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“A lawyer.”
Jalbert raises his eyebrows. “As a rule, folks who feel the need to lawyer up are guilty folks.”
“Or smart folks.”
To this Jalbert says nothing.
Edgar Ball shows up at ten on the dot. He’s riding a ginormous Honda Gold Wing motorcycle. The motor is so quiet that Danny can hear an easy-listening oldie—REO Speedwagon’s “Take It On the Run”—from the in-dash radio. Ball parks, kickstands his ride, and dismounts. Danny likes him immediately, partly for the huge bike, partly because he’s middle-aged, dressed in a golf shirt that makes no secret of his man-boobs, and big old khaki shorts that flap down to his knees. Never did a real estate lawyer look less like a real estate lawyer.
“I take it you are Daniel Coughlin,” he says, and sticks out a pudgy hand.
“I am,” Danny says, shaking with him. “Thank you for coming.”
Ball switches his attention to the man in the black coat. “I’m Eddie Ball, Counselor at Law. And you, sir, are—?”
“Inspector Franklin Jalbert, Kansas Bureau of Investigation.” He’s gazing across the mostly deserted Manitou Main Street, seeming not to see Ball’s outstretched hand. “Let’s go inside. We have questions for Danny.”
“You go inside,” Ball says, “and we’ll join you shortly. I’d like to have a private word with my client.”
Jalbert frowns. “We don’t have all day. I’d like to get this done, and I’m sure Danny would, too.”
“Of course, but this is a serious matter,” Ball says, still pleasant. “If it takes all day, that’s what it will take. I have a right to speak with my client before you question him. If you’re with KBI, you know this. Be grateful, Inspector, that I’m willing to do it out here on the police station steps instead of taking him to my office on the backseat of my sled.”
“Five minutes,” Jalbert says. Then, to Danny: “You’re making it worse for yourself, son.”
“Oh, please,” Ball says, pleasant as ever, “spare us the movie music.”
Jalbert shows the pegs of his teeth in a momentary grin. That’s how he looks like inside all the time, Danny thinks.
Once Jalbert’s gone, Ball says, “He’s quite the Tatar, isn’t he?”
Danny doesn’t know the word and wonders briefly if Ball called Jalbert a tater, as in Tater Tot. “Well, he’s something. Truth is, he scares me. Mostly because I didn’t kill that girl and he’s sure I did.”
Ball holds up his hand. “Whoa, no primary declarations. I called you my client, but you’re not, at least as yet. My fee for this morning is four hundred dollars. I should charge only two, because I’ve forgotten most of what I once knew about criminal law, but it’s Saturday morning and I’d really prefer to be on the golf course. Is the amount agreeable?”
“Fine, but I don’t have my checkb—”
“Do you have a dollar?”
“Yes.”
“Good enough for a retainer. Fork it over.” And when Danny has done so: “Now you’re my client. Tell me exactly what happened and why Inspector Jalbert has it in for you, as he clearly does. Add nothing extraneous and leave nothing out that’s going to come back to haunt you later.”
Danny tells him about the dream. He tells him about going to Gunnel and finding the Texaco station. He tells him about the dog. He tells him about the hand and the trash barrel. This is all crazy-time stuff, but the color doesn’t rise in his cheeks until he tells Ball how stupid he was about the anonymous tip.
“The way I look at it, that’s actually in your favor,” Ball says. “You didn’t know what you were doing. And wishing for anonymity, given how you came by your information, is completely understandable.”
“I should have studied it a little more,” Danny says. “I assumed, and you know what they say about—”
“Yes, yes, makes an ass out of u and me. An oldie but a goodie. Daniel, have you ever had a previous experience of a psychic nature?”
“No.”
“Think carefully. It certainly wouldn’t hurt if there were prior—”
“No. Just this.”
Ball sighs and rocks back and forth. He’s wearing motorcycle boots and knee-high compression socks with his XL shorts, which Danny finds amusing.
