The Lincoln lawyer - By Michael Connelly Page 0,96
through the end of my marriage.
My garage opener was in the Lincoln back at the bar so I told her to just park in the opening in front of the garage. I also realized my front door key was on the ring that had the Lincoln’s key and that had been confiscated by the bartender. We had to go down the side of the house to the back deck and get the spare key—the one Roulet had given me—from beneath an ashtray on the picnic table. We went in the back door, which led directly into my office. This was good because even in my inebriated state I was pleased that we avoided climbing the stairs to the front door. Not only would it have worn me out but she would have seen the view and been reminded of the inequities between life as a prosecutor and life as a greedy fuck.
“Ah, that’s nice,” she said. “Our little teacup.”
I followed her eyes and saw she was looking at the photo of our daughter I kept on the desk. I thrilled at the idea I had inadvertently scored a point of some kind with her.
“Yeah,” I said, fumbling any chance of capitalizing.
“Which way to the bedroom?” she asked.
“Well, aren’t you being forward. To the right.”
“Sorry, Haller, I’m not staying long. I only got a couple extra hours out of Stacey, and with that traffic, I’ve got to turn around and head back over the hill soon.”
She walked me into the bedroom and we sat down next to each other on the bed.
“Thank you for doing this,” I said.
“One good turn deserves another, I guess,” she said.
“I thought I got my good turn that night I took you home.”
She put her hand on my cheek and turned my face toward hers. She kissed me. I took this as confirmation that we actually had made love that night. I felt incredibly left out at not remembering.
“Guinness,” she said, tasting her lips as she pulled away.
“And some vodka.”
“Good combination. You’ll be hurting in the morning.”
“It’s so early I’ll be hurting tonight. Tell you what, why don’t we go get dinner at Dan Tana’s? Craig’s on the door now and —”
“No, Mick. I have to go home to Hayley and you have to go to sleep.”
I made a gesture of surrender.
“Okay, okay.”
“Call me in the morning. I want to talk to you when you’re sober.”
“Okay.”
“You want to get undressed and get under the covers?”
“No, I’m all right. I’ll just . . .”
I leaned back on the bed and kicked my shoes off. I then rolled over to the edge and opened a drawer in the night table. I took out a bottle of Tylenol and a CD that had been given to me by a client named Demetrius Folks. He was a banger from Norwalk known on the street as Lil’ Demon. He had told me once that he’d had a vision one night and that he knew he was destined to die young and violently. He gave me the CD and told me to play it when he was dead. And I did. Demetrius’s prophecy came true. He was killed in a drive-by shooting about six months after he had given me the disc. In Magic Marker he had written Wreckrium for Lil’ Demon on it. It was a collection of ballads he had burned off of Tupac CDs.
I loaded the CD into the Bose player on the night table and soon the rhythmic beat of “God Bless the Dead” started to play. The song was a salute to fallen comrades.
“You listen to this stuff?” Maggie asked, her eyes squinting at me in disbelief.
I shrugged as best I could while leaning on an elbow.
“Sometimes. It helps me understand a lot of my clients better.”
“These are the people who should be in jail.”
“Maybe some of them. But a lot of them have something to say. Some are true poets and this guy was the best of them.”
“Was? Who is it, the one that got shot outside the car museum on Wilshire?”
“No, you’re talking about Biggie Smalls. This is the late great Tupac Shakur.”
“I can’t believe you listen to this stuff.”
“I told you. It helps me.”
“Do me a favor. Do not listen to this around Hayley.”
“Don’t worry about it, I won’t.”
“I’ve gotta go.”
“Just stay a little bit.”
She complied but she sat stiffly on the edge of the bed. I could tell she was trying to pick up the lyrics. You needed an ear for it and