His lips twitched as he glanced up at me. “What, you don’t believe everything that a suspect tells you?”
“I guess I’m the suspicious sort, sir,” I said, smiling.
He chuckled as he began to page through the documents. “This is for the Davis Sharp death? I didn’t realize it had been ruled a homicide.”
“The final ruling isn’t in, but there’s some evidence of blunt force trauma that’s inconsistent with a simple fall in the shower.” I wasn’t telling him anything that a press release wouldn’t contain.
“Hunh. His wife is a suspect?”
“Well, she hasn’t been completely ruled out, but there are other possible suspects as well.” It was beside the fact that I had no idea who those other possible suspects might be.
He snorted in derision. “Sharp was too used to having his fingers in every political pie. Just because he knew everyone from that damn restaurant of his, he thought that meant he could get away with anything.” He scowled as he scanned the papers. “And unfortunately, he usually did.”
Now, this was interesting. “What sort of things?”
Judge Laurent glanced up at me, then leaned back in his chair. “Well, like his two kids. Both complete pieces of shit. Both have been nailed for misdemeanor drug charges or simple battery several times. And I can’t count the number of times Sharp has called me up, wanting me to pull some strings to ‘fix’ things.” The scowl etched itself deeper onto his face. “I’ve taken only one campaign contribution from him.” He chuckled. “Actually, he only ever gave me one. After I finally told him to fuck off, he never contributed again. Go figure.” Then he shrugged. “Not that it made much difference in the end. He found other people to clean up his shit.” He gave me a telling look. “Campaign contributions are a matter of public record. You can look it all up online.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “That’s very good to know, sir.”
He gave me a grave nod, but his eyes were twinkling. He carefully read through the documents, then finally picked up his pen and signed his name to each subpoena. “Good luck with your investigation, Detective Gillian,” he said, as he handed the papers back to me.
“Thank you, your honor.” Well, that had turned out to be more productive than expected. I exited his chambers, giving a wave and smile to his secretary.
My cell phone rang as I neared the courthouse doors. It was Ryan’s number. I looked at the blinking display, trying to decide whether to be mature and answer it or pleasantly childish and hit the ignore button.
Maybe he’s calling to apologize. I sighed and hit the answer button. “Hi, Ryan.”
“Where are you?”
My finger twitched toward the disconnect button, but I managed to restrain myself. “I’m doing just peachy, and thank you for asking,” I replied. “I was getting subpoenas signed. I’m just leaving the courthouse.”
“You hungry?” His tone was clipped and stiff.
I was, but did I want to be subjected to more of the same judgmental crap? I screwed my face into a grimace. “Yeah, sure, what the hell.” I was such an optimistic idiot.
“Okay, meet me at the Ice House in fifteen.” Then he hung up. I stared down at the phone, debating whether I should call him back and tell him to fuck off. But maybe he’s the type who’s lousy with apologies. I sighed and clipped the phone back onto my belt. Yes, I was definitely an optimistic idiot. But the alternative was to write him off completely, and I couldn’t bring myself to do that.
I walked back to the station and to my car, jamming the air-conditioner control to the max as soon as I had it started and rolling down the windows to allow the broiled air within to escape.
The Ice House was only a few miles from the station, along the street that ran parallel to the railroad tracks. I’d been to this restaurant only a couple of times before, but I remembered it as being a quiet, dark place with deep booths. It had been an actual icehouse a few decades ago, and then it was converted into a family-style restaurant a few years after the real facility had shut down. They’d converted the vats into large round booths and left all the piping visible. It was a pretty neat interior, but the food hadn’t measured up, and the Ice House restaurant closed a few years later. Since then it had been a Chinese restaurant, a seafood buffet, another family-style restaurant, a barbecue house, and still another family-style restaurant, all maintaining the same interior look. It had suffered through a variety of names, but everyone always just called it the Ice House.