Free Old City Hall by Robert Rotenberg Page B

Caribbean. Fernandez had never heard Brace’s voice before, but he knew this wasn’t it.
    “Who’s this?”
Amanda demanded.
    “I’m here with your father. He’s asked me to call and tell you that he’s all right.”
The man spoke very slowly, as if he was reading something.
    “I don’t understand.”
    “He does not want you to come visit him yet.”
    Fernandez could hear Amanda’s voice rise.
“What? Let me talk to my father right now.”
    “He wants you to pass on this same message to everyone in your family.”
    “But . . .”
    “I have to go now.”
There was a loud click.
    “Wait . . . ,”
Amanda yelled before her voice was overrun by a loud telephone buzz.
    Fernandez lifted his pen. He hadn’t written a word.
    “Amanda Brace is the oldest daughter from the first marriage,” Greene said. “Twenty-eight years old. Married. Production coordinator for Roots,” Greene said. Roots was a popular Canadian clothing chain. “No record. No police contacts. We’re going to wait a day or two before we talk to her.”
    The detective seemed totally nonplussed by what he’d just heard. Fernandez felt like grinding his teeth in frustration.
    They all listened to the blank silence of the CD and waited for the next call. Fernandez twirled his pen in anticipation. Nothing. He turned up the volume on the CD player. The empty buzz grew louder in the small office.
    “A second daughter, Beatrice, lives out in Alberta,” Greene said. “Married too. No record. No police contact.”
    After another minute Fernandez clicked the Fast Forward button, held it for a few seconds, and released it. He hit Play. Still there was no sound. He did the same thing two more times. Nothing. The machine that recorded the conversation was voice activated. The rest of the CD would be empty.
    “Nada,” he said. “Looks like we drew a blank.” He looked at Greene, who was rolling his Cross pen in his fingers. He could almost see the wheels turning.
    “Brace is keeping his mouth shut,” Greene said.
    “It’s the ‘never-ever’ rule,” Kennicott said. It was the first time the younger officer had spoken. Everyone turned to look at him.
    “When I was a lawyer, I was trained to never, ever sign an affidavit unless all the pages were stapled together,” Kennicott said. “That way, if I was ever questioned about some documents I’d put together years ago, I was protected.”
    “You could swear you never, ever signed an unstapled affidavit,” Greene said, “the way Brace will be able to swear he never, ever spoketo anyone in jail. Protects him in case someone says Brace talked to him behind bars.”
    “Very good, Kennicott,” Raglan said.
    Greene turned to Raglan, who stood close to him in the small room. “I think you want Brace to get bail, don’t you?”
    She nodded. “He’ll talk if he’s out.”
    All three of them looked at Fernandez.
    “Put up a good show on this bail hearing so Parish and Brace think we want to keep him inside,” Raglan said, unfolding her arms. “But it’s much better if you lose.”
    Raglan looked back at Greene. Clearly these two had worked together before.
    “Just in case,” Greene said, “I’ll find Kevin Brace a cell mate. Someone who plays bridge.”
    “Why bridge?” Fernandez asked.
    Everyone looked back at Fernandez.
    “He talks about it all the time on his radio show,” Raglan said.
    “His study was filled with bridge books,” Kennicott added.
    Fernandez nodded. I better stop listening to all my tapes, he thought, and start listening to the radio.
    “By the way,” Raglan said as she and Greene headed out the door, “you’ve got Judge Summers. Should be interesting.”
    Fernandez waited until the door clicked shut, then reached into the back of the lower desk drawer and fished out his box marked JUDGES . He flipped through the alphabetically labeled cards to “Summers.” He pretty much knew what it was going to say. There were three different entries. The first was from