Free Where Nobody Dies by Carolyn Wheat

was the star. She kicked the habit and went straight as though her life depended on it. I guess in a way it did. Everything she became later she owed to that drug program.”
    â€œYou want to know something?” Pat demanded, his eyes intent. “This isn’t a total shock, Aida’s being blackmailed.”
    â€œYou mean you knew …”
    â€œI knew something was wrong,” Pat replied, his humorous Irish face troubled, “when I saw her at a fundraiser this fall. I’ve been active in the Brooklyn Independent Democrats for a few months now,” he explained. I nodded, and Pat went on. “So when I saw Art and Aida at this party, I went over to say hi. Just a friendly gesture from a Park Slope poll-watcher. Or so I thought. But Aida looked at me as though she’d seen a ghost, to coin a phrase, and the next thing I knew she and Art were saying a very hasty good-bye and the word went around that she had a migraine headache.”
    â€œAnd you think you were the headache?”
    â€œWhat else could I think? Especially if she was being blackmailed about her past and there I was, a living reminder of the old days in the Bronx. Not,” he added with a sad smile, “that I’d have been so crude as to bring that up to her. But I guess Aida’s a little short on trust these days.”
    While we both brooded about that, Judge Diadona retook the bench. “The Nilda business,” Pat murmured as if to himself. “That wouldn’t do her any good either. Even if it was a long time ago.”
    I heard the name Derrick Sinclair. “Later,” I whispered, then marched up to the bench to do battle. By the time I’d worked out a plea, Pat was gone.
    I went from one Irishman to another. Matt Riordan was Flaherty’s opposite in almost every way. Where Pat was genial, red-haired, and generous, Riordan was a driven Black Irishman who’d clawed his way to the top of the dirtiest and most dangerous segment of criminal practice. More than one of his clients had been fished out of the East River.
    I caught him on a break in the trial of a court clerk accused of taking bribes. As usual in Riordan’s cases, press people filled the first two rows.
    I hopped up on one of the window ledges, crossing my legs. Fixing Matt with a look that I hoped would tell him I meant business, I began to talk about Ira Bellfield.
    Matt shook his head. “The guy could be desperate,” he said. “Word on the street is that a secret grand jury is investigating him. He’s had one too many fires, and some of the tenants’ groups in his buildings have gotten a lot of ink lately. Those tapes of yours could be just the clincher the DA needs.”
    â€œThank God!” My relief was genuine; it never occurred to me to hold them back. Now that I knew somebody upstairs was interested, that I wouldn’t just be humored if I tried to tell the truth about Bellfield, it seemed one of my troubles was over. Just turn the tapes over to the proper authorities like a good little citizen and go about my business. Right?
    Matt Riordan was not well-known as a good citizen. “Are you really that naïve?” he asked, his mouth a near-sneer.
    â€œI’m naïve enough to want this dynamite of mine planted firmly under Ira Bellfield’s chair instead of my own,” I retorted. “What do you think I should do with them, put them in my cassette deck along with Paul Simon?”
    â€œMaybe. That might be as good a place as any for them until you make up your mind how to use them to your best advantage. Do you really want to hand over your bargaining chips without getting anything in return?”
    â€œWhat did you have in mind?”
    â€œHow about an enforceable promise to really investigate Linda’s death? Maybe even Brad’s release—in return for which you’ll guarantee them Ira Bellfield on toast. They’ll go for it. They’ll have