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“They’re safe,” he said. “In my locker at work.”
I sighed. We were back to goofy again. “Vince, that’s not actually safe.”
“But it’s my locker,” he said. “I mean, you know. It’s locked.”
“They’ve falsified official documents and threatened your life,” I said. “Did you really think they would hesitate to pick a lock?”
He looked very startled. “Oh,” he said. “I guess I…Oh, right.” He shook his head. “Oh, boy. What should I do, Dexter?”
“Bring them to me,” I said. “The whole file, all of it.”
He actually looked offended, as if I was suggesting something indecent.
“I can’t do that,” he said. “It’s a misdemeanor to take that stuff out of the building.”
I stared at him, and I admit I was a little shocked at the depths of his naive and loony rectitude. “Vince,” I said, “if they get the stuff out of your locker, there’s nothing to stop them from killing you, and that will be your fault. And suicide is a felony.”
“But you—Oh,” he said. “That’s a joke, right?”
“Almost,” I said. “But it’s true, too. Vince—your only hope here is to let them all know you have that stuff, and you’ve put it someplace safe. And in the meantime,” I said, with a very small return to the shark smile, “I show it to my attorney.”
“Your attorney?!” he said. “But he might…I mean that—” He stopped himself mid-dither and said, “Is Frank Kraunauer really representing you?”
“He is,” I said. “And they can’t ignore him, can they?”
“No, not Frank Kraunauer, they’d have to…” he said. “But what will he—I mean, even so…What will he do with that stuff?”
“He’ll take it to a judge,” I said.
“No,” Vince said, the first forceful and undithering thing he’d said so far. “No, they would know it came from me. I could lose my job.”
For just a moment I was speechless. Lose his job? With his life on the line? And mine, of course, which was considerably more to the point. “Vince, you’re not thinking clearly,” I said. “They’re going to kill you. And then you’ll be permanently unemployed.” But he still looked stubborn.
“No, Dexter,” he said. “It’s wrong. I can’t let you make that stuff public. Think how it would look.”
“What do we care how it looks if we’re both dead?” I said. “And it might not go public anyway. Once the judge sees it, he’ll probably just throw my case out and issue bench warrants.”
“But he might not,” Vince said, and I really wanted to slap him. “It might get out and then—No, Dexter. There has to be a better way.”
“This is the better way; don’t you see?” I said. “This is perfect. For both of us.” And now I gave him my best imitation kindly smile. “It’s so simple. Kraunauer uses that stuff to prove that I was framed; I am free, and you are exonerated, probably even promoted.” I nodded at him to show that I regarded it as a sure thing. “I get out of jail for good, and Anderson gets my old cell. Happy ending all around.”
I could see he was wavering a little, so I leaned across the table to make my point. “Of course, there is an alternative.” He looked hopeful, so I went for the jugular. “You let them kill you, and they plant all sorts of incriminating stuff in your house—drugs, kiddie porn, dirty money from the evidence room. So you’re dead and disgraced. And I go to trial and spend twenty years on death row, wondering why I ever tried to help poor old Vince Masuoka, the bribe-taking pedophile junkie.” I spread my hands, and then leaned back to show I was all done. “Your choice, Vince. It’s up to you. Life or death. Shame or praise. All—or nothing.”
He goggled at me again, clearly not quite there yet despite my magnificent oration. I poured a cup of tea and didn’t look at him.
“I can picture Anderson standing over your cold dead body with that stupid smile of his and then, just because nobody can stop him, zzziipp! He opens his fly and pees all over your cold, dead—”
“All right, all right! Jesus, Dexter,” he said, his face twisted into a mask of disgusted anguish.
“Just sayin’,” I said. “You know he will.”
“All right, fine,” he said. He blew out a huge loud breath. It sounded like a radiator bursting. “I’ll do it!”
He looked relieved—and, it must be said, a little guilty, too. I didn’t care. I had worked so hard on him for something that was, to my mind, so simple and obvious, that it was hard to think of him as an intelligent creature anymore. I felt like I should scratch him behind the ear, say, “Good boy!” and toss him a cookie.
Instead I just nodded and said, “Smart choice. When can you get it to me?”
He shook his head, looking numb, and said, “Jesus, I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
