The Zen Man (10 page)

“Why, no.”

Maybe it was the surprise in his voice, or the way he almost looked confused, but for the first time in the interview, I actually believed his sincerity.

“Thank you for your time and honesty, Mr. Reisman. I will contact you if there are other questions.” I turned off the recorder.

As Laura and I walked down the carpeted hallway outside his office, she slid me a look.

“Glad I handled that interview so well.”

“Sorry.” I took her hand. “I caught a whiff of decomposing truth and had to follow it.”

“And what’d you learn?”

“Lou admired Wicked’s ability to keep ethics at an arm’s length in her law practice, and I think he knows not only how far away she kept them, but how she broke them.”

“Can you really get him to talk to you again?”

I smiled to myself. “I’m sure he’s busy inventing new ways to avoid me already, but the threat of testifying under subpoena does wonders opening doors.”

• • •

Around three-thirty, we arrived at the law firm of DaCosta, Perkins, and Gardner, P.C. on Broadway, a street that separates the business district from the government-dominated area of Denver known as Capitol Hill. Not as pretentious an area as 17
^th
Street, it was still a pricey neighborhood dominated by skyscrapers that towered over Denver’s historical Brown Palace Hotel. From the dark, wet clouds hovering on the western horizon, it looked as though we’d be getting our first big dump of winter snow later this evening.

After learning from Iris’s receptionist—a much better-dressed and well-adjusted individual than Lou’s—that Iris had stepped out, and wasn’t sure when she’d be back, we were heading back to our car when Laura spied Iris through the front window of a Starbucks. Bingo.

“We’ll wait out here,” I said to Laura, turning my back to the window, “catch her as she’s walking out.”

Laura hesitated, then turned away from the window, too. “This feels sneaky.”

“We’re PIs. Sneaky is what we do.”

“What if she refuses to talk to us?”

“She’s an ex public defender on her way to the bench, which means she’s keen on due process even if she’d love to hang me by my Deadhead balls. By the way, as good as our questions are, I’ll take the lead on this one again.” I caught a disappointed look. “Hey,” I said, taking her hand, “Iris doesn’t like me, which means she’ll play tough, and I’ve handled tough before. Doesn’t mean you’re not going to take the stand at my trial. You’ll be needed there.”

“But I’m not asking that many—make that
any
—questions.”

“But you’ll have been present at all the interviews. So what you heard and observed is evidentiary.”

Biding our time, we stood there, staring out at traffic like two people who’d suddenly found spewing exhaust, grinding gears, and impatient drivers to be of the utmost interest. Occasionally, Laura darted a look over her shoulder.

“Get your recorder out,” she suddenly whispered, “She’s coming.”

I pulled it out of my pocket, cupping it in my hand as I turned and saw Iris stride down the sidewalk. In black slacks and turtleneck, a hefty lapis and silver necklace whose gaudy excess rivaled one of Henry’s VIII’s bejeweled state chains, and long graying hair fluttering in the breezes, she looked like an aging beatnik. Her face had a hard edge, which I doubted no amount of make-up could soften. One look at me, that hard edge turned to stone.

I stepped right into her path. “Hi Iris, how are ya?”

She stopped. “Thought you were in jail.”

“Out on bail.”

She raised an unplucked eyebrow, and I could hear her unspoken question—where’d I get the half mil?

“So,” I said all friendly like, “Laura and I are asking all the right people all the right questions.” I held up the digital recorder. “I’m sure you won’t mind my recording your answers.”

A taxi squealed its brakes, nearly hitting a pedestrian who cursed and scampered the rest of the way across the street. Iris glanced at the near accident, turned her Lennon glasses back to me.

“This coffee’s hot, so make it short.”

As I gave my standard permission-to-record spiel into the recorder, I glanced down at the cardboard holder around the thick paper cup she was comfortably holding. It wasn’t the heat from the coffee she was feeling.

“What did Deborah say to you about what happened in the kitchen last Friday night?”

“She’s—she was—afraid of you, Rick.”

“Would you agree with me that Deborah had a flair for the dramatic?”

She gave a funny half-smile. “Even those with a flair for the dramatic can be murder victims.”

“You were one of the last people to speak with Deborah. Did she verbalize a fear that I would harm her?”

“No, she was too busy sobbing over your threatening her with a knife.” She took a sip of her coffee, obviously pleased with her response.

“As a future judge, how do you explain her actions with a broken wine glass?”

She lowered the coffee, swallowed. “Plainly, it was self defense, Rick.”

“Plainly, self defense is a very subjective thing when two people stand a couple of yards apart, each with a sharp object.”

She stared at me for a long drawn-out moment, the lines tightening around her lips.

“When did you last see her?” I asked.

“I took her directly to the bathroom off the dining room and helped her compose herself. I guess I was with her for ten or so minutes, then she left and I…never saw her again. Alive, that is.” She blinked back emotion.

I sensed an opening. “How did she cool off that quickly?” I asked gently.

“She wanted to pull herself together.” She took another sip, checked her watch, then returned her gaze to me. “She was surrounded by her colleagues, wanted to save face.”

The vulnerability had dropped, the hardened look was back. Trying to pry open that stony exterior again would be like getting naked with Mount Rushmore.

But I had one more question.

“Why’re you so subjective about Deborah?”

“Excuse me?”

“What motivates your bias about every action of hers that night?” The photo of Wicked in her bathing suit hovered in my mind.

She cocked her head. The sun glinted off her glasses, obscuring her gaze. “I’m always protective toward women who are victims of domestic abuse.”

“Iris,” I said, shifting slightly to better see her eyes, “there’s a not-so-fine line between bias toward victims and unreasonable prejudices against an entire gender.”

She raised her coffee and for a wild moment, I thought she was going to toss its scalding contents on me.

“The interview is over, Mr. Levine,” she said in a carefully modulated tone.

“No shit, Iris,” I said, turning off the recorder.

I read somewhere that 77 per cent of all the mentally ill live in poverty. Actually, I’m more intrigued by the 23 per cent who are apparently doing quite well for themselves.
—Jerry Garcia

A
fter dropping off Laura at the lodge, I drove my trusty Pontiac into Golden, which boasts its historic roots in a banner strung across its main drag claiming “Where the West Lives!” This impresses the hell out of tourists who think they’ve found the long-lost wild west. I, however, equate Golden with its infamous brewery and its union-busting, minority-hating history. In my boozing days, I refused to touch their stuff. Even addicts can be activists.

I’m forced to occasionally visit Golden because it’s the seat of Jefferson County. Today I intended to pick up my police report from the D.A.’s office to see what the sheriffs wrote about me, typically an exercise in bad grammar and reactionary fiction, as well as drop by Laura’s favorite store—a shop crowded with so much kitchen kitsch, it looked like a shrine to Rachael Ray—to buy her a Christmas gift. When we met, we never discussed how to celebrate our different holidays, it just more or less evolved into her learning how to make latkes and me buying wrapping paper with dancing elves.

I’d parked on the side street in front of Dorothy’s Handmade Kitchen Goods. The aroma of cinnamon and baking bread scented the air from a nearby bakery. Boughs of holly and twinkling lights decorated the historic brick buildings. I was stuffing the second quarter into the meter when I heard the unmistakable click of a switch blade.

I winced as pain pricked my side.

“Walk,” said a man with a thick Mexican accent. “
Vaya
.”

I slid a look at the store window, saw in its reflection a squat guy in a red and white suit, his black-gloved hands gripping a switch blade. An oversized red hat with white fur trim was shoved low on his brow.

A few people were down the next block—too far away for me to yell for help. Dude stood so close, doubted anybody inside Dorothy’s could see Santa was holding me at knife point.

I dredged up my best high school Spanish. “
Mi dinero es usted.”

“
Idiota. Movimiento.
”

With his free hand, he shoved me in the direction of the alley. I knew I’d said the word money,
dinero
, right…but he didn’t seem real interested in that.

Which didn’t bode well for lay ahead.

I stumbled forward, mentally scrambling for what I could use as a weapon. The old stun gun was under the driver’s seat, but a lotta good that did me now. I’d dropped my car keys in my front pants pocket…or maybe my jacket pocket.

Heading down the empty alley, we were approaching a dented metal dumpster against the back of a brick building painted with the words “Eat Pete’s Mountain Pie…Only Sissies Eat Pizza” when a black cat zigzagged in front of us. Santa paused, and I slipped my shaking fingers into my jacket pocket.

Empty.

Another stabbing pain. I gritted my teeth, entertained the thought of running full tilt, but I’d never make it. Even with a head start, I’d be dead meat.

As a chilly breeze ghosted down the alley, I spied an old floor lamp, its shade in tatters, where it’d been tossed against the dumpster. From Santa’s next shove, I knew he wanted me on the far side of that dumpster, away from any eyes seeing what violent, bloody things he had in store for me.

I had to act
now
.

I dove for the lamp, my body slamming against the dumpster as I grappled with the pole. Grabbing a two-fisted grip on the metal cylinder, I latched onto a thought—
even the hardest felons in prison avoid the crazy dude.

With a come-get-me-mutha-fucker battle yell, I charged forward like a Rambo badbass, holding the pole in front of me like some kind of horizontal thin-mint shield. He staggered backward, but I kept running, adding some barks and snarls for effect.

Backed up against the far brick wall, his eyes dark and wide, he began slashing the knife back and forth through the air.

I halted, realizing how stupid it’d be to get closer carting an antiquated lamp pole for protection.

Sensing his edge, he rushed toward me and executed a swift, deft kick that sent the lamp flying. As he swung his leg around again, I kicked too. Caught him in the balls.

Fucker fell to his knees with a howling scream, dropped the knife.

Heaving breaths, I swiped the sweat from my face as I looked down the alley. Empty. Thought about yelling for help, but my adrenalin was gone, depleted. Whatever I did next, it had to be quick. And smart.

He was cradling his nuts, his screams dissolving into whimpers of pain. Gathering every last shred of reserve energy, I stepped forward and slammed my knee,
bam
, into the side of his head.

He sputtered a wheezy release of air, fell over.

Silence.

I grabbed the knife and limped back down the alley toward my car. Standing outside the driver’s door, I dropped the switch blade as I fumbled with the door handle. Leaning over to pick it up, blood roared in my ears. I fell against the car, fighting a surge of nausea, and rubbed my throbbing knee.

And then I laughed. Came out like a regurgitated bark. Bar-haw-bar-haw-ba-bar…

“That man killed Santa!”

I stopped barking-laughing, straightened. Over the hood of the car, I saw a chubby boy, five or six, standing on the sidewalk at the mouth of the alley, clutching his mom’s hand and glaring at me.

“Why’d you kill Santa?” he yelled, his pink face contorted with hurt.

“I…didn’t…he’s…” I glanced down the alley. Empty. I shot a look down, up the street. No Santa. Looked back at the kid, who apparently was the only witness to my near demise.

“Santa’s gone,” I croaked, “he’s fine.”

The mother, who obviously hadn’t witnessed the Saint Nick Smack Down, shushed him, then looked back at me, a look of pert confusion on her face. “I don’t know why he said that,” she offered, shrugging.

The boy glanced down the alley, looked back at me and smiled. “Was he visiting from the North Pole?”

“More likely the Department of Corrections,” I muttered.

I picked up the knife, got into the car, and drove away.

The greatest magic is transmuting the passions.
—Atisha

O
n the way to the D.A.’s office, I’d pulled over to a phone booth—one of the few left in Golden, if not the planet—called 911, and anonymously reported I’d seen a knife-wielding, Spanish-speaking Santa, gave the location, and hung up. If I’d called from my cell, the Jeffco sheriffs would’ve tagged me and laughed it off. That dirtbag Levine, up on first-degree, claiming Santa tried to do him in?

Went through the back door to the D.A.’s office. Been here plenty of times, usually to pick up discovery for attorney clients. Sometime over the past year an office manager had decided it’d boost employee morale if they decorated the narrow hallway and inner sanctum of cubicles, the result being a theme-less explosion of brightly colored streamers and shiny objects with no observable function. Added to this were strings of glowing Christmas lights, a line of stockings with people’s names in glitter, and, in the corner, a cardboard stand-up of Bill Maher in a snow-flocked judge’s robe with some kind of tribal-dreidel headdress.