Free Cuts Through Bone by Alaric Hunt Page B

Vasquez, and the smile sharpened for a moment. “That kind of bright keeps you from seeing the shadowy people standing nearby, unless you look hard.”
    Guthrie pointed at the mirror. More kids bounced on the dance floor behind them, grinding to a shifting beat. “She did like this?” He finished his Shirley Temple.
    â€œDance?” the bartender asked. “She used to. Not so much anymore. Or the booths, or the playrooms. Used to be all that and a bottle of water.”
    The little detective nodded, watching a girl in the mirror pause for a drink. The dancer was damp with sweat. That came along with ecstasy, just like a dry mouth. He slid another pair of fifties across the bar. He nodded to Vasquez, and they left. The city outside seemed quiet but blindingly bright.

 
    CHAPTER SIX
    On the morning of August 3, the stones of the city were crying out for rain. Night couldn’t cool the city. A cloudless sky left Manhattan at the mercy of the sun. Even at dawn, the shaded pavement was eighty degrees. Guthrie idled his Ford on Henry Street, waiting for Vasquez to come down. Then they drove downtown to the Criminal Courts Building. Greg Olsen was scheduled for arraignment. The tall buildings downtown surrounded the courts like suppliants. Crowds of pedestrians moved among them faster than the cars.
    Inside, Guthrie and Vasquez found Henry Dallen baby-sitting outside courtroom 11. Olsen was scheduled for Judge Patterson. Rondell was already at the court, juggling a meeting with clients for another case in civil court. The investigator said Olsen would be bound for supreme court, and Rondell expected a high bail that he might be able to reduce, eventually. They would play a waiting game while Guthrie chased his witness. Guthrie gave the investigator another copy of his card, for Olsen, with a scribbled note asking for him to get in touch. Guthrie and Vasquez had other things to do. Olsen had questions to answer, now that they’d seen the Long Morning After, but it wasn’t worth an entire day spent waiting for the ADA to orchestrate a media frenzy at his arraignment.
    Vasquez was unsettled by visiting the courts. She always went when her brothers were in trouble; the sterile smell and tomblike quiet were a reminder. Dallen’s nonchalant attitude resembled that of a public defender midwifing the state’s efforts for conviction. Indio and Miguel always came out angry. They had to wait for a while before they rediscovered their laughter. She was glad to leave, even though the street smelled like burned tar and was crowded with empty taxis looking to hustle uptown fares.
    While Vasquez drove up Broadway, headed for the office, Guthrie called George Livingston, HP Whitridge’s hatchet man, to air his doubts about Olsen’s lawyer. The conversation cut back and forth. Livingston had recommended Guthrie to the lawyer, and he had no hesitation about putting the shoe on the other foot. True enough, Livingston admitted, James Rondell worked in a firm specializing in tax, trust, merger, and other Money Street matters, but he was a big young shark, being groomed by heavy hitters at his firm to be their primary courtroom advocate, and eventual senior partner. His talent was unmatched in the city. HP Whitridge wouldn’t accept less than the best.
    â€œOkay, George, I get you,” Guthrie admitted. “I could be wrong about him. Maybe I’m getting old and I need to see a bit of gray on a head before I can trust it.”
    â€œI am not going to rise to that particular bait,” Livingston said, his voice audible on the cell phone.
    â€œI went out and talked to some people yesterday, and now I need to compare notes. Where am I going to find Michelle Tompkins today?”
    Laughter sounded on the other end. “That’s your nice way of saying she needs to be available?” Livingston asked. “I’ll do something about that and get back to you. HP has a thorn in his