Matt Kile Combo Set Three. 2 novels and an excerpt

By David Bishop

Judge Snider’s Folly.

Some murders are big, splashy, front-page stories.
This isn’t one of them.
Judge Snider’s Folly is an intimate story involving people who could live down your street.

Judge Snider knew Carleen was a mistake. But some mistakes are too much fun to only make once.

The Year We Had Murder.

The latest Matt Kile Mystery is a frisky, sometimes over-the-top, romp through Hollywood, a town with its own manner, imagery, and code of conduct. Matt finds himself smack dab in the middle of the craziness when he’s invited to a Hollywood party where nothing is as it seems. The party is at the home of a famous film producer, who’s married to the big screen’s current sex symbol. Matt takes his favorite date, Clarice Talmadge, to the gathering of silicone starlets and movie moguls.
This stylish murder mystery could be called an edgy cozy or a private detective story absent gratuitous violence. The one thing it isn’t is a predictable story of murder. One of the editors described it as a tongue-in-cheek slide into an unexpected conclusion.
The Year We Had Murder is book seven in the Matt Kile Mystery Series.

˃˃˃ Another story in the popular Matt Kile Mystery Series.
All the Matt Kile mysteries have 4 plus average stars, and been on Amazon bestselling lists, including the coveted number one position.

˃˃˃ A stunning, fast-paced mystery thriller that will keep you on the edge of your seat.
Fans of Clive Cussler, Dan Brown, and JR Rain, will love another installment of the A Matt Kile Mystery Series from International bestselling author, David Bishop.

* OVER 1,000,000 COPIES IN CIRCULATION

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Bishop
• Release date: Feb 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463070666

David Bishop

David is a former financial consultant, public speaker and nonfiction author who now devotes full time to writing mystery and thriller fiction. His plots are grabbers, the characters fascinating, and the storylines fraught with twists and turns. Come along for a ride, you'll be glad you did.

Book preview

Matt Kile Combo set 3

Matt Kile Combo set 3

Two Novels

David Bishop

Contents

Judge Snider’s Folly

Stories by David Bishop

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Afterword

The Year We Had Murder

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

Epilogue

The Woman

Preface

1

2

3

Note to Readers

About the Author

Judge Snider’s Folly

A Matt Kile Mystery Series Book Six

---

DAVID BISHOP

Copyright

Copyright © 2019 David M. Bishop.

---

Except as otherwise provided for herein, this book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

---

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

---

Republished 16 th February 2019 edition

---

Cover Designed by Patti Roberts

Cover Art: Paradox Book Covers and Formatting

Created with Vellum Created with Vellum

Stories by David Bishop

For current information on new releases visit:

www.davidbishopbooks.com

and once there, subscribe to David Bishop’s newsletter, or write him to request being added to the subscription list: [e-mail]

---

Mysteries currently available – By Series:

Matt Kile Mystery Series (in order of release)

Who Murdered Garson Talmadge, a Matt Kile Mystery

The Original Alibi, a Matt Kile Mystery

Money & Murder, a Matt Kile Mystery Short Story

Find My Little Sister, a Matt Kile Mystery

The Maltese Pigeon, a Matt Kile Mystery

Judge Snider’s Folly, a Matt Kile Mystery

The Year We Had Murder, a Matt Kile Mystery

---

Maddie Richards Mystery Series (in order of release)

The Beholder, a Maddie Richards Mystery

Death of a Bankster, a Maddie Richards Mystery

Linda Darby Mystery Series (in order of release)

All Linda Darby stories, co-star Ryan Testler

The Woman, a Linda Darby Story

Hometown Secrets, a Linda Darby Story

The First Lady’s Second Man, a Linda Darby Story

Heart Strike, a Linda Darby Story

The Ryan Testler Character Appears in: (order of release)

The Woman, a Linda Darby Story

Death of a Bankster, a Maddie Richards Mystery

Hometown Secrets, a Linda Darby Story

The First Lady’s Second Man, a Linda Darby Story

Heart Strike, a Linda Darby Story

Jack McCall Mystery Series (in order of release)

The Third Coincidence, a Jack McCall Mystery

The Blackmail Club, a Jack McCall Mystery

Short Stories

Money & Murder, a Matt Kile Mystery Short Story

Love & Other Four-letter Words: a Maybe Murder, a novelette by fictional author Matt Kile, as written by David Bishop

 Scandalous Behavior, a novelette by fictional author Matt Kile, as written by David Bishop

The Twists & Turns of Matrimony and Murder, by David Bishop

www.davidbishopbooks.com

[e-mail]

Dedication

Judge Snider’s Folly, a Matt Kile Mystery, is dedicated to my family and all those who have read my novels. I appreciate your interest in my writings and the faith you display by purchasing my stories. I trust you will enjoy this one. I would be pleased to hear from you after you read it. [e-mail]

In writing this and other stories, my aim is to create characters with whom readers can relate, like or hate as they reach deep within the story to learn if those characters get what they deserve, are captured or saved, seduced or simply survive. The connecting magic of the author-character-reader triad rests in the fact that readers, like the characters living within the pages of fiction, have themselves endured trials and tribulations in their own lives.

I would like to acknowledge all who have found their way into my life, challenging me and enriching me by their presence, goodness, and affection. And last, but certainly not least, this book, as with my others, is dedicated to those I love.

Special thanks to the wonderful people who read early drafts and made suggestions which unfailingly enhance my stories. Thank you.

Chapter 1

Last night I slept in fits and spurts. My mind troubled. No—unsettled, not troubled. I have a meeting this morning with a man I dislike. Not just a man, a sitting criminal court judge I hoped to never see again. Still, in the end, my dislike for him was overwhelmed by curiosity: Why did he ask to see me?

Late last night, after finally deciding not to cancel the meeting, I called Clarice Talmadge who lives in a condo several doors down from mine. We had arranged to spend the night together and share breakfast this morning. We rescheduled it for later in the week. After hanging up, I paced the wraparound veranda on my fourth-floor oceanfront condo, watching the beauty of things that move in Long Beach at night. The ribbons of light on the roads visually narrowed in the distance, white streaks coming toward me, red moving away. Each spot of color surreally smeared into the matching one it followed. Off to the west, the magic of the moon over the ocean, its quiet glow cast on the breaking waves. Eventually, I reclined flat in one of my chaise lounges, stretched out and looking up. Over the next few hours, I watched the early sun gradually dilute the night sky into a weakened gray shadow of itself.

With the morning sun winking around the buildings to the east, Axel, my friend and assistant, came out through the slider carrying a tray with coffee, along with some fruit and croissants, the morning newspaper secure under his arm. Perched like a bird on a wire, his glasses clutched the middle of his nose. Over the years, Axel effortlessly shed the aura of an ex-con, and took on that of a majordomo who dabbled in noir speak.

Boss, why ya gonna take on a job for Judge Snider? Axel began moving the items from the tray to the table. He’s the guy who put you behind bars to live with me for four years. I mean, if he’s got a problem, let’s celebrate, not help the prick.

The rising sun was now topping the taller buildings. The shade cloth over the planted east corner of the veranda caught the glare, muted its harshness and passed its light through.

I doubt he’s looking forward to seeing me either. Aren’t you the least bit curious why he’s coming?

Sounds like you are, Boss.

I am, yes.

I don’t understand you . . . sometimes. I wouldn’t give that judge the sweat off my balls if he was dying of thirst.

I told Axel what I told myself countless times. I did shoot a man, intentionally, in front of the television cameras, on the courthouse steps. Sure, the man deserved to die. He was a killer and rapist with a twisted face and a body like a bag of nails. Still, what’s a judge supposed to do? He sent me to prison where you and I shared a cell. Every turn in life’s road alters what follows. Let’s hear the man out. Then we can decide whether to help, or laugh and spread ugly rumors.

Axel smiled. Now you’re talking. Ugly rumors. I’m ready.

I made one of those guttural sounds representing nothing in particular, hmmm, and frowned. We sat in the hush of morning, hearing the scattered sounds of our neighbors starting their days. The opening of sliding glass doors, the shuffle of slippers on the slate decks of their verandas. After buttering croissants and taking some fruit, we exchanged sections of the morning paper and read quietly for well over an hour.

Axel stood. You said Judge Asshole is coming at ten. It’s after nine, grab your coffee. I’ll take the rest inside. You go ahead and get ready.

The closer the appointment came, the more my curiosity expanded into a mental itch. Judge Snider was cold, almost detached, in his courtroom. As if the man were dealing with life and death between yawns. When sitting passively in a courtroom while your freedom is decided by others, a man recognizes and commits to memory the oddest of things. I remember Judge Snider’s knuckles dimpling the backs of his fat hands each time he rested his head onto one or both of his palms. He did this habitually when in thought or doubting the veracity of whatever he just heard.

What could have him lathered up to the point he needed an investigator? Hell, not just an investigator—me.

Ready for his arrival, I opened the cabinet to the left of my desk. Inside sat quiet, dark-faced monitors for the closed circuit cameras I convinced our condo building’s management group to let me install. The installation of the cameras fell into a gray area of our condo rules. The board withheld permission until I promised to provide, without charge, any investigative work the collective group of owners may come to need. The people on the committee are honest, but everyone looks for an edge. It’s the way of today’s world, and I’m nothing if not a modern guy.

One of the cameras showed the ground floor lobby from the front door of the building up to the elevator. A second camera outside my unit showed the fourth-floor hallway from the elevator to my front door. I installed more cameras inside my condo to show the front door, the living room, and veranda. Resisting temptation, I put aside the thought of including a camera in my bedroom. Those wonders would reside only in my memories and imaginings. I added the internal cameras and beefed up my door lock some months ago, after a thug with a gun stopped by without an invitation. He got all the way to the foot of my bed without my knowing of his invasion. That wasn’t going to happen again.

By my watch, it was nine-fifty-seven when Judge Leland Snider pushed through the door into our building’s lobby. The door eased itself shut as he left it on its own to move toward the elevator. Three months before Judge Snider convicted me of second degree murder he had released the rapist and murderer I shot dead. I spent many nights during my four years in prison considering nonviolent alternatives for evening the score with Snider.

When absorbed with my own considered judgments, I sometimes fancy I’ve moved beyond my cherished anger toward Judge Snider. I’m not all that sure I have. I’m not all that sure I want to. I’m not proud of it, but my attitude has loosely evolved into don’t hold a grudge, someday get even and move on. In all likelihood, over the next hour or so, I would learn how many pounds of flesh I needed out of the judge’s hide to consider the score even. Then again, without those four lost years I might not have become an author. It’s also true that without those four years inside I would still be married and would not have missed four years of being a full-time father to my two daughters, teenagers while I was in prison.

Life does foist its games upon us, challenges if you prefer loftier words for such thoughts. Games we aren’t sure how to win, or, even sure, later on, if we have won. For me, dealing with Judge Leland Snider was one of these games.

The judge was in his late fifties and out of shape. He had thinning hair, a condition some men wore with panache. Snider wasn’t one of those men. The years had not been good to him, but, on his best day, the man had never been Paul Newman, not even Paul Giamatti.

It had been years since I was close enough to Snider that I had to acknowledge him. I’d seen him about town and a few times in the courthouse. Today, he wore his signature outfit—a custom tailored, dark double-breasted suit over a traditional white shirt. No button-down collars for Judge Leland Snider. His mind may be button-down, but never his shirt. He’d finished off his ensemble, as he had every time I’d seen the man, with an understated tie and gold cuff links. Each day of my trial I watched his polished, smooth-toed black shoes peek out from the front of his robe as he strode back and forth from his chambers to his bench at the head of the criminal courtroom. I doubted he’d changed shoe styles. I’d soon find out.

In the hallway of my building, the judge walked the same way he did in court—with the air that comes from people sucking up to his authority long enough to convince him he was truly superior.

Axel joined me in time to watch the judge arrive inside the lobby. He leaned close to the screen, then closer. This guy’s uptown in an out-of-fashion kind of way, and he’s got dough. Is that pretty much true for all judges?

The judge disappeared into the elevator. I ran my hand across my cheek and over my mouth. I skipped shaving this morning. Every day of my trial I spruced up to appear before Judge Snider. Today, he was appearing before me so the question was, has he shaved?

Apparently, Axel continued to think about his prior comment. I’m thinking judges generally come from high-powered law firms, so they ain’t exactly moving on up from poverty.

That was quite a judgment for Axel who’d only spoken prison from his early twenties until about three years ago when, at age sixty-two, he got out of Folsom State Prison to take a job with his old cellmate. That’d be me. In prison, Axel, like most well-seasoned cons with an un-addled brain, developed an antenna for people of wealth.

Prison wealth is not what it is on Wall Street, but don’t think it’s not there. Big House currency starts with a con’s reputation. Then there’s authority over fellow cons. Influence with the guards. The ability to get things inside that aren’t approved to be inside. Prisons have bars to keep people in, not contraband out. The wealthier cons count among their assets connections on the outside that can be used to remind another con’s family or some doll or pal to come up on visiting day. Inside, the con’s power is worn openly, brazenly. It’s different on the outside where, generally speaking, an honest man’s power is subtle. He carries it in his wallet. A woman’s power is more obvious. She carries it in her curves. That sounds chauvinistic, but that’s totally the way it is in the underbelly of society, while less true in the neighborhoods populated with the straights and swells.

During his forty years in Folsom State Prison, Axel developed a lifetime of carefully crafted imaginings about women. One of his pals, Billy, also released from prison, ran a modest sized squadron of high-class escort ladies from a large penthouse condo three building south of—

The judge’s reappearance on my right-side closed circuit screen shut off my thoughts. This screen showed the fourth floor hallway from the elevator to my door.

Axel and I watched Judge Snider glance down the hall away from my condo before turning and heading straight toward my front door, firmly holding the handle of his attaché case in his left hand. Axel would follow our normal routine for first client meetings. He would listen from out of sight and watch through the internal cameras. That way, if I needed the client tailed, Axel wouldn’t be recognized.

I’ll bet this involves a woman, Axel stated as the judge disappeared under the camera. He was at my door, but hadn’t yet rung the bell. My guess, he was gathering himself for seeing me, just as I was for seeing him. We hadn’t been face-to-face since the morning I stood before him at my sentencing hearing.

Axel moved with me toward the front of my condo. Judge Snider is a lifelong bachelor. I’ve heard a few rumors as to his sexual persuasion. He is commonly seen in the company of men, rarely with women.

Axel shrugged. I’m telling ya, Boss. This kinda stuff always involves a dame.

So, now you’re some Damon Runyon-like swami?

The doorbell rang. Axel retreated, his voice carrying back over his shoulder. Only if this here Swami fellow is an old ex-con with a thick Johnson. He raised his eyebrows á la Groucho Marx before ducking into my office where he could observe us on the bank of the internal closed circuit monitors. When Axel closed the connecting door, I opened the last shield between me and the man I really didn’t want to see.

Chapter 2

J udge Snider. I skipped the hello-it’s good to see you. Come in.

That was enough, a greeting but not a welcoming. We shook hands. His was soft and limp, cool to the touch. Rings decorated his second and fourth fingers. He wore no watch. The small chain leading off his belt loop confirmed he still carried a pocket watch on a fob. Except for the modest dandruff dusting his shoulders, he was a well-dressed resurgence striding out of some decade past.

Snider wore the black smooth-toed shoes I expected. The heels were higher than when they left the factory. With them on he might measure five-foot-eight. His entry was led by what lingered from a thousand encounters with fatty foods. His exercise regimen likely consisted of little more than moving from his courtroom bench to the desk chair in his chambers, to the dinner table in his home or some restaurant.

His small, brown eyes were wary, constantly moving. He scrunched his face and looked around through Clark Kent glasses tight against the bridge of his nose. You run your business out of your home?

His snooty way of saying it had been his first words. Not it’s good to see you again. Or sorry I wimped out and released that crud on the world. Or sorry you had to shoot that bastard to keep him from doing more mayhem. Judge Snider had spent the last two decades saying whatever he wanted from the power pulpit of a sitting judge. That was fine. I’d play our meeting his way.

What I didn’t tell him was commingling my office and home allowed Axel and me to maintain a fully-stocked kitchen, as well as an abundant bar. My condo was a three bedroom. The main rooms and the veranda were also larger. I used the second bedroom as an office, not for client meetings but for my principal work, writing novels. The third bedroom came in handy whenever a client needed a safe place to sleep or stay out of sight, or if a friend or one of Axel’s buddies needed to crash for a night or two. Axel lived in a one-bedroom I bought for him on the floor below mine, but he spent most of his days and some of his nights in my place. After four years together in a cell, we easily shared space.

I led Judge Snider onto the veranda where Axel had left a carafe of coffee and a small pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice, along with accompaniments. The judge eased through the doorway like a cumbersome cat entering an unfamiliar room. I motioned toward the table and chairs, and then to the refreshments. Please help yourself.

He ignored me and raised one hand to the height of his shoulder. He pointed his index finger which curled slightly, as if he were offering his forearm to a falcon. Both juice and coffee, if you please. He sat, his bulbous belly testing the strength of the shirt buttons above his belt. I decided not to make an issue of who poured his. I poured for us, then carried my cup to the railing and watched the distance reduce cars and people to toy sizes.

Snider brought his cup and stood beside me. He sipped and talked about the nice view of the ocean to the west and downtown to the north of my veranda, pointing now and then in reference to what he was saying. I’m pleased to see you’re doing well, prospering. As if his proclamation lifted us beyond our history, closing the book on his role in the four years I spent in prison. His words slid out through a weak smile. His raised eyebrows wrinkled space where hair once resided. He set his cup on the rail and straightened the cuff-linked ends of his sleeves.

His comments were interesting in that a few minutes earlier he had spoken contemptuously of my combination office and home. He paused and I let the silence put on weight. His face changed subtly, but it changed. He had arrived at the jumping off point. He was ready to stop pussyfooting around and get into why, after more than six years, he wanted to see me.

Chapter 3

Axel was right. Despite being a well-known bachelor, Judge Snider had a woman in his life. She was missing and, given his position in town, he didn’t want the police involved.

He rambled for a good while saying things that if said in his courtroom, would have brought the opposing attorney to his feet hollering objection for lack of foundation or relevance. Court-speak code words for shutting up the opposing attorney or, at the least, breaking the other attorney’s pace. This is considered good lawyering if, God forbid, the jury appears to be paying attention to what the other attorney is saying.

Instead of objecting, I listened and sipped my coffee. To save you his irrelevant mutterings and emotional drivel, which in liquid form would have been sufficient to paint the barn, let me summarize: Her name was Carleen and the torch Judge Snider carried was a bonfire.

If she hadn’t broken his heart, as they say, she at least drove him to extreme distraction. He claimed an inability to eat, to sleep, to even notice other women.

I wiped the back of my hand across my unshaven jaw, my knuckles sounding off as I dragged them through the stubble. Had we been in a sports arena, with all the principals on the field, I would’ve high-fived Carleen for having successfully tangled his mind and, hopefully, given him the lingering ache of lover’s nuts. Despite the appeal of the thought, at the judge’s age, lover’s nuts would be unlikely.

Have you ever been married, Judge?

Never, Mr. Kile. No, sir, and never regretted it. Men of intellect and accomplishment are first attracted to a woman by lust. As lust leaves, indifference moves into the vacancy. Women, on the other hand, want romance and love to last forever. This is wholly unrealistic. That difference assures eventual and inevitable relationship failure.

The force with which he spoke suggested there was more he wanted to say. I encouraged him onward with one word: Continue.

Before Carleen, I judiciously avoided encounters with women. Business matters to the exception, of course, but no dalliances.

I refilled his coffee cup. He repeated the mistreatment of his first cup: two heaping teaspoons of sugar and an abundant splash of cream.

What’s your age?

I’m sixty-seven, not that it matters.

I looked at his face. My gaze lowered to his tie, following as it first sloped up and then down along his contours. Then I sharply brought my eyes back to his face, specifically to his eyes. It matters if you just told me what I believe you did.

Which is?

That you had never had partner-sex before meeting Carleen. Can that be true?

Yes. Without embarrassment, it is true. Partners bring . . . shall we say, complexities. I have judiciously avoided such . . . snares.

Are you gay?

He abruptly sat forward. His stomach stopped him. His eyes flared, then calmed. He was clearly struggling with not being in his court. There, he alone could declare things irrelevant, stop questions, and end answers. There, people would shut-up on his demand or be held in contempt of court. He couldn’t do that with me. Not if he wanted my help. And he did for nothing else could have brought him to my door.

He sat back. I waited. His round mound of a belly stopped jouncing. His double chin settled. No, I am not gay, his words spoken with bitten calm. A man marries hoping the woman will never change, while a woman marries expecting to change the man. I simply understand these negatives of entanglements with the opposite sex, negatives that greatly outweigh any benefits. Don’t you agree, Mr. Kile?

If I agreed, Judge, we’d both be wrong.

No one can accurately measure these benefit without first having become entangled. For many of us that indulgence is life’s ultimate happy meal.

Then why this time? . . . Why with Carleen?

If you met Carleen . . . let me clarify. When you find Carleen you’ll understand. Her appeal cannot be ignored. Your mind will pursue her until she proves the truth of her irresistibility. She’s the living embodiment of the femme fatale of literature and the arts.

Or she could simply be the salve for a lifetime of horniness.

I closed my eyes and saw Clarice Talmadge, my friend-with-benefits who lives at the end of the hall. I understood the point he was making, but it seemed exaggerated.

The world is filled with beautiful women with healthy sexual appetites who enjoy visually teasing a man.

He took a mouthful of orange juice, tilted his head back and swirled it around in his cheeks as if he might break out in a gargle. Instead, he swallowed. Have you ever gotten a seed from sweet strawberry preserves stuck tightly between your teeth?

Just what I needed, an odd virgin duck for a client. But then, he was an odd virgin duck about whom I held a strong desire to see suffer. Then again, money bestows upon the one with it a certain assumed respectability, a power seat at the table of life. In recognition of his financial wherewithal, let’s think of him as eccentric rather than odd or nutty. I suggest this, despite both odd and nutty appearing as accurate as wealthy.

He continued his seed story: The great taste of the preserves is increasingly overruled by your growing sensitivity to the pressure. You can’t stop trying to drive your tongue into the crevice to force out the annoyance. You suck air through your teeth to blast it free, but it hangs on as if it had hands. Finally, he brought his preserves analogy back to the reason he was, for the moment, coexisting on my veranda, drinking my coffee. Similarly, I have Carleen wedged in my mind.

Seagulls soared past the end of my veranda behind where Snider sat, their wings out straight, the tilt changing according to each gull’s direction of choice. I watched, shifted in my chair, and drank orange juice while silently hoping one of gulls might anoint his head in their ancient rite of the sea.

His expression became a careful smile. I’ve put Carleen out three times in the six months since I first met her. The second time, I had Powell call her a cab. With my instruction, Powell gave her a hundred to cover a cab ride anywhere in town. I considered, but didn’t pay the cabbie to return and tell me where he had taken her.

Who’s Powell?

My houseman. He lives in the west wing, over the garage. Twelve-hundred square feet. Well-appointed. It’s nice. Better than I lived in during law school. He’s a good man.

Does anyone else live in your home?

His hands held his coffee cup against his stomach, just above the belt. A little higher up and it might have set on its own without being attended. Besides me and Powell, my niece, Abby. Abigail is my deceased brother’s daughter, my only living relative. There’s no one else.

How old is Abby?

He made a dismissive sound to suggest my question was at least irrelevant, and a complete waste of his time. Abby recently turned twenty-four. He wanted to talk about Carleen, not his niece. Like most new clients, Judge Snider arrived loaded down with a gut full of sponges sopped with his own heartache and fear. Taking on new clients always requires enough patience to let them ring out their sponges. Snider was no exception.

I take it that having Powell put Carleen out didn’t end it.

Not the first time. Not the second. . . . I should correct something I said earlier: I had her put out twice, not three times. The third time, the most recent, she left of her own accord. Despite the two prior peaceful evictions, I kept running into Carleen, often enough to know it couldn’t be the coincidence she always claimed. Now and again, I’d just look up and she’d be walking toward me wearing something low cut. Or, I’d see her walking a few strides ahead wearing a mid-thigh skirt with heels. She has this fascinating knack for dressing well while concurrently being as sexy as a trollop.

I get it. She’d give you time to build up a good load and be ready to think with your little head rather than your big one.

Something like that. He blushed. Exactly like that . . . I guess.

Now you’re overly ripe again. You want me to find Carleen, bring her back and set her on your lap. Right?

You do have a way of putting things, Mr. Kile. Accurately, but needlessly coarse.

So, you’re proposing to pay me to bring you a woman. Why shouldn’t I feel like a pimp?

Why do you ask foolish questions?

It’s the only way I know to get them answered.

Look, Mr. Kile. I realize you carry a measure of anger toward me. That you haven’t gotten over my having done my job, in part, made necessary by you not having properly done your job. You pulled the trigger and—

That wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t let that scum walk. He raped a woman before killing her and her children.

I knew we’d have to get into this at some point. It might as well be now. We need to push this behind us. The law is clear. The search that got the evidence was tainted, therefore inadmissible. This left the court with neither sufficient evidence to convict nor sufficient grounds to allow the trial to proceed. My hands were tied.

I researched all that while in prison, and I’ve spoken to two constitutional lawyers since my release. The law is not all that clear. Many jurisdictions have allowed warrantless searches of trash, particularly when it is housed in a disposable receptacle and left in a public roadway or an easement thereto, that person having surrendered any reasonable expectation of privacy. The U.S. Supreme Court has ruled consistent with this view. Your ruling leaned heavily on an arcane California law. Besides, if, as the cop, I did wrong, penalize me. Have me fired. Put me in jail for violating the search law. Fine the department. . . . Don’t let some piece of shit go back out to rape and murder again. We’re supposed to protect and serve the citizens, not the criminals. This isn’t some goddamned game with you judges sitting in a high chair like the backline official at a tennis tournament.

We won’t resolve this, Mr. Kile. We see it differently. The relevant question is whether or not you can serve me in this matter.

Why did you come to me, Your Honor? You had alternatives.

You’re a good investigator.

A moment ago you said my poor job performance is what caused you to let an evil man go free. Stop lying, Judge.

You’ve got no right to—

I’m not talking rights. I’m talking truth.

I’ve kept up with you, Matthew Kile.

Only my family and closest friends call me Matthew. That doesn’t include you.

Judge Snider took a long, slow breath. Then he repeated the tell I already picked up on. Whenever he needed time to gather himself, he fussed with his cufflinks or straightened his cuffs.

I’ve made inquiries. I’ve kept up with you. You were a good cop, caring and capable. You handled your time inside productively by beginning your now successful career as a novelist. Your few cases as a PI, you’ve handled with great skill, including a case for one of my dearest friends, now deceased, General Whittaker. God rest his soul. He spoke very highly of you. You’re loyal to your clients and discreet.

You’ll get no special deference from me, Your Honor. And that’s the last time I call you Your Honor. You’re Leland Snider, client. Can you handle being treated like any other client?

Yes, Mr. Kile. Just . . . please find Carleen. I’ve got to get her back. I just must. You’ve got to find—

He fell silent. His stare focused on the half-full pitcher of orange juice, ripples in its surface brought on by his straining grip on the edge of the table. His eyes welled.

Chapter 4

T ake a breath. Slow it down. On the bench, ice water seemingly flowed through Judge Snider’s veins. His look there often a contemptible mixture of disregard and indifference for those who appeared in his court. Breathe deep, Judge. I refilled his coffee, skipped the sugar and added a splash of Irish.

Standing over him, he appeared a sad lump. He had a small bald spot in his black and gray hair. In the sunlight, it shined like the hubcap on a toy car. Over the next minute he recovered his chilly manner. Forgive me, Kile. Please continue without regard for the last few minutes.

Okay, Judgey. As you wish.

I require a ten-thousand-dollar nonrefundable retainer. A thousand a day, billed at intervals of my choosing to maintain the retainer. You’ll be billed for my expenses which will be documented when reasonably possible. Can you afford me?

I’ve been a judge for nearly twenty years, and, before that, a practicing attorney for another twenty. I’ve always been single and, speaking candidly, I’ve invested my money wisely. That’s without mentioning a meaningful inheritance. I can afford you, Mr. Kile. Your terms are agreeable.

Is Carleen still in Long Beach?

One would think. Given the way she reappears periodically. But I don’t know. I haven’t seen her in a while.

Then I can’t estimate the expenses. They will be what they will be. I assume you want her found regardless of the distance. I paused, my eyes on his, my eyebrows raised. He nodded. I won’t undertake long or lengthy travel without your approval on a case-by-case basis.

Agreed. I’ll give you a check for your retainer.

I should have required twenty-thousand.

Judge Snider’s coffee cup was empty. This time I didn’t refill it.

He turned his attention to his partly consumed orange juice. May I assume we have a deal, that you are retained and my agent in this matter?

Hold your check until we’ve finished this morning. First, tell me the rest of what you came to say. Then I’ll have more questions. After that we can each decide whether I’m the right man for you.

Mr. Kile, I admire people with principles, nonetheless, from what I’ve heard you’re the right man.

I tried not to blush at his flattery, if it was flattery. I wasn’t all that sure and it wasn’t worth the time to untangle what he said. So, when did you last see Carleen?

Two weeks ago last Sunday. I came out of church and was walking home.

Do you do that every week?

Only if the weather’s nice, I have the time, and I feel up to it.

How far is the walk and were you alone?

About ten blocks. When I do walk, I walk alone. It gives me time to deliberate on a case before me. I sometimes walk specifically to spend the time that way. My Sunday think tank, if you will.

Does Carleen know you walk?

I doubt it. The Sundays when Carleen is in my home, I usually forgo church and we enjoy a quiet breakfast by the pool.

"On this occasion, did she use her melons or the