Free A Reason to Live (Marty Singer1) by Matthew Iden

"I'll swing by soon. Not tonight."
    "She's asking about you. Rides my case all the time." His voice became high and nasal. "‘Did you see Marty today? Why doesn't he come over? Why haven't you called him?'"
    I smiled. "I can hear her voice now."
    "How could you not? She sounds like Edith Bunker. Anyway, what's on your mind?"
    "What do you know about Julie Atwater?"
    "Atwater?" he asked. "As in, the prosecutor?"
    "Yeah."
    "What do you mean? You know as much as I do about that--I mean, about her."
    "Act like I don't know anything. Talk it out with me."
    "She started in the prosecutor's office," he said slowly. "But didn't like the money or the hours, so she sold out and went private. She'll defend anything that drags itself to her door."
    "So nothing's changed?"
    "Status quo," Dods said. "Why? What's your interest?"
    "You remember Mike Wheeler? That whole thing?"
    "That piece of shit?" he asked. "Naturally. I mean, I wasn't in Homicide yet, but I followed it like everybody else."
    "She was his defense attorney."
    "Yeah," he said, drawing the word out like he'd just discovered it. "How could I forget?"
    "Age," I said, trying to be helpful. "Substance abuse. Falling down the steps as a kid."
    "Right. Thanks."
    "Wheeler was one of her first cases after she went private, right?"
    "Maybe, I dunno. The timing is right. She was a PD for maybe three or four years before the money called her away."
    "Then she got the break of the century when the case on Wheeler went to hell," I said.
    "Yeah and fell off the map. I mean, she's in court all the time, but it's always for low-level dealers, repeat cons, busted pimps. Getting Wheeler off should've given her career an atomic boost. She ought to be defending CEO's and Senators, not creeps. Well, same thing, maybe. You know what I mean. Why is it you care, again?"
    I hesitated, then gave him a sanitized version, trying to downplay the situation. It wasn't that I didn't trust Dods. I did, and with my life. But I knew he'd overdo it. He would've stood up and walked out of the precinct right then if he thought he could help. I didn't need that. Not yet. I had Kransky on it, sure, but there was something else. Call it pride or maybe discretion--if things got too hot later, I'd holler for him--but I didn't want to call in my ace yet. I wanted to do this myself.
    He seemed to understand instinctively, reminding me why we'd been such good partners. "So you want to get to Wheeler through her."
    "Yeah."
    "Long shot," he said.
    "Tell me about it. Something's bugging her, though." I told him about my call with Atwater. "Has she changed since I was there?"
    "Marty, you been gone like two, three months. You think she's developed a limp or something? Wears an eye patch, now?"
    "Humor me, will you? Start at zero. Like I never saw her before, never knew her."
    "Well, she's got this pitchfork, see--"
    "Dods."
    He sighed. "She's foxy, but mean and kind of, I don't know, bland. Same black suit. At least, it was black in the nineties. Same beat-up briefcase. Wears the same clothes every time I see her. Stomps around like she wants to stick her foot up someone's ass."
    I closed my eyes, thought back to the last time I'd seen Julie Atwater in court. It had been, what, two months since I'd retired? Four or five since I'd even passed her in a hall or outside a courtroom. Like Dods said, she probably hadn't changed much. She was a good-looking woman--petite, black hair, late thirties--but worn out, weary, bitter. "How about emotionally? Mentally?"
    "Hell, Marty. I don't know. She was always a class-A bitch. Chip on her shoulder. You ask me, hanging up on you is standard operating procedure. If she didn't serve papers on you, I'd say you must've gotten on her good side somehow."
    "She's a pissed-off lady with a bad wardrobe? That's it?"
    "Yeah. Speaking of pissed-off, that's what I'm gonna be if I have to work late tonight. You want her number or something?"
    "I got it. Give me her address."
    "Home? Office?"
    "Both, if