Free A Clean Kill by Mike Stewart Page B

would’ve ever found out about it.
    “And here’s what I guess is the smartest, or maybe the scariest, part, depending on how you look at it. If, for some reason, the whole rig hadn’t worked, the heater would’ve eventually melted the wax and droppedthe pipe on the highway, where nobody would’ve ever looked at it twice. So, whether it worked or didn’t work, there wasn’t gonna be any evidence either way that somebody had tampered with your vehicle.”
    I turned to look out the window. “Somebody knows what they’re doing.”
    Joey grunted. “Yeah. And whoever it is has got a blue-steel hard-on for you, bubba.”
    In the distance, an oil tanker cut a vague, wavering “V” across the harbor. I turned to face Joey. “Have you got some time this afternoon? I need you to help me take care of something that’s been getting on my nerves.”
    Joey leaned forward in his chair. “I don’t know. I guess. What is it?”
    An hour later, when Joey finally walked out of my office, I picked up the phone. I needed to go somewhere and see someone, and I needed to call the state bar association and find out where and who.
    The receptionist at the Alabama State Bar connected me to Member Services, who turned me over to Lawyer Assistance, who put me through to Ethics and the Law, who finally patched me through to a young woman named Beth, whose responsibility was Emerging Issues in Legalmetrics. No shit. That was the name.
    “Beth, this is Tom McInnes in Mobile. How are you today?”
    “Fine.”
    “Can you help me with a jury research issue?”
    “What is it?”
    “I’m looking for someone who can analyze, or at least fill me in on, juror health issues.”
    Silence.
    “You know, like what percentage of jurors leave jury service due to health problems. That sort of thing.”
    Silence.
    “Hello?”
    “I’m looking it up.” More silence. “Here. Try Dr. Kai-Li Cantil at Auburn University.” She spelled the first and last names. “Dr. Cantil is … let’s see, an assistant professor of psychology looking into,” the cadence of her voice grew stilted, the way people talk when they’re reading out loud, “ ‘the effects of jury duty on the emotional and physical health of jurors.’ ” She paused. “Is that what you’re looking for?”
    “Sounds like it. But I’m curious how you knew about her.”
    Beth sighed. “We keep records.” I waited. “We’re one of the funding institutions for her research, and we keep records. If we’re going to give a researcher money, we expect our members to get some benefit from it. So we keep records for people like you
who need help
.”
    It may have been my imagination, but I could have sworn that Beth had unnecessarily emphasized the last three words. I said, “Nice to know our dues are being put to good use. Do you have a number for Dr. Cantil?”
    “You can call Auburn information for that number. Is there anything else?”
    “That’s it. Thank you, Beth.”
    She managed to squeeze out “sure” before hanging up.
    I called Auburn University information. I called the School of Behavioral Sciences. I called the Department of Psychology. Finally, I found someone with Dr. Cantil’s number, which eventually yielded a conversation with the assistant professor’s bored secretary.
    The doctor was out torturing undergraduates with the last final of the semester. But, she said, Dr. Cantil would be happy to see me Monday afternoon for a mere hundred dollars an hour.
    I thought of Sheri Baneberry’s dwindling funds in my trust account. “Wouldn’t I get a break on fees since I’m a member of one of the associations sponsoring her work?”
    “No.”
    I made an appointment for 1:00 P.M . and hung up.
    Time to go play with Joey.
    I sent Kelly home early and locked up the office. Joey was supposed to have already checked out the Land Rover. I climbed in, maneuvered through the concrete deck, and pulled out into light Friday-afternoon traffic. Bobbi and her father were