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  “Uh, yes. Not anymore, though.”

  Judge McCarthy gestures toward the defendant, who is seated at defense counsel’s table in his prison-issue orange jumpsuit. “What happened?”

  “He was framed, Your Honor,” Milton answers, his voice rising in genuine outrage. “I can assure this Honorable Court that we intend to—”

  “—I’m not referring to this case, Counsel. I am referring to your client’s baseball career. He was one of the finest pitchers Mizzou ever had. I saw him pitch twice down there. That boy had remarkable control. What happened?”

  Milton stares at the judge, eyes blinking behind his thick lenses. After a pause, he says, “He suffered an injury, Your Honor. In a motor vehicle accident. Unfortunately, it ended his baseball career prematurely.”

  “Damn shame.” The judge looks over at Hal and shakes his head. “Could have made it to the big-time, son.”

  Hal lowers his head.

  Judge McCarthy turns back to Milton with a disapproving frown. “So instead of pitching for the Cardinals—or preferably, for the Cubs, if I can disclose such a controversial allegiance in this courtroom—so instead of pitching, he kidnaps and kills the wife of a prominent attorney?”

  “Precisely,” the assistant prosecutor says.

  “Precisely not,” Milton snaps. “We will have our day in court, as guaranteed by our Constitution, Your Honor, and I can guarantee Ms. Schimmel that we will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt my client’s innocence. We will demonstrate in open court that Harold Bernstein was framed. He is just another victim, albeit one who’s still alive. And that is precisely why I am here today, Your Honor.”

  “Nevertheless, Counsel,” Judge McCarthy says, eyebrows raised, “your client is charged with a capital offense. Actually, two capital offenses. We typically don’t release such defendants on bond.”

  “This is hardly your typical case, Your Honor, and my client—who has never before been charged with any violation of the law, including even a speeding ticket or a parking ticket—whose prior record is as clean as a newborn infant’s, is most assuredly not a typical defendant. As set forth in our motion papers, including the exhibits and affidavits attached there, my client—”

  Milton is on a roll, and when Milton is on a roll you just have to sit back and let him roll, even if you’re Judge Dick McCarthy.

  As always, Milton has done his homework. While he did miss the significance of the University of Missouri connection—where Dick McCarthy not only earned his bachelor’s and law degrees but played varsity baseball himself, served one term as chair of the MU Alumni Association, and drives a Chrysler 300 that is custom painted in Mizzou’s black-and-gold colors—Milton has amassed a trove of data on the judge’s prior bail rulings in capital cases, and he has read everything he could find on the saga of the judge’s nephew, Lex O’Connor, who was held without bail on rape charges and eventually exonerated after spending close to a year in prison awaiting trial.

  And thus, after highlighting the evidentiary issues—including the Tiparillo burn on the victim and the apparent third-party semen deposit in her mouth—Milton moves on to the qualities his younger brother shares with the judge’s nephew—without, of course, ever mentioning that nephew. Those qualities include: no flight risk, no prior record, no danger to the community, and close family ties in the area (which, for Hal, is a brother, a sister-in-law, and two beloved nieces). Even better than Lex O’Conner, who was a college student at the time, Hal not only has a steady job (well, maybe that’s a stretch, but Milton has attached as Exhibit 34 a letter of recommendation from Hal’s boss) but a job that involves…drum roll…SAVING LIVES!!

  “And last but certainly not least, Your Honor, the defendant is my little brother. He is family. He will live at my house through the trial. I will be responsible for him at all times, and I will accept whatever obligation this Court deems fair and just for that responsibility.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Three hours later, Milton steps into the foyer of his home.

  “Milton?” Peggy calls from the kitchen.

  He sets down his briefcase in the front hall and heads toward the kitchen, where Peggy is at the island cutting up salad greens

  “Well?” she asks.

  “I have good news and some sort-of good news.”

  “Tell me the sort-of first.”

  Milton forces a smile. “You’ll be seeing more of me for the next few months.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I moved in to your uncle’s office after court today. But since I only have one case, maybe I’ll be able to get home for dinner most nights.”

  “That’s good. But Uncle Heschie…” Peggy shakes her head sadly. “Oh, Milton.”

  “It’s okay, Peg. It’s only temporary. I’ll be fine. And when the case is over, I’ll be back at Abbott & Windsor.”

  “So tell me the good news.”

  “The judge granted my motion. He’s going to release Hal.”

  “Oh, my God!” She comes around the island and gives Milton a hug, tears in her eyes. “My hero! That’s wonderful, honey.”

  “It certainly is.” He pauses and leans back. “There are a few conditions, of course.”

  Peggy’s smile fades as she takes a step back. “Conditions? Such as?”

  “He’ll have to live with us until the trial.”

  She nods, thinking it over as she walks back around the island to the cutting board. “Okay. We can put him in the basement bedroom. He’ll have his own bathroom down there.”

  “Good idea.”

  “When does he move in?”

  Milton winces. “That brings me to the other condition.”

  Peggy gives him a look. “What is it?”

  “In lieu of a cash bond, the Court is willing to accept a property bond in the amount of one million dollars. It’s very unusual.”

  “What property?”

  “My mother’s condo in Florida and, uh, and our house.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The court gets a lien on the property to secure the bail. If Hal fails to appear in court, the court can foreclose on the property to obtain the bail amount.”

  Peggy’s eyes widen. “So we could lose our house?”

  “Only if Hal didn’t show up for his trial. That’s not going to happen, Peggy. It’s Hal. He won’t do that to us.”

  “Milton, he’s facing life in prison. Maybe the death penalty. He’s got a darn good reason not to show up.”

  “I know my brother, Peggy.”

  Peggy places her hands on the island and leans forward, eyebrows raised. “Milton, your brother is a moron.”

  “But he’s a good person.”

  “Oh, my God, Milton.”

  “It’ll be okay.”

  “When does all this craziness happen?”

  “My mom needs to sign the papers, and then we do. You and me, Peggy. I can’t do this alone—and I would never do this alone.”

  She closes her eyes. “Oy.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  On this sunny Saturday afternoon, scores of parked cars line the road into Resurrection Cemetery, including a fair sampling of official St. Louis and St. Louis County: police cars, fire chief cars, City Hall sedans, and several stretch limos, each with a chauffeur in gray livery, black cap, and aviator sunglasses lounging against the driver’s side, arms crossed. The sounds of a Mizzou football game radio broadcast can be heard from one of the limos.

  The gravesite is perched on a gentle slope overlooking the River Des Peres. Hundreds of men and women, mostly men, are gathered around the graveside tent. Leonard Pitt is seated in the center of the front row facing the open grave. The service will be starting soon.

  Milton stands off to the side, about twenty yards away from the gathering. As he studies the faces in the crowd, D
etective Bernie Moran walks over.

  Milton nods at him. “Big crowd.”

  “Guy with Pitt’s clout draws a big crowd.

  “You still on the case?”

  “Barely.” Moran steps further back from the crowd, gesturing Milton to follow. When Milton gets close, he says, “Just cleaning up some loose ends.”

  “Such as?”

  Moran shakes his head. “Such as some loose ends, Milton.”

  “Such as why Pitt waited until Thursday night to call the police when his wife was supposedly kidnapped on Tuesday. Doesn’t that seem a little odd?”

  “Listen, pal, I see odd every fucking day. It’s part of my job description.”

  “Such as how my brother could be at the pool when she was supposedly held captive at the motel.”

  “He called in sick on the day of the kidnapping, he was off the next two days, and he lit out of there on Friday afternoon like a bat out of hell.”

  “How did he keep her in the motel room when he was on the beach?”

  “Ask your brother. He’s the one who bought the duct tape. The medical examiner founds traces of the tape and abrasions on her ankles and wrists.”

  “That doesn’t prove he tied her up.”

  “For chrissakes, Milton. This ain’t some cop show on TV. We’re not fucking CSI St. Louis. We got loose ends. Every goddamm case has loose ends—hey, you listening to me?”

  But Milton has turned toward the narrow road that runs through the cemetery grounds. A black Mustang had pulled up on the grass behind the empty hearse. The driver, a bulky man in his forties dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and skinny black tie, walks past them toward the crowd at the gravesite.

  “Who is that?” Milton asks.

  “A piece of shit,” Moran says. “Ex-copper named Bledsoe. Billy Bledsoe.”

  Milton waits until Bledsoe disappears into the crowd around the tent, and then starts toward the Mustang. Curious, Moran follows.

  Milton glances back. “Ex?”

  “Yeah. Shot two fags in a Tower Grove Park men’s room. Got his ass kicked off the force.”

  “What’s he do these days?”

  “Heard he works for Pitt. Probably one of his chasers.”

  They have reached the driver’s side of the car.

  Milton turns to face Moran, eyebrows raised. “Works for Pitt?”

  “So I hear. Why do you care?”

  Milton points at the grass. “Recognize that?”

  Moran stares. “That was Bledsoe’s?”

  “I saw him stub it out when he got out of the car.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “Fred Butz identified that ash on the carpet in the room next door. It wasn’t cigarette ash. It was cigar ash. And guess what type of cigar?” He points down. “That one.”

  “A Tiparillo?”

  “Yep.”

  Moran kneels down and pulls an envelope out of the inside pocket of his jacket. “Interesting.”

  Moran uses the end of the pen to carefully push the crushed Tiparillo into the envelope.

  Ten minutes later, Milton is standing by his car, cell phone to his ear. The cemetery grounds are visible in the background.

  “First name Billy,” Milton says. “Maybe William.”

  “Okay,” Butz replies. “Last name is spelled B-L-E-D-S-O-E?”

  “I think so. Moran didn’t spell it for me.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “I’ll come by your office later this afternoon.”

  “Okay.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Milton takes the call down the hall from Herschel Goldman’s office, inside the small conference room he now uses as his temporary office. When he finishes his telephone conversation with Fred Butz, he walks back over to Herschel’s office and waits in the doorway as Herschel finishes what sounds like a conversation with opposing counsel.

  “So think about it, Bob,” Herschel says into the phone. “My client is a mensch. A reasonable man looking for nothing more than fair compensation for his injuries and his loss of income. If the insurance company wants to resolve this in a just and prompt manner, you know my number. If not, my friend, I will see you in court next Monday.”

  He hangs up, smiles at Milton, and shakes his head, gesturing toward the phone. “Oy, a real putz, he is. And not too klieg, either. Don’t get me started. Come on in. Have a seat, boychik. Nu? So what did you learn about Señor Tiparillo?”

  “He’s a creep.”

  “Oh?”

  “And dangerous. Full name: William E. Bledsoe, Jr. He was a boxer in Joliet back in the nineties. Fought under the name Billy the Kid. According to Fred Butz, Bledsoe was strictly a club fighter, whatever that means. Joined the St. Louis police force in 2007, whereupon he distinguished himself and his profession by two separate shootings in the space of one month. Both times at night in a Tower Grove Park restroom. Both victims were unarmed homosexual males. Both shot in the genitalia.”

  “My God! In the balls?”

  “Worse. One in the left testicle, the other in the penis.”

  Herschel grimaces. “Oy, vey.”

  “And guess who represented Bledsoe in the civil lawsuits filed by the families?”

  “Leonard Pitt?”

  “Yep. Apparently as a favor to someone in City Hall. Bledsoe has worked for Pitt ever since.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Fred couldn’t pin that down. He does some work as a chaser and some as a driver for Pitt and some as just a gopher.”

  Herschel nods and twirls his mustache. “Okay? And this tells you?”

  “That Bledsoe killed her.”

  “Really?” Herschel leans back in his chair and frowns. “Why?”

  “On Pitt’s orders.”

  “Again, Miltie, why?”

  Milton sits down in the chair facing his uncle. “According to Hal, Pitt and Cherry had a terrible marriage. Maybe Pitt was looking to get something on her, maybe grounds for an annulment. After all, the guy is a Catholic now. Thus he cannot get a divorce. Or maybe Pitt was just suspicious, wanted to find out what his wife does all day. With Bledsoe around, he didn’t need to hire a private eye to see what she was up to.”

  “Okay. And?”

  “Here’s my theory. Pitt has Bledsoe tail her for a few weeks. He sees my brother leave with Cherry on the day of the so-called kidnapping. He follows them to the motel and reports back to his boss. Thus when Pitt finds the ransom note, he knows it’s a sham. And by then, the lawsuit we filed is a week old.”

  “The one where the judge froze his assets?”

  “Exactly.” Milton shakes his head. “Like an answer to his prayers. That’s why Pitt hired that buffoon Sam Budgah and had him file that motion for an emergency hearing. If the judge freezes his assets, he has the perfect excuse for not transferring the money. And when he doesn’t pay the ransom, the supposed kidnapper kills her.”

  “This Bledsoe character? He’s the shooter?”

  “Makes sense, doesn’t it, Heschie? The puzzle pieces fit. Bledsoe keeps an eye on her through that hole he drills in the motel room wall. Pitt instructs Bledsoe to kill her on Friday, as soon as the ransom deadline expires.”

  “Can you place Bledsoe in that other room?”

  “All I have so far is that cigar ash.”

  “Who rented the room?”

  “They don’t know.”

  “How can that be?”

  “I looked at the police file yesterday. Someone called—a woman, the night manager thinks—and reserved that motel room for a week. Specified Room 206.”

  “Name?”

  Milton smiles. “Jane Doe.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “It happens, according to the manager. She wasn’t their first Jane Doe. As lo
ng as they pay cash in advance, they’re okay with it.”

  Herschel chuckles. “A regular hot-sheets motel, eh?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Did they tell you what she looks like?”

  “No. According to the police report, the night manager said that a messenger service dropped off the cash and picked up the room key.”

  “Which messenger service?”

  Milton shakes his head. “He didn’t know. Some guy. He wasn’t wearing a messenger uniform.”

  Herschel leans back in his chair and twirls his mustache as he mulls it over. “Fingerprints?”

  “Nope. I’m sure he wiped them off before he left. According to the police report, the doorknobs were clean. So were the bathroom faucets, the toilet seat, the phone.” Milton pauses, his eyebrows raised. “The phone. Damn. The phone.”

  “What phone?”

  “In the motel room.”

  “You mean the land line?”

  Milton grins. “Exactly.”

  “You don’t think he has a cell phone?”

  “I’m sure he does. But he probably didn’t use it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I assume his cell phone has geo-tracking. I think they all do. If he made a call from his cell phone in that room, there’d be a record of it with the cell phone company.

  “Okay. So what’s so interesting about that phone in the room?”

  “Maybe nothing. But…”—Milton stands—“no harm checking.”

  “Checking what? Where are you going, Miltie?”

  “I need to run something down. I’ll tell you what I find out.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  We’re back in the front office of the Sleepy Time Motel. The clock on the wall shows six-ten p.m. Milton is talking with the female manager. He has a clipboard in his hands and a pencil behind his ear.

  “Really?” Milton says.

  “Oh, yes.” She smiles. “My boss is real pleased. Guess you folks don’t hear that too often, eh?”

  Milton nods and grins. “We are truly delighted, ma’am, and we want to keep it that way. That’s why we do these free spot checks. We check your list against ours to make sure you’re picking up all those calls. Making sure they’ll all show up on your guests’ bill. It can be a nice profit center for folks like you, as I’m sure your boss will agree.”