Playing God: A John Travers and Wally Karpinski Novel

By C. Carl Roberts

Two unconventional private investigators are making a lackluster living running down deadbeat dads and unfaithful spouses. JT Travers is a partially disabled Vietnam vet haunted by his combat trauma; Wally Karpinski is a tough, foul-mouthed Gulf War veteran with a penchant for inane idioms. But everything is about to change for the investigators when a beautiful widow asks them to take on a case involving the brutal murder of her attorney husband.

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, Mike Fresby is an up-and-coming medical researcher who keeps stumbling upon a series of startling pathological anomalies. As he attempts to understand their grievous implications, he falls victim to a series of events that threaten to destroy his life and career. Desperate and in fear for his life, Mike hires the detectives to find out who is behind the events and why. When the two seemingly unrelated cases converge, the private eyes and young researcher find themselves in the midst of a devious conspiracy.

In this action-packed thriller, three men are immersed in a complex, life-and-death game of intrigue directed by a cartel of brilliant and immoral men who want nothing more than to play God.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Oct 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458200501

C. Carl Roberts

C. Carl Roberts is the author of three other Travers and Karpinski novels: Playing God, Identity, and Abreaction. He currently lives in Northern California.

Book preview

Contents

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Epilogue

Author’s note

Prologue

Rain. Always at the wrong time, commute hours and soccer games. Always when the umbrella is left in the hallway, the wool suit is new and the overcoat is at the cleaners. Rain. An erotic backdrop one time, a harbinger of disaster another.

William Noble’s shoulders slumped slightly as he looked through the glass doors at the slowly moving traffic. Like lemmings on Quaaludes, he thought as he watched two long lines of cars creeping along, torrents of water bouncing from their hoods and windshields. He sighed as he pulled his Italian leather briefcase and his computer bag to his chest and pushed the door open. The air was colder than he had anticipated, and he audibly drew in a breath.

My God! he said, striding toward the outer parking lot, talking to himself. This is what I get for that little early morning tryst with the missus. Miss the car pool, too late for the underground lot. Too late for the side lot. All for a piece of ass. He smiled, knowing his wet wool suit and muddy loafers were worth it.

The rain was relentless, with wet projectiles tumbling and deforming as the squall intensified. By the time he reached the outer parking lot, Noble’s suit was soaked and his view was obscured by water coursing down his new blended bifocals. He removed the glasses and absently wiped them on his damp shirt, smiling at the absurdity of the attempt. Laughing, he put his glasses back on and could barely identify his small green Miata, sitting under a light pole about a hundred feet away. He fished his keys out of his pants pocket, aimed the door opener at the car and pushed the button. He was gratified, and just a bit relieved, when the interior light came on, indicating it was unlocked.

As he reached for the door, he sensed movement to his right and then felt something hit the upper part of his arm, driving it numbly to his side. He tried to lift the arm but it was like trying to lift the back end of his car. Bewildered, he slowly turned, as if moving through chest-high mud. Through rain streaked lenses he saw a darkly clad person about his height standing a couple of feet away. He felt the surge of adrenaline and his heart rate responded an instant later.

Hi, Billy, hissed the other person as he swung the tire iron into William’s other arm. There was a wet crack and a brutal pain. Noble’s knees shook and he almost fell as the pain raced through his system like an expanding fireball. He looked at his broken arms and then at the assailant, his lips forming unanswerable questions. He saw the other man move and felt the gloved fist smash into his nose and mouth. He fell to his knees as if in prayer, and felt warm liquid run over his lips and chin. Through his blurry glasses he thought he saw dark droplets hitting the pooling rainwater, expanding like tiny oil slicks. He looked up, wanting to plead for his life, but his damaged lips could not form any words.

You look a mess, Billy, said the other man. All bloody and disgusting. But we needed to talk and what better way to break the ice than say, with a tire iron? Plus I needed to teach you a lesson. You should’ve stayed with divorce cases or DUIs, or whatever else you big-shot lawyers do. But oh no. You had to stick your nose into places it don’t belong. This is the big leagues, Billy Boy. And you fucked up. So now your sweet piece at home will be alone and you’ll be six feet deep. Maybe I’ll just drop by and console the widow. You wouldn’t mind too much, would you? The man broke into a high-pitched laugh as he grabbed William by the hair, pulling his head back.

Bye-bye, Billy, snarled the man, and he drew an exquisitely sharp blade across William’s throat. The blade smoothly incised skin, muscle, cartilage and great vessels, and within seconds, William Noble’s life was gone, his blood carried toward the storm drain by the ever-increasing rain.

Well, what do we have here? Besides this goddamned quagmire. Oscar Demotta was talking to himself as he walked toward the commotion at the back of the parking lot. The rain was coming down hard, driven almost horizontally at times, and there was a considerable amount of water on the blacktop, slowly moving downhill, away from the buildings. Demotta was walking like he was trying to dodge the puddles, but given that most of the lot was already flooded, his attempt was futile and awkward. Large generator-driven emergency lights had been set up to illuminate the area, and policemen were trying to secure the scene with wooden barricades and plastic tape. Medical examiners were huddled around a body on the ground while members of the media were yelling and trying to position themselves to get the best view. A few curious civilians huddled under windblown umbrellas, trying to get a look at what was happening. Demotta moved sloth-like across the pavement until he reached the perimeter of the crime scene. He rudely moved a local television reporter out of his way.

Well, hello, Wilson. I see the ghouls are out. I don’t think Noah’s flood would keep you people away.

Detective Demotta, good to see you, too. And we’re always here to keep you and your colleagues on the straight and narrow.

That’s good of you. But why come out in this godforsaken storm? Figure you’ll get the Real Story, do you? He looked up into the dark sky as if the answers were there. The water slammed into his face and Demotta didn’t think his shower at home was any more powerful than what he was experiencing. He shook his head and grimaced.

It’s my job, Detective.

Demotta met the reporter’s gaze and sighed. Yeah, well, let me do my job, and you and the rest of your pals stay the hell out of my way. You might as well go home because you aren’t getting anything from us about this.

Come on, Demotta! It’s my job!

Go away, Wilson. Demotta lifted the yellow crime scene tape and moved his overweight body under it. He then walked over to a group of uniformed policemen and detectives in street clothes. All of them were wearing yellow slickers and looked miserable. By virtue of his almost thirty years in the Metro Police Department, he was the senior detective who ultimately would supervise the junior detectives running the case. And tonight he was the last one on site, which really steamed him. He had been with his wife when the call came in, and it took almost forty-five minutes to negotiate the rain-slicked, traffic-snarled roads. But he was the person in charge and everyone knew that the body was not to be moved until he saw the layout of the crime scene. Because the on-site personnel had already had an hour of cold and rain, with much more to come, they were irritable when Demotta strode up, rubbing his nose.

Where you been, Oscar? asked Stan Ordner, Demotta’s partner of five years. I could have had this wrapped up if you weren’t such a tight-ass about seeing the stiff.

Yeah, that’s probably true, Stan. But then it would have been fucked up, wouldn’t it?

Why’s that?

Because you’re stupid. He looked at his partner’s smile. So let’s have it.

Youngish guy. William Noble. Thirty-seven. Apparently a lawyer at Saxton and Newcastle. He pointed at the large office building a hundred yards away. Anyways, that’s his car. The green Miata? I’d say he was about to get in it when somebody came up and hammered him. His key was under the driver’s side, in a puddle. Probably when his arm got broke he dropped it.

Arm got broke? Demotta again went to his nose.

Both arms got broke, Ordner answered, causing Demotta to frown. The right one had the upper arm busted. Left one apparently had both lower bones snapped.

Jesus, somebody really whacked him.

Iron bar, maybe? Definitely something heavy.

How’d he croak him?

Cut his throat. Almost decapitated the guy. Only good thing about this damn rain is that most of the gore is gone so it’s not as nasty as it could have been.

There’s also no bloody footprints or anything else, said Demotta, looking past his partner at the tarp-covered body.

True. He took a shot in the chops too. Face broken up a bit.

With the iron?

No. Fist or elbow probably. Maybe a foot. Medicos figure the vic was on his knees when he got cut.

Christ. So the bad guy breaks both his arms, punches him out, gets him on his knees and cuts him. Some kind of motivated. Robbery?

Doesn’t look like it. He had about a hundred bucks in his wallet, expensive watch. All there.

What about his briefcase, computer, whatever?

Huh?

Stan, the guy’s a lawyer. He’s going home. You ever see a lawyer not take a briefcase home?

Well, hell, I hadn’t thought about it.

See what I mean? You’re stupid. Let’s look at the vic. They walked over to the body, and with a nod, Demotta had them pull the tarp away. The severity of the damage caused him to gasp.

Good Lord! How long has he been dead?

Hour or so, replied the forensic specialist. Even with the rain he was still pretty warm, so he was killed not long before he was spotted.

Take him home, Doc. I assume you have all the pics and that. He turned to Ordner. Who found him?

Some paralegal. Young gal, nice ass.

What’s her ass have to do with it?

Nothing Oscar, I was just—

Look, Stan, I like a nice ass as well as the next guy. If we’re drinking beer somewhere, I have no problem talking or thinking about it. But we just looked at something grotesque. I figure your first priority would be professional. Talking about a witness’s ass don’t cut it.

Sorry, Oscar. Jesus. I didn’t think you were so damned sensitive.

Never mind, Stan. What did the woman see?

Nothing, Ordner’s blush was hidden by the dark. Ran out to get in her car—it’s over there—saw the victim, went over, barfed, and called 911 on her cell phone. She told me she barfed, Oscar. I’m not being insensitive.

I assume you have people in all the buildings, talking and asking? Demotta watched Ordner nod. And I also assume that, other than the victim, we don’t have squat. No other witnesses, no nothing?

So far, that’s right. Maybe we’ll get lucky.

Yeah, and maybe later tonight I’ll get laid by a blonde starlet with big tits. Demotta frowned as he watched the coroner’s van move away.

How about that sensitivity, Oscar? Doesn’t pertain to you, I see.

Demotta shrugged and walked toward a group of officers. He was rubbing his nose.

One

Too much rain. Oppressive. Can’t breathe. Under water. Sinking. They’re coming! They’re all around me! I’m gonna die! Where are they? Too dark! Can’t see, for Christ’s sake! I can’t open my eyes! I can’t open my goddamn eyes! I can’t kill them if I can’t see them! I can’t open my eyes! Open, goddamn it, open!

My eyes flew open, and I saw the hair and the squinting eyes. Fetid breath entered my nose like a burrowing worm. I screamed and lurched upright, flinging comforter, sheet, and the large orange-and-white tabby cat onto the floor. My heart rate must have been two hundred. Sweat was running down my face. I could smell my own fear and my T-shirt stuck to me like a second skin.

Jesus Christ, Butch! I shouted, trying to control my hyperventilation. Can’t you just meow when you’re hungry? Maybe like a cat? Better to sit your fat ass on my chest and suffocate me?

I looked at his sixteen-pound body and noticed his fur was standing on end, his flicking tail fluffed and huge. He was looking at me wide-eyed as if I was nuts. Maybe I was. It didn’t take much to send me over the edge and into my nightmares. A bad movie. A loud noise. Too much Jack Daniels. A cat on my chest.

Goddamn, I sighed as I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. I felt shaky, like I was standing on ball bearings, and when I took the first step, it felt like a bag of cement was attached to my leg. I trudged to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. As my dad’s old friend Evan Standbridge used to say, I looked like I was shot at and missed and shit at and hit. I also looked like I was shot at and hit. My left shoulder was a mass of scarred flesh, and the loss of a good bit of my biceps and triceps muscles on my upper arm had left it atrophied and weak looking. The thick pink scars and the accompanying tissue loss were stark and painful testimony to the power of flying metal.

My name is John Travers. JT to my friends. Both of them. Probably Asshole to most everyone else. You see, I’m not real good at making friends. I don’t know why, really. Actually, maybe I do. I know I’m impatient. I also hate incompetence, insincerity, ass-kissing and guys with two good arms. But I love cats and get all weepy-eyed during sad movies. That’s why I see them alone. I’m too macho to let anyone see me cry. And if John Travers is anything at all, he’s macho.

Another thing about John Travers is that he’s completely full of shit.

I’m on the backside of fifty. I think there was some sort of country music song about that. I can’t remember. Maybe a book? I’m tall for my height, as my friend Wally says, an inch or two over six feet, and I’m in pretty good shape if you leave out my left arm. People tell me I look young, but my once-thick brown hair has lost some of its vigor and is shading toward gray, just like my moustache. But I’ve been told the gray accents my blue eyes. Wally says I kind of look like that actor Harrison Ford, only uglier. I’m not sure what that means, exactly. To me Harrison Ford looks rugged, with a strong chin and a couple scars here and there. Well, I’ve got the scars, along with a slightly bent nose, thanks to a powerful left hook I accidently stepped into. I was drunk at the time. But I’m not sure if that represents ruggedness or stupidity.

Anyway, I’m single. I always have been. Well, that’s not quite true. I tried marriage once for a few months, a long time ago. I failed at that pretty miserably. I suspect no reasonable woman would take all the baggage I bring along. But if I were really honest, I’d admit I’m too damn scared to commit. Commitment means vulnerability. And John Travers is too macho to show any kind of vulnerability. Did I mention I was full of shit?

I live in a condominium in Georgetown, right here in the District of Columbia. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for the trust fund. I do all right, but big bucks I do not make. I’m a licensed private investigator who looks for missing persons, unfaithful spouses, and an occasional deadbeat dad. Since I don’t really generate enough income doing the P.I. thing, I also run a consulting outfit, where I set up home security systems for rich folks, low-level politicians and the paranoid middle class. I wouldn’t say my business is thriving, but I keep busy. Thanks to my contacts in the military I get a good bit of business from the everyday Pentagon folks, and nowadays with everyone worried about terrorists sneaking into his or her bedroom, my security expertise is in particular demand. I like what I do because I can work alone a lot, so I don’t have to forge many meaningful relationships. My VA shrink says my ability to face my deficiencies and understand my weaknesses is a strong first step toward a more meaningful life.

I was born and raised in Southern California, the last of three boys who came from an aerospace engineer (Dad) and an elementary school teacher (Mom). Dad came from humble roots in the mountains near Asheville, North Carolina, and my mother was Austrian; she came to the United States in the early Thirties. They met while my father was in the Marines, stationed at Camp Pendleton, there between Oceanside and San Clemente. Dad served in the Pacific in World War II, where he was involved in some of that ugly island-hopping near Japan. He never really talked about it, though, and when I asked him about it, he would either get real quiet or real upset. He must have seen some things he really didn’t want to remember. I can relate to that now.

After the war, Mom and Dad moved to a beach community south of Los Angeles. Dad finished his engineering degree and Mom got her teaching credential. They started having kids, one right after the other. I was the youngest of the brood, and I suppose if you spoke to my high school teachers they’d have labeled me Most Likely to Go Nowhere. Not that I didn’t try to fit the mold; I just couldn’t. Considerable lack of motivation in those days, I guess you’d say. Mom and Dad were always supportive, although I suspect their hearts were continually cracking under the strain of my I know what’s best attitude. My brothers were too interested in sports (the oldest, Geoff) and young hard female bodies (the middle boy, Bill), to help me along except to occasionally stress how good football (Geoff) or breasts (Bill) were for the psychological well being of a tall, strong teenager.

So I trudged along by myself, ultimately gravitating toward a bunch of nitwits who convinced me that petty crime and anti-social behavior would lead to self-respect. Fortunately—and thanks to a nice young girl who saw some redeeming quality in me—I managed to break away from the jerks and get through high school with adequate grades in spite of the numerous suspensions and attitude problems. Funny, I don’t even remember the girl’s name. You’d think I would, given how she stopped my slide into oblivion. I wonder sometimes what that says about me. Regardless, I started to do better in school, and my grades were good enough for me to go to one of the second-tier state colleges in the area. My always-compassionate classmates congratulated me: Good luck at Long Beach State, John. When we come back from the university at Christmas, we’ll give you a ring. Yeah. And while you’re dialing, kiss my ass.

I went to Long Beach State College and actually started learning things and enjoying myself. I basically was a loner, but I hung around with a few people. Of course, the war in Vietnam was dragging everyone down at the time. When I graduated with a degree in biology, I saw the realities of the draft hanging over me. The war, of course, was wildly unpopular, and the activists were whining that most of the men drafted were black or brown or relatively poor, while privileged white guys like me got a pass.

So the great powers instituted a birthday-based lottery to make fiery death an equal statistical probability for all young men aged eighteen to twenty-five. They predicted that the first hundred or hundred and twenty dates would be called the first time, so with my number being forty-five, it didn’t take a college degree to know what was in store for me. Hell with the draft, I thought, so I enlisted in the Army.

Why, you ask? Don’t ask. Another of my thoughtful decisions. By enlisting, I was told, I could choose my MOS—Military Occupational Specialty—on my way to getting my ass blown off. Funny thing, though: I was good at Army. And with my college education, I was given the opportunity to become an officer. I didn’t know at the time that the average life expectancy of a junior officer in a hot landing zone was on the order of minutes. So I became an officer and a gentleman and was proud to lead my men into battle.

God, what a bunch of crap. Battle is not glamorous or exciting. It’s scary and awful. Smelly, loud, horrifying and hopeless. The only thing good about it is that you are not alone, and the guys you couldn’t stand at home are now your best buddies and protectors. Unless you are an officer, of course. In that case, you have the opportunity and the honor of ordering scared young people to go out on point and likely get killed. Or to cross some goddamned rice patty knowing somebody was out there with a machine gun. I try not to think about it too much anymore because when I do, I get mood swings. Sometimes I want to drink myself into a stupor. Other times I think about putting a gun in my mouth. That certainly would be an effective way to end the nightmares about all my men who came home in pieces inside metal boxes. My shrink says that honestly facing my fears and horrors will ultimately lead to some peace of mind. It’s been decades now, and I still have no peace of mind. Except when I’m with Wally, my friend and my savior.

Wally. Wally Karpinski. He’s a big guy, a good heart, with a bad temper and a fondness for foul language and stupid idioms. He’s sensitive and thoughtful, impulsive and dogmatic and irritable in the morning. I think years of hard work, eight of them in the military, left him with a chronically sore back, and it takes him an hour or so to loosen up. But he never ever bitches about it. He is just irritable.

He was making coffee and mumbling, one morning, when I walked into the small coffee room that was an integral part of our office.

Ready? I asked, with a bit of a chirp in my voice. I tried to act happy whether I was or not because it irritated him more than usual.

No, it ain’t ready yet! You want it done faster, get your sorry ass in here before me and make it.

My, my. Aren’t we touchy this morning?

I’m touchy every morning, JT. You know that. It’s just worse today.

Any why’s that? Drink too much last night, did you? Get shut out at the club? No lap dance for the big boy? His glare didn’t affect me.

Maybe. Maybe the problem was I didn’t drink enough. Just butt out or I’ll thump you. There was no humor in his voice. Even though he is a strange character, I do love him like a brother. Probably more, because brothers can be so tedious sometimes.

Wally has been there. He’s been in that place where no sane or reasonable person should ever have to be. He’s seen death first hand. He’s experienced the horrible empty feeling of not knowing whether he would be alive five more minutes. And that perspective gives him the insight to deal with my pain, with my self-hatred, with my anger. He talks to me when I need to be set straight and he listens when I need a compassionate and non-judgmental ear. He is one of those very few individuals we have in our lives who we can truly call friend.

I laughed and patted him on the shoulder as I left the room and walked into my office. He followed me a moment later.

We have an appointment this morning, I declared, looking at the mess on my desk. The hodgepodge of paper, chewed pencils, Post-Its and ragged file folders looked like their owner was a bit scatter brained.

An appointment? Wally’s eyes were wide. Since when do we have appointments? Usually we just meet some chump in a bar, buy him a beer and go spy on his ol’ lady.

Technically, Wall, that would qualify as an appointment. An appointment doesn’t necessarily have to be at the business site. I suppose I was being condescending, because he stiffened.

One of these days, JT, you’ll talk down to me one too many times. And when that happens, I’ll kick your ass so far over your shoulder blades you’ll have to part your hair to shit.

I’m trying to visualize that, I said, smiling. So what you’re telling me is you’d thump a guy with a crippled arm?

Of course I would. Gives me an advantage. Plus I’m a good bit bigger than you.

Fatter. You’re a good deal fatter. Is that what you mean?

You are a world-class turd, JT. Honest to God. Finally he smiled and went to retrieve two cups of coffee.

So who’s the appointment? he asked a minute later as he handed me a cup of the most dreadful coffee ever produced in the civilized world. I’ve never been able to figure out how he can so consistently mess up something as simple as coffee. But what he makes, and calls coffee, would strip the chrome off the bumper of an old Nash Rambler.

Some woman whose husband got killed a year or so back. Apparently, Demotta caught the case. Never cleared it.

He’s too goddamned busy with that nose of his to clear anything. Except his nasal passages.

Come on, Wally, that’s not fair.

Not fair? Oscar is constantly picking his nose. It’s distracting. And gross.

You constantly scratch your balls, I pointed out.

We ain’t talking about me, JT. Besides, my balls itch.

So he’s got boogers.

We looked at one another and laughed.

Excuse me, said a woman, standing just outside the open door to the office. I’m looking for Mr. Travers.

A blush formed on Wally’s cheeks and spread like a wildfire through dry grass. He closed his eyes for a few moments and then faced the very attractive and stylishly dressed woman in the doorway.

How long you been standing there, Ma’am? he asked, looking sheepish.

Not long.

I thought she might be holding back a smile. But long enough, I figure, I said, moving toward her.

Yes, long enough. She looked at Wally, and as he turned away, I was sure his face would burst into flame.

I’m Natalie Noble. Mrs. William Noble, she said, holding out her hand to me. Her grip was firm and her skin was warm.

I’m John Travers. I motioned toward Wally with my head. And that’s my associate, Wally Karpinski. I wanted to refer to him as Balls, but I didn’t. It would have been unprofessional, yes, but it would have felt wonderful.

Wally must have sensed what I wanted to do, because he glared at me before passing his gaze to Natalie Noble. He took a deep breath and offered his hand.

She took it and offered him a delightful smile before looking around for a place to sit. Wally moved a straight-backed chair toward her. She sat down, using that fluid motion only a woman can pull off, crossing her legs so casually yet so sensually that both Wally and I stared like a couple of testosterone-laden teenagers. Confusion and doubt seemed to creep across her features, and now her smile looked like it was made of plastic. I figured we blew it. What a couple of losers.

I don’t suppose you have any coffee? She was good; take the pressure off the morons.

Sure, Wally barked. No problem. He left the room and came back an instant later with a mug that said, Johnson’s Bar: Licker up front, poker in the back. On the mug there was a cartoon of a buxom young woman smoking a cigarette. I couldn’t believe it.

She acted like she hadn’t read the slogan, but her muted smile said otherwise. Now there was a classy lady. Anyone who could tolerate the show we just put on had to be special. While I appreciated her style, I was embarrassed. We really were clowns.

As she sipped Wally’s terrible coffee, she seemed to be assessing us. Here was Wally, about six-foot-four and two hundred thirty pounds, with arms like tree branches, huge shoulders, and a just a hint of a paunch. He had closely cropped hair and a bushy moustache. The scar on his right cheek screamed second-rate physician, the suture scars still and forever evident. He had brilliant blue eyes that could appear both inquisitive and threatening at the same time, and he had a perpetual smile on his lips. Then there was me. A couple inches shorter than Wally, and considerably lighter, but as I said, in pretty good shape. Except for my distressed arm and shoulder. I couldn’t help but be self-conscious. Even though I kept the ugly parts covered by a shirt, it sometimes felt like my emaciated arm was ten feet long. Wally thought I bathed with a shirt on so I didn’t have to look at it. You’d think after a couple three decades I’d have learned to accept myself a little better. And it was worse when I was around a beautiful woman because I still wanted to think I had something to offer. What that might be in the real world, I didn’t know. My knowledge of security systems?

In those brief moments when Natalie Noble was assessing Wally and me, we of course were assessing her. Ogling her was more accurate. She was mid-thirties I guessed, and not very tall, about five-foot-five barefooted. She had medium length brown hair cut square, and she wore stylish eyeglasses. She had a pretty, wholesome look about her and wore just the right amount of make-up to augment her pretty, light brown eyes. Her lips were a glossy pink color, and she had been blessed either with exception dental genes or had had an exceptional orthodontist. Her complexion was flawless. She was quite obviously in good shape, with muscular arms and a slender body. I really couldn’t see it, but I figured she had a wonderful rear end. And as near as I could tell, she had nicely shaped breasts. If you couldn’t say anything else about me, you certainly could comment on my ability to focus on the truly important things. Anyway, I don’t think it was a stretch to say that we both considered her a beauty.

What can we do for you, Mrs. Noble? I asked.

Detective Demotta said maybe you could help me. She looked directly at me for a moment and then at Wally. Her beautiful hazel-colored eyes suddenly looked sad. My husband was murdered just over a year ago. He was killed in a parking lot behind his office building during a horrendous rain storm.

Was he that lawyer guy who almost had his head cut off? Wally blurted.

Jesus, Wally, couldn’t you at least—

It’s OK, Mr. Travers, she said, a few moments later. I noticed that her eyes had filled with tears. Mr. Karpinski stated it pretty accurately.

I’m sorry, Mrs. Noble, Wally said. I let my mouth run sometimes.

Often times, I interjected.

Often, Wally agreed.

Don’t worry about it. I’m not offended. And please call me Natalie.

As long as you use our first names, I replied.

I just need some help, she said.

Tell us. I pulled out a yellow pad and a pencil and positioned everything so that my normal right arm was in plain sight and doing all the work. The other one, I tried to hide.

Bill, my husband, was accosted by somebody in the parking lot behind his building and was killed. Quite brutally, as Wally indicated. She looked at my partner and gave him a sad smile. I noticed she was holding her hands together in her lap like a little girl, and my heart ached for her.

Bill was a kind, loving man. He was liked by everyone who ever met him. I don’t think he had an enemy in the world.

One, Wally said softly. He had one.

She tilted her head slightly and nodded. Yes, I guess you’re right. But I can’t imagine who.

What did he do, Natalie? I asked. I know he was a lawyer. But what exactly did he do?

The firm he worked for—he was a partner—does a whole spectrum of law. Business, patent, medical malpractice. It’s kind of unique place, I think. Most big firms focus on one major aspect of the law, but Bill’s place does all sorts of things.

Eclectic law, Wally said, nodding. I rolled my eyes.

Eclectic is about as good a description as any, Natalie said, shrugging her shoulders. Neil Saxton and Marv Newcastle started out with different interests. Neil is a patent attorney and Marv does financial work. Somehow they got together. Some racquetball club or something. They hired bright young people and let them focus on what they liked, providing they didn’t get too far afield. They have eight other partners, including Bill, and about twenty five associates.

So a big-bucks operation, Wally declared.

Yes, multimillion, with a very good reputation.

So how did Bill fit into the firm? I asked.

"I guess the most accurate way to characterize it is to say he usually represented the little guy. He didn’t take on small neighbor-against-neighbor things. Often times he took on big organizations. Drug companies, refineries, manufacturing plants. No class action claims. Single-person actions against big money.

Well, Jesus, Wally murmured. I could see him having powerful people pissed at him.

I suppose. But you know, law is a strange field. It’s adversarial by nature, but after the case is over, the opposing attorneys often sit down for a beer. No hard feelings.

In my mind, there’s always hard feelings.

But usually not murder, I said, looking at Wally. He shrugged.

OK, he said. But that said, if he was waging war against big money and big power, that could get ugly.

Natalie slid forward in her chair. But he never tried to damage a company or destroy a business. Basically, he wanted his client to be treated fairly—to have a chance.

Great ideal, I said. But generally that translates into money. And money translates into hard feelings. Maybe he didn’t settle for megabucks, but bucks are bucks. Ten or ten million, someone has to pay. And that someone won’t be real happy about it, no matter how fair it is.

That all he did? Your husband? Wally asked.

What Wally means is, did he do any moonlighting? Take any cases outside his firm. Personal injury, divorce?

Anything that might get him involved with folks other than corporate assholes? Wally paused for a few moments, probably sorry for his language. Not-so-nice folks? Drugs, maybe?

Not that I know of. Of course, he’d give free advice to friends. But certainly not to strangers or to people who might harm him. And drugs? No way. He would never represent someone involved with drugs. He hated what they did to people.

Wally frowned and looked directly into Natalie’s eyes for a few moments. I could see him chewing on his lower lip. You think he told you everything he did? I mean work and non-work stuff?

She took a deep breath, and looked away, thinking. Are you wondering about other women? Affairs?

Yeah, I guess I am. I don’t mean any disrespect, but sometimes men do stupid things. And sometimes there’s a jealous boyfriend or husband around. It happens. I knew Wally didn’t like bringing that up so early in the discussion, but too many times he and I had to deal with just such a scenario. Usually it was not associated with a brutal murder, but sometimes it did get physical.

I’d like to think I was all he needed, but I honestly can’t say I know for sure. Not a hundred percent. There never was anything suspicious. No calls, no ‘new perfumes wafting,’ as they say. No sudden late nights at the office. Mr. Demotta, of course, looked into that. But nothing ever came of it.

So as far as you know, there was nobody who had a hard-on for him? As the words tumbled out Wally’s mouth I could see him blush. You just had to love such a big buffoon.

That certainly was smooth, I said.

Ah Jesus, I’m sorry, Wally sputtered. His eyes were darting around like he was watching a fly bouncing off the wall.

It’s quite all right, Wally. I grew up with two older brothers and know how men talk.

Crude? Thoughtless? I offered.

Natalie smiled and adjusted her glasses. Nobody had anything against Bill, to my knowledge. He was well liked at the firm he worked for, and his clients—at least those I talked to—respected him. Mr. Demotta looked at all of Bill’s recent cases, and he didn’t find anything there. I mean anything that could possibly lead to violence.

Awful hard to know what’s going on in people’s noggins, Wally said.

Yes, of course. Let’s just say that there did not appear to be anything in his ongoing cases that piqued Mr. Demotta’s interest.

I was tapping the pencil on the desktop, looking at the blank pad in front of me. So it’s been a year since he died, and Demotta has gone on to other things. Why come to us now?

I get calls now and then.

Calls? echoed Wally, sitting up.

Occasionally. There’s nobody there. Just calls. Late at night. Sometimes where I work.

Any reason to think it’s associated with your husband? I asked.

I guess not, Natalie replied, looking unsure. I called Mr. Demotta, but he said he really couldn’t do anything about it. He suggested I get an unlisted number, which I did. It helped for a while. But now it’s happening again. I called Mr. Demotta last week, and he gave me your name. He said you might have ways of finding out what’s going on.

Wally and I exchanged a glance. Any break-ins or anything? I asked.

Never. No, wait—we had a storage locker. For years. A couple months after Bill’s death, it was broken into. But I guess that’s not all that uncommon. So I was told. Teens usually, looking for old TVs, I suppose. Or for a safe place to party.

Did you tell Demotta about that? Wally asked.

She frowned and thought for a moment. No, I never did. It never occurred to me that it might have been associated with Bill’s death. I got rid of the locker shortly thereafter and have never thought about it much. Until right now.

Maybe it’s not important, I said, taking a drink of Wally’s coffee. It had gotten cold and was like drinking refrigerated drain sludge. I almost spit it out as I looked at the big guy. He saw my response and squinted at me.

So tell us, Wally said, continuing to glare at me. Did Bill keep any records around the house? Old case files, for instance?

No. I never found any when I went through his things. He’d of course bring material home all the time. But I rarely saw anything lying around the house that could be important. He usually worked in the study and took everything back to the office the next day.

How about computers? I asked. Did he work on your home computer? You must have one.

He carried a laptop and only worked on that.

Did they find his laptop at the scene? Or in his office? Wally asked.

No. And his briefcase was gone, too.

Was he robbed? You know, personal stuff?

No. His wallet was there, and he had a nice Rolex. It was an anniversary gift from me. It was still on his wrist. She looked at the wall behind me, unblinking, but after a moment she regained her composure and looked into my eyes.

Hmm. But they took his computer and case, Wally said. Obviously the killer was interested in retrieving some work-related material. What kind of cases was he working on when he died?

He was suing the NRA.

Oh, Jesus, Wally sighed, rubbing his face with both hands. Now there’s an outfit. How many potentially violent humps you figure are part of the NRA, JT?

Lots. Closet patriots who figure they need an AK-47 for home protection.

What was the case about? Wally asked.

Well, I don’t really know all the details, of course. Apparently, some young man went on line to the NRA website and got all stirred up about having a gun. Eighteen years old, I think. He bought one on the street and killed himself in his bedroom while he was handling it.

So Bill was suing because of what? I asked.

You know, the NRA makes a big thing about the right to bear arms. Impressionable people who have no business owning a weapon hear that and go out and buy one. Next thing you know, they kill themselves or someone else. The young man’s father wanted to do something about it.

Did Bill really think he’d win that one? I asked, with sigh. He was taking on Godzilla.

Moses, Wally said, ol’ Charlton Whatshisname.

Heston, I said. He hasn’t been the top guy for a long while. Too old or sick or something. I think he’s dead. I can’t remember.

Oh, Wally said, softly. So, Natalie. Did he figure he could whup ol’ Charlton and his crew?

I don’t really think he planned on winning. Bill hated guns and wanted to bring some attention to the problem.

He and every liberal in Congress.

Natalie smiled. If Bill had one weakness, it was his passion for trying to make certain people uncomfortable. And accountable. Arrogant, power-hungry people.

It could be that one weakness cost him.

Mr. Demotta looked into it but couldn’t find anything. I know Bill thought it was a long shot, but he said he had to try. Maybe make some sort of statement. Natalie shrugged her shoulders.

How about other cases? I asked.

He was working for a man with a brain tumor who claimed he got it at work.

Oh, brother, Wally said, rubbing his forehead.

The man worked at Hercules Pharmaceuticals. In Alexandria? He claimed they were working on some new chemotherapy drugs or something, and that he got exposed. I guess even though the drugs are used to fight cancer, they can also cause it. So Bill got involved.

So how far did it go? I asked. Did it get to trial?

No. He was just working it up. He’d only been working on it a month or so.

What happened to the suit?

The man died a few months after Bill. From his tumor. And the family just wanted to move on.

Anything else?

He had just started researching a case against Beltline Meats.

That big place near Fall’s Church? There was considerable enthusiasm in Wally’s voice. Great bratwurst!

You’d know, I offered.

I’m a Polack, JT, of course I’d know. He smiled at me.

Yes, that’s the place, Natalie said. Apparently, somebody got a really bad gastrointestinal bug when he ate some meat from there. The person was hospitalized for a week or so.

Wally’s upper lip quivered and he looked like he just smelled something unspeakable. I almost laughed, but held it in.

Bill thought there was negligence in their hygiene department, Natalie continued. He didn’t think it was a big deal, but he was looking into it. I believe those were the primary cases he was working on. Of course he had others, as well. I’m sure they would know more at the firm.

So that nose-picking Demotta looked into all those cases, right? Wally asked.

Wally, I scolded.

Hey, Oscar has this thing about his nose, what can I say?

I did notice that, Natalie said, smiling.

See, JT? Everybody notices.

"Cut the guy some