Free Thrust by Tom Piccirilli Page A

him, put his hand on Chase's shoulder, talk about the baby again.
    The wind carried the resonant strain of church bells through the room.   Ellis crossed his legs, and his trousers pulled up to reveal pale flesh and varicose veins webbing his calf.  
    "He's been in and out of prison for the last fifteen years," the attorney said.   "This Joe Singleton.   Petty larceny and misdemeanors.   Forging checks, minor theft.   Robbed a couple of liquor stores, but he never approaches the cash register, just takes a bottle or two off the shelves and walks out.   He goes to jail for six or nine months, stays out for several years, then goes in again for something stupid.   Nothing serious, no felonies.   He beat his wife up a couple of times while they were married.   Twice he punctured her lung, but there were no injuries to her face, so the police botched the investigation and the DA never followed up."
    Violence without the show.   Joe Singleton didn't go in for the macho act as a way to impress the boys.   He liked to keep it under wraps, deep in the muscle.
    "Are you listening to me?" Ellis asked.
    "Yes."
    "He was also the prime suspect in two unsolved homicides. He was arrested but never indicted for the crimes.   Former friends helped him knock over a small trucking company.   Before the cops closed in, they turned up dead."
    "Where was this?"
    "In Jersey.   Newark."
    "Mob related?"
    "I did say trucking," Ellis said.
    "How much did they rip off?"
    "The payroll and some cargo off the trucks.   Maybe ten grand."
    "No repercussions?"
    The attorney sat back, appraised Chase again, trying to figure out how down in the dirt he could get.   He didn't like to explain himself, that was clear, but maybe the more he brought out at the moment, the more helpful Chase might prove in the long run.  
    He hung forward again, placed his palms flat on the cherry oak table, and the glint of melancholy faded.   It reignited as something else.   Chase had his number now—Ellis had a jones for melodrama.
    "What do you mean by that?" Ellis asked.
    Cue the stabbing violins.
    "If it was mob-related," Chase said, "why didn't they handle it themselves?   Why would Singleton turn on his pals when it left him holding the bag alone?"
    Ellis drummed his fingers, enjoying this but not showing it.   "It's one of the reasons he was cleared.   He had no real motive."
    But of course he did.   Singleton was vicious, maybe even dumb, and he liked to ride the big edge.   He was probably disappointed with the haul and decided to lay his buddies out for the mob as an offering.   An example was made, they got their revenge, and they probably tossed Singleton small jobs from time to time.  
    But it could've gone the other way.   They could've just as easily taken him out for the fun of it.   Tie up all ends.   Singleton balanced his boredom with great patience.   Chase saw it all in that little nod Singleton had given him.  
    "So he's a killer."
    "Not that anyone's proven," Ellis said.   "I just thought you should know some of the pertinent information about him."   He eased back in his chair, as if ready for a brandy and a cigar now.   He appeared to want to frown, if only his eyelids weren't paralyzed.   "The fact that you've never been in trouble before weighs heavily in your favor.   How'd you manage to keep from getting any DWI's before this?   You've been a hard drinker for a while, I can see."
    "I'm careful."
    "And these psychiatric reports… you haven't been keeping up on your prescriptions."
    He was afraid to agree with the lawyer again, so Chase buttoned it, just nodded.
    "What made you go out that night, Grayson?" Ellis asked.
    "It's part of the pattern."
    "What pattern?"
    "It helps to calm me."  
    Somehow it had become ingrained in him, the obsessive need for movement as he kept circling town, driving back and forth between the community college and the library, heading out on the parkway to gun past Garden Falls.   It