Free Kill All the Judges by William Deverell Page A

blunt, Bry. I don’t think you’re sick, you’re just being an asshole. He could have refuted that. Easy. But he wants them to think he’s being an asshole. That’s his cover.
    At the same time he hadn’t wanted a harangue from the scrawny long-distance runner, a drug abuse lecture. Brian took pride in his drug abuse, he was a gourmand of drug abuse, Max wouldn’t understand that. Brian had hit on the perfect combination: a tequila on the hour, a line on the half-hour, and non-stop nicotine, a sustained creative high. Presumably most crime writers, fromDashiell Hammett on, composed while drunk or stoned, so Brian was maintaining a fine tradition. As Widgeon said, I find a wee nip at the bottom of the day stirs the embers to one last spurt before the weary writer retires to the comfort of easy chair and telly.
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    It had never occurred to Cudworth his verses might change a life; it was a wondrous concept to which he quickly warmed.
    â€œI was living a lie,” she said.
    â€œHow?”
    â€œI’ll tell you sometime.”
    She pulled two thin volumes from her bag. Liquor Balls and Karmageddon . “Write something scintillating.” Then she had second thoughts, because she put them back. “Later, when you’ve got to know me better. Would you like to stay the night?”
    â€œThanks, I’ve already been asked. I’ll be in the maid’s room.” Cud pointed to the room above the garage, in case she needed directions. She butted her smoke and went off to greet her guests.
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    You’re asking me to buy this, Cud, this seduction scenario? I’ll play along with it, but what’s her version? There’s the rub–she’s made no statements and, on the advice of counsel, hasn’t talked to the Crown. Brian had learned this from a letter from Abigail Hitchins he’d eventually found enclosed in a box with the particulars of evidence.
    So Brian didn’t know what Ms. LeGrand was going to say at the trial, he hadn’t a clue. He’d read about her, seen photos of her, a favourite of the gossip columns, wild, eccentric, unclassifiable. Rumours abounded of dissolute early years, before her marriage two years ago to the handsome, allegedly suave, and utterly eligible bachelor judge.
    Brian is going to dig up the dirt on her. If she’s lying he’ll cut her to pieces. Yes, Cud, your tireless advocate is going to get right on top of the case, you’re in safer hands than Allstate. Bryis a late starter, slow off the blocks, but watch him skim over those hurdles.
    He rose to the window, looked across Main Street. The thin man was still there–he’d traded in the London Fog for a windbreaker, but it was the same guy, the same scrawny build. Standing under the shouting sign, “Girls! Girls! Girls!” Talking to the doorman at the Palace. Pointing across the street. That’s his hotel, he’s in 305, I want you to break his fingers so he can’t use a keyboard–we have to stop him.
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    The doorman nodded. He was a hulking fellow, a former Lions player, a tight end–Lance could only guess what that role involved; he’d never understood North American football, or why it was called football. Right now, the tight end was taking a pass from the thin man, several bills from his wallet. The thin man walked away.
    Lance shrugged and turned from the window. He would rather look at his clever new secretary, who was doing the day’s final filing. She smiled. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
    â€œThank you, Ms. Wu. You’ve done splendidly for your first day.”
    â€œGood starts raise false hopes.”
    â€œAh, the maxim of the day. You must write down your grandmother’s sayings. Wisdom unrecorded is wisdom lost.”
    Finally a smile from her, a glint of interest. “Tomorrow I will remember the rose.”
    â€œThe prettiest one the florist has. But