I can't make it right now. Is your superior officer there? May I speak with him?"
Moments later, another, older voice came on the line. "This is Detective Roach. Is this Daryl's father?"
"Yes, it is," Paul said, feeling his patience slipping away again. "Is my son charged with anything?"
"Mr. Bendis, this looks like an overdose. Your son could be very—"
"Is he charged with anything?" Paul cut in, and immediately regretted it. For a second there he forgot who he was talking to.
"Well, no. Daryl Bendis isn't charged with anything," the detective said, adding, "yet. We're still searching the house."
"You are, are you?" Paul said. He almost asked if they had a warrant, but thought better. Just get Daryl out of there. The Wintons can clean up their own mess. "Well, let me know if you find anything. I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Oh, we will, Mr. Bendis. Say, are you the attorney Paul Bendis?"
"Well, yes I am. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, nothing. We will—"
"I have to go now. I'm on a carphone, and the signal is getting a little . . ."
Paul hung up.
"Damn," he muttered at the windshield.
"What is it?" Presto asked.
Paul waved the question away, released the parking brake, and eased the Beamer into downtown traffic. "It's just a bunch of kids who don't know how to handle their drugs yet. My next client may be my own son."
Paul pulled onto 35E, dodging traffic, heading to Presto's house.
"Sounded serious. Your son okay?"
Paul looked up from the traffic. "What?"
"Your son. Is he okay?" Presto said with a strange, indecipherable expression.
"Hell, I guess so. He's not charged with anything," Paul said, turning his attention back to the evening rush-hour traffic.