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I forced a smile and waved, but my mind was reeling with the thoughts of Ray’s incredible duplicity. Fearing that I might confront him—or kill him, I stomped out of the courthouse. Staying couldn’t lead anywhere good.
*****
I left Upper Marlboro and took back roads, foot heavy on the pedal, to get to Walt’s office in Greenbelt. My plan was to run by Kozmik Games, the computer gaming company Brad worked for, and check his computer. Perhaps I’d find support for his claims of innocence. Since Brad’s office was right down the road from Walt’s, I decided to stop at Walt’s office first. What I had to say was better discussed in person. Besides, seeing Walt might take my mind off the news about that fucking jerk, Ray.
It was a sunny October day, and I had the top down on my purple ‘67 Mustang so I could savor the last of the mild weather before November’s chill moved in. I glanced around at the unobstructed view of trees, their yellow and orange leaves splashed across a royal blue sky. The
day’s beauty seemed to mock me. Damn Ray! I refused to fall apart and pushed aside my anger, hurt and jealousy for the time being.
I made my way to Kenilworth Avenue, a road that narrowed from six lanes to two (the kind of lousy infrastructure planning that helped create traffic nightmares in the D.C. area), then turned left at Ivy Lane, flanked by office parks. I made another left and pulled into the lot. The place was a three-minute drive from the Greenbelt Metro station and a stone’s throw from the federal courthouse, a gleaming granite and glass building. Though a decade had passed, Walt still called it the “new” federal courthouse. For him, the Maryland federal district court would always be the one up in Baltimore.
I parked outside the building where Walt rented his small, top-floor suite. After bestowing an admiring glance on the “Darth Vader buildings” across the street—two matching mid-rise cubes of bluish-black glass—I headed inside.
A quick elevator ride later, I strolled through reception, past the empty desk and the glassed-in conference room, to Walt’s office. I could hear him talking. His door was open, so I wandered in. He gave me a quick wave and gestured to a leather chair while he continued his conversation. I pointed toward the kitchen and mouthed, “Coffee,” and he nodded. I took my time. Knowing Walt’s phone habits, there was no need to rush.
During those few minutes while I waited for him, I did some deep breathing exercises. In. Out. In. Out. I visualized punching Ray in the face (or better yet, kicking him in the balls). Keep breathing, I told myself. In. Out. In. Out. I kept it up until I nearly hyperventilated.
I retrieved a ceramic beer stein from the cabinet and filled it up. After a few minutes, I heard Walt say, “All right. Great talking to you. Bye!” The phone clicked into its cradle, and Walt groaned. “Man, I need more coffee. Sorry to keep you waiting. I haven’t spoken to Jake in a coon’s age.” He wandered into the kitchen with his favorite mug—Illegitimi Non Carborundum imprinted on it—in one hand, a file in the other. He set the mug on the counter and poured coffee to the rim.
“No biggie,” I said. Based on Walt’s track record, the wait had amounted to a millisecond. “I see Laverne is off today.”
“That girl! Always sick. She’s lucky I keep her on.” Walt’s eyes were gleaming slits on each side of his slightly bulbous nose. A smile stretched across his rubbery face. “Laverne” was his non-existent receptionist. The reception desk was a prop, for the most part, except when Walt hired a temp. Otherwise, “Laverne” was the butt of our running jokes about her taking too much leave or too many trips to the bathroom.
“So,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“I was in the neighborhood on my way to Kozmik, and hoped to get a few minutes of your time. I want to talk about Brad’s case.”
“Really?” He glanced at his watch. “Brad’ll be here in a few minutes if you want to talk to him too. We’re having lunch.”
“Actually, I just wanted to talk to you.” Trying to appear casual, I took a long sip of coffee and considered my next words carefully. “You’re pretty fond of Brad, aren’t you?”
“Fond? He’s the closest thing I have to a son.” He averted his eyes before adding, “At least, now ...”
I felt a flush of shame for bringing it up. Walt’s divorce was decades ago. It had been so bitter, his own son had refused to speak to him since. I’d never asked the details. It was ancient history and none of my business.
“Let me be blunt. Do you think it’s possible that he’s lying to us?”
His eyebrows gnarled in concern. “Hell, it’s possible that all our clients are lying to us,” he said, in a tone that suggested the obviousness of that proposition. He glanced sidelong at me as he sipped his coffee. “Why?” he asked.
“Well, I was just thinking, Brad does have a bit of a history.”
Walt shot me a look. “That’s putting it rather delicately, isn’t it?”
“I can be less delicate, if you prefer. He’s had legal problems before.”
“Frat house high jinks.” He pulled a sour face. “Frankly, I think my sister spoiled the boy.” He shook his finger at me. “But I don’t think Brad’s a criminal.”
“When we spoke, he struck me as defensive and a bit argumentative.”
Walt waved a hand. “The boy was just nervous and tired of answering questions.”
“Sure,” I said. I wasn’t buying it. “We’d better hope the audit clears him. If Kozmik presses charges, Brad won’t respond well to a cop’s third degree. He could barely stand the first degree.”
“I know, I know.” Walt held up a placating hand. “When someone checks the computer system there, I hope it shows that a hacker created that account.”
“Yes,” I said. “I hope so. I also hope the company agrees to do it, and whatever they find clears Brad. I intend to run a background check on Brad when I do one on his old boss, Darrell Cooper, and the guy who previously held Brad’s job. Vince Whats-His-Name.”
“Vince Marzetti.”
