Leaving the LAW Read online

  Leaving the LAW

  by

  Robert T. Germaux

  Copyright ©2002 by Robert T. Germaux

  Cover Art by Brandi McCann

  www.ebook-coverdesigns.com

  For Cynthia:

  April 3, 1968

  Everything changed . . .

  everything

  Books by Robert T. Germaux

  Jeremy Barnes Mysteries

  Small Bytes

  Leaving the LAW

  Speak Softly (coming soon)

  Hard Court

  In the Eye

  Daniel Hayes Mysteries

  Small Talk

  One by One

  The Backup Husband

  (a romance with a twist)

  Love Stories

  (a semi-biographical novel based on

  the six weeks the author’s wife spent in

  Europe when she was seventeen and, in

  this fictional narrative, after two decades of silence,

  reconnects with one of the boys from that summer)

  The Grammar Sex Trilogy

  (light-hearted essays about life and stuff)

  Grammar Sex (and other stuff)

  More Grammar Sex

  Grammar Sex 3

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  Leaving the LAW is the fourth Jeremy Barnes mystery I’ve published, but it was actually the second book about JB that I wrote. As of this moment, here are the five Jeremy Barnes novels I’ve written, in chronological order:

  Small Bytes

  Leaving the LAW

  Speak Softly (coming soon)

  Hard Court

  In the Eye

  Keen-eyed readers will notice that Hard Court was the first of the above to be published, followed by In the Eye. The reason for that is simple. At various times, the first three books all had a shot at, as my agent put it, “finding a home” in the traditional publishing world of hardcover books. While he was doing his best to find homes for those books, I wrote Hard Court and In the Eye, eventually putting them on Amazon, and when, ultimately, no publishing house was willing to take a chance on those first three Jeremy Barnes novels, I decided to put them on Amazon, too. Although there is a progression of sorts in characters I introduce, each book about JB can easily be read as a standalone. Whether you read just one (although I like to think of them as the literary equivalent of Pringles) or all five, thanks for giving my work a try.

  Chapter 1

  It was a cool Thursday night in late September, and I had just gotten the outlet pass from Denny and was on my way down court. I couldn’t see him, but I knew that Todd Geter, a rookie cop who’d been second-team All Big East at Pitt, was just one step back, waiting for me to go in for the layup, which is exactly what I did, except that at the last second, I kicked the ball back out to Augie DeNunzio, who caught it in mid-stride, stopped and went up and squared his shoulders all in one motion, and then put in the game-winning basket from twenty-five feet. Nothing but net.

  “Shit!” shouted Geter. “I can’t believe you old farts beat us on a lucky shot like that.”

  “Uh, excuse me, officer,” Augie said with a smile. “That thirty-footer I made early in the first game? Maybe there was a tiny element of luck involved there, seeing as how I wasn’t sufficiently warmed up and all. But those last eight or nine? Pure skill. You’re just mad ‘cause a guy from the Patriot League whipped your sorry ass two games to one tonight.”

  Geter smiled and shook his head as he began walking off the court.

  “Maybe,” he said, “but next time I’ll be ready for you.” Glancing over at Denny, he added, “And besides, Detective Wilcox didn’t tell us we’d be playing tackle basketball tonight. No offense, sir, but at roll call tomorrow morning, the sergeant’s gonna think I got mugged tonight.”

  “What you get, son,” laughed Denny, “when you venture into the land of the giants.”

  At six-four and about two-hundred-forty pounds, Denny hardly qualified as a giant, not by the current NBA standards, anyway, but he usually managed to hold his own with guys who were much bigger. Todd Geter had Denny by a couple of inches, but Denny went after every rebound as though he were rescuing his firstborn.

  Looking at Todd and his two teammates, all cops in their early twenties, I asked, “You guys want to join us for a snack? We’ll make Augie pay as penance for the way he embarrassed you the last couple of hours.”

  “Thanks, JB,” said Todd, “but Nate’s gotta get home to his wife, and Timmy and I were thinking of showering and then hitting a couple of clubs in the Strip. We’ll take a rain check.”

  As I watched the three of them head for the locker room, I turned to Denny and said, “Remind me again, at what point in time did we become old farts?”

  “Todd’s twenty-three, JB,” said Denny, “which makes him about fifteen years younger than us. To him, that’s an eternity.” Glancing at Augie, he added, “Now, if you’re looking for an honest-to-god old fart . . .”

  “Hey,” said Augie, “let’s remember which fifty-five-year-old kept popping in those threes tonight to keep us in the game.”

  “Point taken,” said Denny.

  We played a few games of HORSE and then walked to the locker room of the Y ourselves. As we showered, I asked Denny where he’d like to go for a bite to eat.

  “Can’t do it, JB,” he said. “I’m, uh, working undercover tonight.”

  I gave him a look.

  “Uh-huh, right, Denny. And exactly whose covers will you be under? Wait, let me guess. The book lady, right?”

  Smiling, Denny said, “If by ‘book lady,’ you mean the manager of that new Barnes and Noble, well, yes, Eloise did invite me to join her for coffee when she gets off work later this evening. I believe we’ll be discussing things literary.”

  “Of course you will,” I said, “although I’ve never heard it called that before.”

  Looking at Augie, I said, “How about you, Pops? Wanna replace some of those electrolytes you expended tonight?”

  “You’re on,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you about something anyway.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “What?”

  “A blast from the past, JB. A blast from the past.”

  Chapter 2

  “You remember a girl in one of your classe
s, probably your first year, kid named Larretta Warren? Two r’s in Larretta.”

  We were sitting in a booth in The Diner, a run-of-the-mill place that had as its main attraction the fact that it was right across the street from the Y. I leaned back and looked over at Augie while I tried to remember Larretta Warren. In another life, I’d spent several years as an English teacher at Franklin High.

  “If I had her in class my first year, Aug, we’re talking about maybe sixteen years ago. Her name rings a bell, but . . .”

  “She told me you were one of the reasons she didn’t drop out of school her freshman year, something to do with basketball.”

  “Oh, wait,” I said. “Now I remember. Larretta Warren. Skinny little kid, but quick. Sure, she was on the girls basketball team. Not a starter, not even that good, if I remember correctly, but she really wanted to play. She went full speed all the time, practices, games, it didn’t matter. She always gave one-hundred percent. By the start of her sophomore season, she had improved to where I was using her as the first girl off the bench in some of our games. But then. . .”

  “She got pregnant,” said Augie.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “She got pregnant, dropped off the team, had the baby, transferred to another school, and I never saw her again. How’d you know about the pregnancy?”

  “Because she had a boy. Name of Anthony. He’s a 9th grader now, at Franklin. And he’s in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Your kind, probably. Kid’s gotten himself involved with a gang. Mom’s at her wits’ end about it. She was in my office yesterday afternoon, bringing him back from his most recent suspension.” He paused for a minute. “She wants you to talk to him, JB.”

  “Me? Why me? I haven’t laid eyes on his mother for over fifteen years, and I don’t even know the kid. What makes her think I’d have any influence over him?”

  The waitress arrived, and we took a break from the conversation while she put my tuna salad on whole wheat toast down, along with an iced tea. Augie had ordered a chef salad, Diet Coke, and a large piece of banana cream pie. I looked at the pie and then at Augie, raising my eyebrows.

  “’Case I get hit by a car when we walk out of here. I wouldn’t want my last meal to have been just a salad and a diet drink.”

  Nodding, I said, “The logic is impeccable .”

  As we began eating, I said, “So. Larretta Warren and Anthony and moi. Fill in some of the blanks, okay? For starters, how bad is Anthony?”

  “Compared to most of the people you deal with, he’s a pussycat. Compared to most of the other kids at school, he’s about average, I guess. Since the beginning of the year, I’ve had maybe four or five referrals on him, mostly minor stuff, like disrupting class or using profanity, nothing involving violence. When his mom brought him back yesterday, she and I talked alone for a few minutes. That’s when she told me how she almost left school herself in 9th grade. So I asked her why she hadn’t, and that’s when your name came up. She said you wouldn’t let the girls on the team slack off, how they had to bring in weekly progress reports from all their teachers. If they cut class or misbehaved or fell behind academically, they could practice, but they couldn’t play in any games again until they straightened out the problem.”

  Augie paused to eat some of his salad.

  “That’s all true,” I said, “but I still don’t see how any of this leads to me talking with Anthony.”

  “Larretta said she saw your name in the paper recently.”

  “The Simmons case,” I said.

  “Uh-huh. She said it reminded her of how you were tough but fair, that you had a way of talking to kids that made them see that you really cared about them. I mentioned that I knew you, and that’s when she asked if I thought you’d be willing to talk to her son.”

  “She really think that would do any good?” I asked.

  “She’s desperate, JB. She’s afraid she’s losing her kid. I’ve talked to him, a couple of his teachers have talked to him, one of the counselors took a stab, nothing’s worked. If you’re asking me if I expect you to have any influence with this kid, then the answer’s probably not. But his mom seems like a good lady, so I thought maybe you’d give it a shot. Tell you what, c’mon in one day next week, sit down with Anthony for a while, and I’ll spring for a free lunch in the school cafeteria.”

  “Only if they’re serving that Hamburger Surprise I used to like so much.”

  Augie smiled and said, “I’ll speak to the chef personally.”

  We finished eating, then went our separate ways. My townhome in the Shadyside area of Pittsburgh was nearby, close enough that I had walked to the gym, while Augie had about a twenty-five minute drive out to the ’burbs, where he lived with his wife, Pat.

  As I walked up the steps to my front door and let myself in, I tried to remember the last time I’d been at Franklin. Had to be at least five years, maybe longer. For a number of reasons, it wasn’t a place I especially enjoyed visiting.

  Of course, there was always the Hamburger Surprise.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning I woke up at six o’clock and lay in bed for a few minutes, thinking some more about my conversation with Augie. I also thought about Todd Geter’s passing reference to me and my teammates as old farts. I knew Todd was kidding, but I also knew that the decade-and-a-half that separated us from Todd and his peers was, in some ways, a chasm deep and wide. I don’t usually dwell on age, since it’s never really mattered that much to me. I’m flattered when someone tells me I don’t look my age, but I don’t go out of my way to solicit such comments. I try to stay in shape, mostly because it occasionally works to my advantage in dealing with some of the people I come across in my profession. Well, that and the fact that I look so adorable in my fitted navy blazer.

  I got up and opened the French doors that lead to the small balcony off my bedroom. Last night’s chill had produced the season’s first real frost, a good excuse to skip my run, but I ignored that urge and instead went downstairs and retrieved the morning paper from my front porch. Leaning against the island in my kitchen, I flipped through the paper while drinking a glass of orange juice. Then I went back upstairs and put on an old pair of gray sweatpants, a T-shirt, a blue hooded sweatshirt and my Saucony cross-trainers. The shoes didn’t have any athlete’s name on them, which had probably saved me eighty bucks. Life is a series of trade-offs.

  My townhome is just a few blocks from Shadyside’s small business district, which over the years has made the transition from quaint commercial area to upscale yuppie haven. Recently some of the big chains have invaded Shadyside, and there is an ongoing battle between those who like the Shadyside of old, mostly residents of the area, and those who want zoning changes favoring business expansion. I see both sides of the dispute, and while I’m not a fan of the increased traffic on my street, especially on the weekends, I also understand that the businesspeople, who pay exorbitant rents, have a right to make a profit. Actually, what I think about all this is probably moot, anyway, since there’s no doubt who will eventually emerge victorious in any contest between the local citizenry and big business. I can almost see that Pottery Barn now.

  Heading away from the business area, I began jogging at an even pace, managing to work up a good sweat by the time I reached Frick Park, where I spent about thirty minutes running along some of the numerous trails the city provides for those of us so inclined. As I ran through one of the lower areas of the park, known as the Hollow, my mind briefly flashed back to the previous spring, when a case I was working on had ended rather abruptly in a fatal confrontation. I pushed that memory aside and decided instead to think of something more pleasant. Like Laura Fleming. Much more pleasant.

  Back home, I toweled off and headed for the small exercise room next to my kitchen. At the Y, I generally use the Nautilus machines, but at home I just have some free weights. Nothing fancy, but they get the job done. Before starting my workout, I slid a Duke Ellington collection into my CD
player. Take the A Train started playing in the background. My Uncle Leo, who helped me get my start in this business, also managed to hook me on jazz, and now I seldom lift without listening to something by the Duke or Billie or Charlie Parker or Satchmo or Miles Davis or one of the other greats from that era. This morning I worked mostly on my upper body, doing super sets with medium weights. Sometimes, just for the hell of it, I’ll pile on as much weight as I can lift just once or twice, but the real work is done with repetition after repetition.

  Half an hour later, I dragged myself upstairs and took a shower, then put on jeans and a long-sleeve white pullover under a medium-weight tan jacket. Slipping into another pair of no-name Sauconys, I went out the front door and walked the couple of blocks to the local Starbucks. When I entered the place, Irv was behind the counter, waiting on a couple of attractive young women. He nodded at me before turning back to his customers. I took a seat at a corner table by the window and spent a minute or so people-watching, one of my favorite activities. Eventually, Irv came over with a café latte and an orange scone, put them down in front of me, and then took the seat on the opposite side of the table.

  “Saw you checking out the college girls, JB,” he said.

  “That wasn’t checking out,” I told him. “I was merely practicing my powers of observation. What if that blonde in the pink spandex tube-top had held you up just now, and her friend, the redhead wearing the tight jeans and high heels, had grabbed a couple of croissants on the way out? Without an expert eyewitness such as yours truly, the crime undoubtedly would have gone unsolved. Hell, you oughta be giving me all the free lattes and scones I can consume just to come in here every day and keep an eye out for more gorgeous miscreants.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “I’ll take that up with Mr. Starbucks next time we do lunch.”

  Irv’s a graduate student at Carnegie-Mellon, a genius at anything having to do with computers. I’ve used his expertise on a couple of cases over the past year or so, and along the way, we’ve become friends.

  “You still working on that pet shop thing?” he asked.