Lost Girls (4 page)

Graham Lyle's partner, the other freak of the place, is Bert Gederov, a second-generation Russian immigrant who has somehow retained a threatening hint of his ancestors' accent. His body--hunchbacked, broad assed, arms swinging from his shoulders like sides of pork--is the physical manifestation of pure hostility. Even in moments of relative calm his face conveys an impatience and brutality that have assisted in winning him case after case before ''pussy judges'' at the expense of ''dumb-shit Crowns.''

For whatever psychological reasons Bert Gederov is the sort whose primary means of social interaction is intimidation. What's truly impressive, however, is that he manages to inspire fear in others through his mere presence and only rarely through actual exhibitions of viciousness. He speaks little outside of the time he is paid to, and when he does, it is to utter obscenities and crushing insults at the most vulnerable subject available. Recall the bully from your school days. Remember the shuddering of the bowels, the sudden slackness of the facial muscles, the lung-seizing paralysis the sight of him could inspire? Yes? You're now one step closer to knowing Bert. Still, although he is cruel, misogynistic, racist, flatulent, and nauseating dining company, Bert is a lawyer for whom I have nothing but the greatest respect.

As for the ''& Associate,'' that's me. And here I am, staring at myself in the Barristers' Water Closet mirror, having washed off the sweat smeared across my cheeks by Mr. Busch's grateful lips. Turn a little to the left, a little to the right, check the profile out of the corner of my eye. Conclude that I'm not looking too bad, particularly when you consider the few hours of sleep I've had over the last five of my thirty-three years. But I can also acknowledge that time is beginning to show: gray in the face, premature gray at the temples and sides, gray clouds drifting into the blue of my eyes. A lot of gray about me these days, but that's fine. Gray suits me. And I'm thinking that very thought as the beeper at my waist erupts to inform me that I've been summoned to an emergency meeting at the boardroom of Lyle, Gederov, and that both partners are to be in attendance.

As I walk the short distance north from the courthouse to the office on University Avenue, my face warming in the reluctant sunshine, my mind mulls over the last part of the beeper's small-screen message: WE'VE GOT THE LOST GIRLS. Graham's touch.

I'd heard of the case listening in on the chat in the court cafeteria (defense lawyers pay the kind of attention to news of homicides that corporate lawyers do to the fortunes of the Dow Jones). Something about two fourteen-year-old girls who'd gone missing a couple months earlier and were now presumed dead. Police were said to have ''encouraging leads,'' which meant they had their man and were just buying time to accumulate enough physical evidence to make an arrest. Somebody had passed me the newspaper while we were waiting for the judge to return from lunch and on the back page of the front section were side-by-side pictures of the victims, the kind of bland, backgroundless portraits taken for high school yearbooks. Just two missing teenaged girls captured in a flat frame. The sort of thing you see in newspapers almost every day: smiling, chins raised, careless.

When I enter the small boardroom at the office I'm met with a wall of cigarette smoke previously passed through Bert Gederov's lungs. Somewhere in the haze I see Graham rise and wordlessly indicate the chair I am to take. He's wearing a purple suede blazer and his school tie, faded by years of repeated wearings. Bert is jacketless, his sleeves rolled up, and judging from the war-torn state of the ashtray before him he's been waiting here awhile.

''Took you fucking long enough,'' he says without looking up.

''Sorry, but they tend not to adjourn court whenever a beeper goes off.''

''Little prick--''

''Gentlemen!'' Graham cuts in, arms open and pleading. ''We have business--quite
startling
business--to attend to.''

I take my seat, pull a blank legal pad out of my briefcase, ready a pen above the page. Bert pushes his chair from the table and lets his head tip back in exaggerated boredom. This is to be Graham's meeting. He begins by tossing the day's
Star
over the table at me.

''You've seen?'' he asks.

''Not really.''

''You must have heard of those missing girls up north?''

''I've heard.''

''Well, the local constabulary arrested a man last night, and he has since retained our firm for his defense.''

Graham, who up to this point had been standing, now settles himself into his chair. With a wave of his hand more appropriate if it came from royalty passing in a gilded carriage, he attempts to clear the air of smoke, but it does no good. Bert, pretending not to notice, belches forth another sulfurous cloud like some nineteenth-century coal incinerator.

''Which of you is taking it?''

''Kind of you to inquire, but we'd like
you
to handle it, Bartholomew. It's yours. Bert and I discussed it early this morning and we thought,
This is a career maker
. You know what I'm saying? We thought,
This is the one for our boy,
Bartholomew
. Hoorah!''

Graham titters and circles his hands in the air, palms out, like a flapper doing the Charleston. Then his face contracts again into a mask of mock severity.

''It has all the makings of a classic. The media have made starlets of them already--they've taken a very strong what-is-the-world-coming-to-when-these-little-darlings-go-missing? angle on it. And the English teacher as the accused is perfect for the Humbert Humbert poeticism of the thing. Well, with all of this obvious promise I can tell you that Bert and I were both slobbering over it like dogs. But, no, we decided it was time to give you a turn at the bitch's teat.''

Graham beams at me over his clasped hands like a schoolboy who has just completed his multiplication tables in prize-winning time. Bert lights another cigarette and coughs up something large sounding, considers spitting it somewhere, then, not finding a wastebasket within range, swallows it back down to the tarry depths from whence it came.

''Did he do it?'' I ask.

''Who?''

''Our guy.''

''Name is Tripp. An unfortunate moniker for an accused murderer, I admit. And, yes, I suspect he did it. I mean, they've
all
done it, haven't they?''

''What I'm asking is, did he do it
beyond a reasonable
doubt
? In short, Graham, am I going to get fucked on this?''

At this Bert makes a sound in his throat that could be either a grunting effort toward laughter or an attempt to dislodge a new obstruction from his windpipe. At the same time Graham gasps in theatrical surprise.

''
Language!
Bartholomew!
Language!
To be truthful there's lots of circumstantial physical stuff connecting Tripp to the girls, yes. And he has taken a behavioral turn for the weird of late, apparently. But nothing too
too
unusual: nasty divorce with the missus a few years ago where she got to keep the kid, followed by some fairly curious preoccupations including cutout girlies from the Sears pajama section plastered all over the bedroom wall. And he is not the most coherent conversationalist one could hope for, particularly for a
professeur d'anglais
. But it isn't
charm
we demand of our clients, is it, Bartholomew?''

I slide my chair back from the boardroom table and stand before Graham, in part because I intend to turn and get myself a cup of coffee from the cabinet behind me and in part to get the height advantage on the tricky bastard. Don't take my eyes off him as I pour and lump and stir. And the whole time Graham meets my gaze as Bert sets a new personal record by lighting his third cigarette within four minutes of my arrival.

''So that's why you and Bert don't want it,'' I say, taking them both in through the gloom. ''Dead little girls. And the teacher did them in to sniff the panties. No alternative suspect, no alternative theory, no alternative alibi. That's why you're giving it to me. It's dirty, ugly, and unwinnable. Plus, he probably couldn't
afford
either of you. So you'll take the professional credibility kick for handling the famous client while skimming the margin between what he pays you and you pay me.''

''Bartholomew! Your suspicious streak is showing!
Really!
No, no, no. Not at
all
. I should have told you earlier. You see, there's a very nice thing about Mr. Tripp's circumstances you haven't yet heard.'' Graham almost giggles, and then it's his turn to pause. ''There are no
bodies
. No photographs of pale limbs in tall grasses. Six weeks of helicopters,
woof-woof
police doggies, and weepy search parties of concerned citizens shuffling through the trees, and nothing. No bods to keep the lonely coroner company.''

''No girls, no case,'' I say, calculating with a sugar cube between my fingers. ''Even if they prove he had intent, if there aren't dead bodies they can't establish the
actus reus,
and they need both. Am I right?''

''That would appear to follow at first blush, although I suggest--''

''Did he confess?''

''No. He's a muddle-headed fellow, but not so stupid as to tell the truth to the police.''

Graham grins up at me with his ashen face of blue eyes and fastidious wrinkles that somehow fixes him in a state of permanent childhood. Bert smokes. They're waiting for me to say yes. But I'm not going to. I need my first murder to be a winner, and if these two are handing it to me there's got to be something wrong with it. We work together; they're my mentors and only friends in the world, but they'd far sooner screw me than each other.

''No,'' I say, and touch lips to coffee.

''No what?''

''You can keep it.''

''Faggot,'' Bert spits.

''No, Bert, that's your partner. Maybe you can't see for the smoke. I'm the guy over here trying to cover his ass.''

''Fucker fuck!''

''Boys! Boys! I must say for the record that I resent both of your comments.'' Graham shakes his head in false injury. ''And as for you, Bartholomew, it's
not
a loser file, you
are
ready, and I've advised Mr. Tripp to expect you in Murdoch the day after tomorrow.''

I attempt to read their faces but it's impossible, their features shrouded in thickening smoke. For a time nobody moves. Then it's Bert, his voice a low, territorial growl.

''You want to keep your job, you take this file.''

''That's it?''

''That's it, pally boy.''

''Well, if you're going to be so
sweet
about it, Bert, then I guess I accept your offer.''

Graham throws his fists into the curdled air.

''Good! I'm
so
pleased! We'll--''

''But I have to do it alone.''

''Alone? Well, now, you really should consider that dividing some of the work would only assist--''

''No dividing, no assisting. On my own. Completely.''

''I
do
like this attitude! Very eat-what-you-kill.
Grrr!
''

Bert pulls his chair in and places his thick hands on the table, drills his eyes into my forehead.

''I'm leaving now,'' he says. ''Call us if the newspapers get too hot on you and I'll handle them from down here. Other than that, any shit you create is your own. And when Graham said this was a career maker, he forgot to mention it could also be a career breaker. Therefore, I strongly advise you not to fuck up.''

He leans back again and grabs his cigarette from its brief resting place on the table's edge. I note that his words qualify as both the kindest and most effusive he has ever uttered to me.

''Thanks for the confidence. Now, if you'll excuse me, before I pack my bags I think I owe myself a night of selfcongratulation. Didn't I mention? I won the Busch trial today.''

''Well done, Bartholomew! You'll have to tell us all about it sometime.''

Graham's head is down and he's already sliding the Tripp file over the table at me. Bert stabs his half-finished cigarette out in the gray dunes of the boardroom ashtray, lifts his gut with a wheeze, and leaves without another look.

When Graham is finished handing everything over he carries himself to the door, his head perfectly still on delicate shoulders, but hips swinging in their sockets. Then he turns back to me and reveals one of his vampire smiles.

''May I suggest that if you plan on engaging in any carousing, you do it tonight. Things may get a little hectic for you over the next while.''

''No doubt.''

''So, care to join me for a bite? I know a perfect place not far from here.''

''Don't bother, Graham. I know a perfect place of my own.''

''Of course you do.''

He steps forward once more to where I sit, throws a hand out to me through the smoke now twisting up the air vent or lingering in blue pools in the ceiling light sockets. We shake hands: two formal pumps, his grip--as always--firmer than mine.

''Good luck, my boy,'' he says, releasing me and sliding back to the door. ''And
enjoy
it. I'm sure you'll find that there's
nothing
like your first homicide.''