The Lincoln lawyer - By Michael Connelly Page 0,95
to my spot at the bar.
“Hey, buddy, did you lose your car keys?” he said.
I looked around to make sure he was talking to me and then shook my head.
“No,” I said.
“Are you sure? Somebody found keys in the parking lot. You better check.”
I reached into the pocket of my suit jacket, then brought my hand out and extended it, palm up. My key ring was displayed on my hand.
“See, I tol —”
In a quick and unexpected move, the bartender grabbed the keys off my hand and smiled.
“Falling for that should be a sobriety test in and of itself,” he said. “Anyway, pal, you’re not driving—not for a while. When you’re ready to go, I’ll call you a taxi.”
He stepped back from the bar in case I had a violent objection to the ruse. But I just nodded.
“You got me,” I said.
He tossed my keys onto the back counter, where the bottles were lined up. I looked at my watch. It wasn’t even five o’clock. Embarrassment burned through the alcohol padding. I had taken the easy way out. The coward’s way, getting drunk in the face of a terrible occurrence.
“You can take it,” I said, pointing to my glass of Guinness.
I picked up the phone and punched in a speed-dial number. Maggie McPherson answered right away. The courts usually closed by four-thirty. The prosecutors were usually at their desks in that last hour or two before the end of the day.
“Hey, is it quitting time yet?”
“Haller?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s going on? Are you drinking? Your voice is different.”
“I think I might need you to drive me home this time.”
“Where are you?”
“For Greedy Fucks.”
“What?”
“Four Green Fields. I’ve been here awhile.”
“Michael, what is —”
“Raul Levin is dead.”
“Oh my God, what —”
“Murdered. So this time can you drive me home? I’ve had too much.”
“Let me call Stacey and get her to stay late with Hayley, then I’ll be on my way. Do not try to leave there, okay? Just don’t leave.”
“Don’t worry, the bartender isn’t gonna let me.”
TWENTY-FIVE
After closing my phone I told the bartender I had changed my mind and I’d have one more pint while waiting for my ride. I took out my wallet and put a credit card on the bar. He ran my tab first, then got me the Guinness. He took so long filling the glass, spooning foam over the side to give me a full pour, that I had barely tasted it by the time Maggie got there.
“That was too quick,” I said. “You want a drink?”
“No, it’s too early. Let’s just get you home.”
“Okay.”
I got off the stool, remembered to collect my credit card and phone, and left the bar with my arm around her shoulders and feeling like I had poured more Guinness and vodka down the drain than my own throat.
“I’m right out front,” Maggie said. “Four Greedy Fucks, how did you come up with that? Do four people own this place?”
“No, for, as in for the people. As in Haller for the defense. Not the number four. Greedy fucks as in lawyers.”
“Thank you.”
“Not you. You’re not a lawyer. You’re a prosecutor.”
“How much did you drink, Haller?”
“Somewhere between too much and a lot.”
“Don’t puke in my car.”
“I promise.”
We got to the car, one of the cheap Jaguar models. It was the first car she had ever bought without me holding her hand and being involved in running down the choices. She’d gotten the Jag because it made her feel classy, but anybody who knew cars knew it was just a dressed-up Ford. I didn’t spoil it for her. Whatever made her happy made me happy—except the time she thought divorcing me would make her life happier. That didn’t do much for me.
She helped me in and then we were off.
“Don’t pass out, either,” she said as she pulled out of the parking lot. “I don’t know the way.”
“Just take Laurel Canyon over the hill. After that, it’s just a left turn at the bottom.”
Even though it was supposed to be a reverse commute, it took almost forty-five minutes in end-of-the-day traffic to get to Fareholm Drive. Along the way I told her about Raul Levin and what had happened. She didn’t react like Lorna had because she had never known Levin. Though I had known him and used him as an investigator for years, he didn’t become a friend until after we had divorced. In fact, it was Raul who had driven me home on more than one night from Four Green Fields as I was getting