Name Games by Michael Craft

Author:Michael Craft [Craft, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Suspense
ISBN: 9781480433977
Publisher: St. Martin's
Published: 2000-05-01T04:00:00+00:00

Thursday, September 21

CALL IT MISTRUST. CALL it a skeptical hunch. Go ahead, call it paranoia. Whatever name best labels it, a nagging suspicion kept telling me that Dumont’s district attorney was somehow involved in the Carrol Cantrell case—if not in the murder itself, then possibly in planting the extortion note that had thwarted the investigation, “outed” Doug Pierce, and threatened to influence the outcome of an important local election. After all, the impending obscenity trial gave Harley Kaiser a clear conflict of interest in all this. What’s more, Roxanne Exner, a shrewd judge of character with an insider’s view of the law biz, had derided Kaiser’s hot-dog tactics before she’d even met him. So…I invited the man to lunch.

My purpose, of course, was not to break bread with Kaiser, but to sound him out. Perhaps over a meal, one-on-one, he would let slip a detail or two that could shed light on his true role in this. When I phoned him that Thursday morning to extend the invitation, I needed some pretext (chummy we weren’t), so I told him that I felt the need to atone for interrupting his lunch with Pierce on Monday when Roxanne and I joined them at their table.

“I appreciate the thought, Manning,” he told me dryly on the phone, “but no harm was done. No payback is required or expected.”

He was ready to hang up, so I fudged, “Actually, Harley, there’s a matter of some importance—and delicacy—that I’d like to discuss with you. It regards the Register’s endorsement of Doug Pierce.”

“Oh?” His voice now carried the distinct ring of interest. “When would you like to meet, Mark?”

“How about high noon? First Avenue Grill.”

“I’ll be there.”

And he was. I arrived a minute or two past the hour to find him waiting near the door. Dumont had weathered the season’s first hard frost overnight—a few weeks early—and the dawn had broken bright but cold. So we both wore topcoats that day. Meeting inside the entrance to the Grill, we greeted each other and shook hands while shrugging out of our coats, an awkward little duet that would become better-practiced as the season grew colder. The hostess took our coats while ushering us to my table between the fireplace and the window. A shaft of noontide sunlight angled through the plate glass, confirming that the earth’s axis had tipped.

Our waitress appeared with menus, offering drinks. I ordered a Lillet, hoping that Kaiser might also opt for alcohol (the better to loosen his lips), but he ordered coffee instead, “black and hot.” He emphasized these instructions to the waitress with a nod of dismissal, which wagged his mound of poodle hair.

Unfolding my napkin and dropping it to my lap, I asked, “Did Deputy Kerr mention that he came into the office for an interview yesterday?”

“He did,” confirmed Kaiser, unfurling his own napkin with a snap. “Rather, he mentioned that he was going to. I haven’t spoken to him since the meeting.” Kaiser leaned forward, no more than an inch.

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