Chapter 8

"Well then!" Clare Epple said, taciturn. "That takes care of the forms. Let's show you to your office, okay?"

"Sure," Mac said, and stood.

Clare led him out of her office. Which was, Mac thought, quite nice for DPP. The carpet was extra thick, the oak trim was rich and deeply polished, a big double-hung window looked out over Judiciary Square, and Clare's desk and chair looked fairly new. The tall office door, with its rippled glass window, sported a small brass plaque that said

CLARE D. EPPLE

SUPERVISOR, PROBATION SECTION

The subject of this plaque was a tall woman in her mid-thirties with indoor-pale skin and black hair in a shoulder-length shag. Her fingers and ears twinkled with rings and piercings, respectively, and Mac suspected, though never learned first hand, that her body had other decorative features as well. She had small close-together eyes that seemed almost black, and a large generous mouth that she kept clenched, talking as it were through her prominent teeth. Today she wore a pale blue seersucker jacket with thin white stripes, over matching pants and a white shirt. Fairly formal for a PPO, Mac thought, but then, Clare was a supervisor, and clearly felt she must dress the part.

Epple had changed in other ways in the year since Mac had been her boss. There seemed to be more poise, more confidence. Gradually Mac got the sense that this was mostly an act, that Clare lived her work life in a state of low grade terror, convinced that she lacked experience and ability, and fearful that this would be found out. He determined to work with her, to be a good team player, whatever power ploys and insinuations and status reminders Clare chose to throw at him.

As they walked down the hall Clare related in her breathy voice how DPP had abruptly been moved upstairs to make way for the Homeland Security Desk, which had ballooned from a staff of two in a virtual broom closet in the old Motor Pool building to a corps of well over 400, sprawling out over the entire ground floor of Fannie Annie, as the feds, the state, and even the notoriously tight-fisted St. Marys County Commission threw money into the cause of homeland security. Whatever effect this was having on actual security, this expansion was certainly good politics. As they chatted, they passed several small offices, some dark, some occupied, as well as a few PO's, most of whom Mac knew well enough at least to wave to.

Presently they came to what used to be the end of the hall. Now there was a massive floor-to-ceiling hole gouged through the wall. The floor here was ill-fitting plywood, and jagged brick and block, interspersed with I-beams, rimmed the sides and top. On the other side the floor was hardwood, the walls plaster, the light dim: a much older building.

"What is this?" Mac asked.

"The old Kern Tower. County bought it last year. It's mainly for Homeland Security as it expands," Clare added, "but we're pushing through too."

Mac had the thought that he'd seen plenty of space back there in Fannie Annie, apparently empty, any of which would be fine for him; he was not particular. But Clare must have her reasons for parking him here in the outer darkness. Presently she guided him into a doorless room, and turned on the light. "I thought this would be good for you," she said.

The room was a 15 by 15 square with a very high ceiling from which three old globe lights hung down. An open archway led away into darkness to the right. In the center of the hardwood floor sat a battered brown banker's desk complete with chair, telephone, and computer terminal. The walls were bare, and the only other furniture was a mismatched pair of hardback guest chairs. The room's most prominent feature was built into the wall behind the desk: an enormous black safe, with brass hinges, handle, and combination, embossed in fading gold letters: THE MOSLER COMPANY. CINCINNATI. "What's up with that?" Mac asked.

"I don't know," Epple said briskly. "Anyway, here you are. I'll send your case files down to you in a little bit. Calendar's on the system; there's an icon on the desk top. Do you know computers?" she asked.

"Sufficiently," Mac said, examining the terminal.

"Well, learn your way around," Clare advised. "We're moving more and more toward total electronic. That's it! Any questions?"

"Yeah, one," Mac said. "An offender. Eddie Fant. Is he still in the system?"

"Let's see." Clare went to his terminal, rippled some keys, paused, then looked up at Mac. "Yes, he's three months into a year for. . .let's see. . .indecent exposure."

Oh man, Mac thought. What will you think of next, Eddie? "Can you transfer him to me?" he asked.

Typically, Clare thought she smelled a rat. "Why would you want him?" she asked.

"I handled him before," Mac said mildly.

"I see." She eyed him. "Well, okay. I'll switch him from Karen to you. She won't care." Mac was not surprised. No PO liked indecent exposure cases; they were as intractable as they came. "Anything else?"

"No. Thanks for everything, Clare. I'm glad to be back on board."

"Call me if you need anything." She went to the entryway, then turned and stepped back in, pulling something from her pants pocket. "Oh! I almost forgot this." She tossed the object on Mac's desk, the sound metal-on-metal. It was a small brass plaque, identical to the one on Clare's door, except this one said

E. H. MCGLADREY

SUPERVISOR, PROBATION SECTION

"I found it in your old desk drawer," Clare said. "Why didn't you ever put it up?"

"Never got around to it," Mac shrugged.

She was eyeing him with definite suspicion. "Okay. I just thought you'd like to have it back. Ta!" she waved, and bustled out.

---

The St. Marys County Law Library occupied the western end of the second floor of the massive granite beaux artes Court House that loomed over the lawns, sidewalks, roundabout, and fountain of Judiciary Square. Floored in marble, with ornate columns and gleaming wrought iron chandeliers, the library was paneled in elaborately carved mahogany, silent testimony to long ago days when labor was cheap and craftsmanship plentiful. The place was so large that a veritable regiment of researchers could get lost in there, and the stacks rose so high that ladders were positioned in each aisle. The miles of shelves, the tons of thick tomes, and the expanse of dead air rising to the plaster ceiling engraved with depictions of great scenes in the history of jurisprudence, created an acoustic environment that seemed to grab even a loudly spoken word and smother it into extinction before it could reach the ears of anyone more than six feet away.

A perfect place, Earl Bucaro thought, for a quiet discussion with the learned ADA.

For otherwise Earl would never have set foot here. Libraries in general, and this one in particular, were of no interest to him. Book readers in general were high on the list of personal annoyances to Earl. They thought they were so much smarter than everyone else. In Earl's observation, most were pretentious posers pathetically out of touch with reality. He remembered a work program jerk-off from long ago, African-American fellow, scooped up in a drug bust like so many of them -- no idea of the name -- who, when asked by the judge if he planned to finish high school, answered by saying, "Naw, I'm keeping it real." Which to Earl was evidence that even from a jerk-off you could learn something. Because that was Earl's approach to life too. Keeping it real.

Roaming the aisles in his light step, Earl scanned the browsers and researchers until, down at the far end, he saw his quarry, back to him, thin hands on hips, gazing upward at a row of black spined books. Earl glided up the aisle as quietly as he could and stopped just inches behind the man, who remained in a trance and wholly unaware of Earl as he gazed up at the books.

The superintendent let several long moments go by, then said, loudly: "Hey!"

The man whirled around, gaping. Recognizing Earl, his face fell. "Oh, shit. You scared the shit out of me," he whispered.

"Me? Scary? Nah."

Judging from his expression the man wasn't buying it. "What do you want?"

"Word with you?" Earl asked pleasantly.

Clearly looking for an out, the man saw none in Earl's eyes, and nodded grudgingly. "Step this way."

Earl trailed the assistant district attorney to a row of study tables by one of the big windows that overlooked downtown all the way out to the art deco train station. Asa Harberts was much taller than Earl, six three easy, and pale and skinny, with thin black hair and thin lips and brown eyes the seemed to bulge from his face. He wore black dress pants and a pale blue dress shirt with loosely knotted red tie. And, Earl noticed, he wore a wedding ring. Still.

Good.

Harberts half-sat on the edge of the study table top, facing the window, feigning casualness. "What is it?"

Earl swung around to face him, still standing uncomfortably close, but otherwise acting as pleasant as he could in demeanor, tone, body language. "First of all," he said, "you need to learn to return phone calls." Harberts, clearly expecting that, started up his blizzard of bullshit, but Earl cut him off with a single hand wave. "No excuses, Asa."

"All right, all right, I'm sorry," Harberts said. "Can we just get to it?"

Earl did so, in a few clipped words.

Pause.

"You're fucking shitting me," Harberts whispered.

"Pardon me?"

"That's not how we do those cases!" Harberts said, still whispering but loud and intent, leaning closer to Earl. "We don't walk them, we hammer them. You know that. As an example to the rest, to keep their sleazy shit south of the river where it belongs. That's been the system ever since --"

"Not this time."

Harberts looked around, as if for help. "The judge will never go for it."

"Have faith."

"It's impossible."

"It's what they want," Earl said softly.

Right on schedule, Harberts stiffened what spine he had. "What if it's not what I want."

"What you want?" Earl asked, frowning. "Need I remind you?" Harberts just stared stubbornly. "What you want," Earl went on, "quit mattering the day I got onto those emails."

Harberts tried to maintain his hard defiant stare, but already it was fraying around the edges.

"I still have them," Earl said easily. "I know where the girl is. And I still have the videotape you made." He smiled. "It still amazes me. Skinny guy like you, with all that stamina."

"All right," Harberts said.

"God-fearing, church-going, solid Republican up-and-comer," Earl went on, "with three kids under the age of six, and a beautiful rich wife -- for an hour and a half you did that girl! Quite something!"

"All right," the ADA said, looking away.

"What's your secret?" Earl asked, genuinely curious. "Speed? Viagra? Or just the appeal of ass that's strange, forbidden, and just a tad too young for you?"

"I'm on board," Harberts muttered, pale face a decade older. "I'll do what you want. Just answer one thing."

"But of course."

"Will this ever stop?"

Beaming, Earl clapped the man's skinny shoulder. "Certainly," he said jauntily. "When you've been dead for two days."