You Can Die Trying (9 page)

“In part, yes.”

“In part?”

“I’m not a reporter for the
Guardian
, Mrs. Washington.” He glanced over at Wiley as he offered Washington a glimpse of his license. “But I’m not working for the police, either. As you can see, I’m a private investigator.”

“Uh-huh.” Wiley’s head moved up and down, his mouth turned up in a self-satisfied grin. “What did I tell you?”

“It’s the truth. I only tried to run the reporter line on you because I thought you’d be hesitant to talk to me otherwise.”

“And you thought right,” Wiley said.

To Washington, Gunner said, “My client and the LAPD may appear to be on the same side in this thing, Mrs. Washington, but I can assure you they’re not.”

“Your client?”

“A neighbor of yours who claims to have witnessed your son’s shooting. Someone who says the cop who shot him that night was fired upon first, just as the cop had always insisted.”

“All right, Harriet. Enough is enough,” Wiley said angrily. “Whoever this man is, whoever his client may be, his intentions are to sabotage our case against the police department, and he’s got to go. Now.” He crossed his arms across his chest and waited, fully expecting to be obeyed.

“I want to hear what this client of his has to say,” Washington said.

“No. No! I strongly urge against it!”

“Sit down, Milton.” She fixed him with a stare that could have sliced through tempered steel; Wiley had no choice but to do as he was told. When she turned her attention to Gunner again, she said, “You’ll have to forgive Milton, Mr. Gunner. But the police have done everything in their power to see that our case against them never gets to court, and for all we know, they sent you here in the hope I’ll say something they can use against us later.”

“Of course that’s why they sent him,” Wiley snapped. “All this business about a client who witnessed Lendell’s shooting is nothing but a false pretense.”

“No, Mr. Wiley. It isn’t,” Gunner said, finally getting a little fed up with the attorney’s endless attempts to slander him.

“Then what’s this client’s name?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Let’s just say the person who hired me is a private citizen trying to correct an unfortunate mistake. Somebody who was pressured into keeping quiet about what they saw the night Mrs. Washington’s son was killed, and who now regrets having done so. Granted, they may be a little late getting around to it, but—”

“Damn right, they’re a little late. Why the hell didn’t they feel the need to correct their ‘unfortunate mistake’ six months ago,
before
Mrs. Washington filed suit?”

“Because Jack McGovern didn’t commit suicide until last Friday,” Gunner said bluntly, almost immediately wishing he hadn’t.

“Ah. Officer McGovern.” Wiley smiled, thinking Gunner had slipped up and told him something he wasn’t supposed to know. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“I hope so.”

“You’re working for the family. His wife or his kids, somebody like that?”

“I told you who I’m working for.”

Wiley shook his head. “I don’t think so. Officer McGovern terrorized the people of this community for over twenty years, there’s no way any neighbor of Mrs. Washington’s would pay you five cents to do anything but dance on his grave.”

“My client’s motives for coming forward now have nothing to do with Jack McGovern, per se. I told you. They’re strictly personal.”

“Perhaps you should explain what that means.”

“I already did. You weren’t listening. My client’s been quiet all this time about what he saw because he was
told
to be quiet, by someone who knew all the right things to say in order to scare the living daylights out of him. Not because the cat caught his tongue.”

There. Gunner had finally said it, tired of being secretive about something only the police could possibly think to use against him: his client’s gender.

“He was blackmailed?” Wiley asked, apparently oblivious to Gunner’s generous disclosure.

“Yes.”

“By whom? And for what purpose?”

“If I could answer those questions, Mr. Wiley, this conversation wouldn’t be necessary. Would it?”

He was suggesting that Wiley had asked a foolish question, and Wiley was duly insulted. Scowling, the attorney said, “I don’t think it’s necessary in any case, Mr. Gunner. So, if you don’t mind, we’ll end it right here and now.” He turned to face Washington. “Tell Mr. Gunner good-bye, Harriet, while I show him to the door.”

He was nearly on top of Gunner when Washington asked, “What is it you want to know?”

She had meant the question for her guest, and had asked it without giving Wiley so much as a sideways glance. The insult froze Wiley in place like a blast of cold air, and he turned to her, his face flushed red with embarrassment.

“Harriet, I am advising you not to talk to this man. We have nothing whatsoever to gain by answering his questions, and everything, quite literally, to lose.”

“I can’t tell him anything but the truth, Milton. And the truth is what we want the world to know, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but—”

“What happened to my son was a sin, Mr. Gunner,” Washington said, turning away from Wiley again. “And when you learn the facts, I know that you’ll agree. That’s why I’m not afraid to talk to you.”

“Harriet,” Wiley pleaded, “please listen to me. Before you say another word—”

“Tell me what you want to know,” Washington said to Gunner, still treating her attorney like an apparition only Gunner could see and hear.

And that was it for Wiley. She had shamed him not once, not twice, but three times now, and it seemed to take everything he had just to find his chair again and sit down in it, seething. Gunner waited to see if he was really going to leave it at that, but all he got for his trouble was a look down the cold, dark mine shaft that had suddenly become visible behind Wiley’s eyes.

“Mr. Gunner?”

Washington was eyeing him expectantly.

“All right, Mrs. Washington,” he said, giving Wiley one last look before going on. “I guess I’d like to know what your son was like, for starters. The kind of company he used to keep, how he did in school. That sort of thing.”

“You want to know if he was the kind of boy who could have tried to murder a policeman.”

Gunner should have seen that coming, but it had caught him unawares, all the same. “That’s putting it rather indelicately, but I guess that is what I’m asking, yes.”

“Then my answer to you is no. Lendell was not that kind of boy. He was a weak child, Mr. Gunner, not a bad one. I know all mothers say that about their sons, but this time it’s true. Lendell could be talked into all kinds of trouble—but no one could have made him fire a gun at somebody. No one.”

“How about just carrying one around? Could he have been talked into that?”

“No.”

“Not even by Noah Ford?”

“No. Not even by Noah.” She paused. “Those boys were very close, of course. Lendell loved Noah like an older brother. But … there are many things that come natural to Noah that Lendell was simply incapable of. Even my sister will tell you that.”

“Your sister?”

“Noah’s mother. Charlene. You didn’t know the boys were cousins?”

Gunner shook his head. He vaguely remembered Harry Kupchak mentioning it, but he didn’t know that the fact was supposed to be common knowledge.

“Noah is a devil, Mr. Gunner. He’s my nephew, and I hate to talk about one so young that way, but it happens to be the truth. He was a bad influence on Lendell from the beginning, and I had no business allowing them to become so attached to one another. I always thought, because Lendell was an only child, he needed a friend like Noah, that their friendship would do him good. So I let them be. But even Pervis knew I was asking for trouble, letting them run the streets together like I did. He warned me many times against it. I just never took him seriously.”

“Pervis is …?”

“Lendell’s uncle. Charlene’s and my little brother. He lives here in the house with me, so naturally he and Lendell were also very close. Pervis used to tell me how he felt about Noah, and I’d just say he was being overprotective of Lendell. But he was really just being smart. I can see that now.”

“Lendell and Noah had been in trouble before, then.”

“Oh, yes. Many times.”

“Harriet, for God’s sake!” Wiley was on his feet again. “Will you listen to what you’re saying? You’re establishing the fact that Lendell was a
problem child
—precisely what the police will attempt to do in making their defense. You’re building their case for them!”

“Lendell was not perfect, Milton,” Washington said, “and I’m not going to pretend that he was. I’ve told you that.” She looked at Gunner again, forgetting to dismiss Wiley officially, and said, “Lendell and Noah had been in trouble before, of course. For fighting in school and defacing public property. Things like that. Even shoplifting, once. But never for anything like that liquor store robbery, Mr. Gunner. Never anything like that.”

“As far as you know, you mean.”

“No. That’s not what I mean. I mean that it never happened.”

She said it with the kind of confidence people generally had only in reality, not in the stuff of their dreams. That in itself only proved how desperately she believed it, Gunner knew—but it was also a fair indication of how futile it would be to challenge her on the subject.

“Where is Noah now, Mrs. Washington?”

Wiley’s client shook her head. “I’m not sure. His mother and I don’t talk as often as we used to, for obvious reasons. But it seems to me the last time we spoke, she told me he was in jail again.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know which jail, in particular, would you?”

“No. I wouldn’t.”

“Haven’t you been listening?” Wiley asked. “She told you. The boy’s a devil. Certainly no one to look to for the truth. If you’re thinking about talking to him, you’d just be wasting your time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Wiley. Thanks.”

“No, you won’t. You’re going to talk to him anyway. Aren’t you?”

“I thought it might be a good idea, yes.”

“To ask him what? He wasn’t a witness to Lendell’s shooting. What could he possibly tell you that would be relevant to anything?”

“I won’t know that until I talk to him, Mr. Wiley. But, if nothing else, I would think he should at least be able to tell me why.”

“Why?”

“Why they did it. The liquor store robbery. Did they do it for the kicks, or just for the money?”

“Lendell didn’t do it for either,” Harriet Washington said sharply, clearly infuriated by the question. “He did it because he was forced to.”

“That’s right,” Wiley agreed. “The boys’ history together proves that.”

“But that’s not the way Noah tells the story, is it?” Gunner asked him, just to see what would happen.

Wiley and Washington each stole a glance at the other, filling a short silence with a shared unease. “As I told you before, Mr. Gunner,” Wiley ventured bravely, “Noah is not the best person in the world to consult for the truth. Especially when he’s in trouble. Naturally, then, it isn’t surprising that he has always insisted the liquor store robbery was Lendell’s idea, and not his. It’s what any liar would say, under the circumstances.”

“And what does he say about Lendell being armed that night?”

“Oddly enough, on that point he agrees with us. He says Lendell never had a gun. Of course, he also says the same thing about himself. Never mind that the counterman at the liquor store swore that he had one.”

“He have a gun on him when the police took him into custody?”

“No. But what does that prove? He had the same opportunity to dispose of a weapon the police say Lendell had. My feeling is, he tossed the gun somewhere as he ran and it just never turned up. Or no one bothered to look for it.”

“Mr. Gunner, my son did not deserve to die,” Washington said, stating what was to her a simple fact. “If you had known him, you’d know that. He was there that night with Noah, yes, but he wasn’t the one holding a gun, and he certainly never used one to shoot at that policeman. He simply could not have done such a thing.”

Gunner nodded, trying to show some sensitivity for her position, and said, “I’d like to believe that, Mrs. Washington. But I’m afraid it’s difficult to reconcile with my client’s account of your son’s death. My client says he saw Lendell fire two shots at Jack McGovern before McGovern fired three shots back, and frankly, I believe him. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Then your client is mistaken.”

“Or as big a liar as Noah,” Wiley added.

Gunner looked at him. “He may be mistaken,” he said evenly, “but I don’t think he’s a liar. He has no reason to lie.”

“Unless the police are paying him to. Is that what you mean?”

It hadn’t been, of course, but now Gunner wondered if it shouldn’t have been. Mitchell Flowers seemed genuine enough, but Gunner really knew next to nothing about him, and he’d been fooled by competent actors, and actresses, before.

“If that were the case, he wouldn’t have hired me,” Gunner said, defending his judgment of character as best he could.

“On the contrary,” Wiley countered. “It looks infinitely better this way. If the police had produced this ‘new witness’ of yours on their own, claiming to have found him quite by accident, do you think anyone—especially Mrs. Washington and I—would have taken him seriously for a moment? Of course not. People are not that gullible. However—if he were to come to their attention through someone like yourself, someone with no personal or professional interest in the outcome of Mrs. Washington’s case against the department, it’s likely he would be looked upon in an altogether different light. Isn’t it?”

Again, Wiley was making a lot of sense, considering possibilities Gunner should have considered himself long ago.

“I don’t think that’s the case, Mr. Wiley,” Gunner said. It was the only retort he could come up with.

“Well,
I
do,” Wiley said firmly. “And if I’m forced to, I’ll prove it in court. Relay that message to your client for me, will you, Mr. Gunner?”

He was saying good-bye, and by her silence, so was Washington. Gunner regarded them both, feeling not unlike a house pet being shooed outside, and stood up to offer Washington his hand again.