Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

“Can you hold back his name, notifying next of kin, confirming identity, anything like that? I have an idea to salvage something out of this.”

“Okay,” said McNamara. “How about three days?”

“Thursday, at ten P.M.? I’ll call you before that. You’re four to midnight?”

“Correct. If I don’t hear from you, it’ll be out Thursday night.” He rattled off his telephone number.

“Thanks for calling. Goodbye.” She tapped the bar before the dial tone spat back. A fine kettle of fish. Even money that Archer iced Ricetti. If Archer didn’t kill him and hears of the murder, her case was nearly hopeless, but she’d have to try it — and kill three days in court. And Archer would be boss of the street more than ever.

She was feeling the pangs of doubt that would be normal in any county attorney only two years out of law school. Her anxiety was aggravated by knowledge that the county governing board had appointed her only because no one else was available on short notice to replace the almost fifteen-year veteran in the post, who had resigned suddenly for health reasons.

And she was further troubled by her dilemma, which she needed to decide within a few weeks — whether to become a candidate for a four-year term in the office, or to abandon the position and jump into private practice, a career path she’d deliberately avoided by accepting the position of assistant county attorney in the first place. The choices didn’t look hopeful either way: If she chose to seek election, she’d need to raise the five thousand dollars required for a campaign; if she opted for private practice, she doubted that any office in the area would have her, and she would need a bundle of money to open her own office. She was unfamiliar with the fine points of pursuing elected office, and was well aware that she had no strong backing on the all-male county governing board, two of whom she knew were actively feeling out other lawyers to run against her.

Lori did know that letting a sleazy punk get the better of her on two of the charges would not enhance her chances of winning the confidence of the voters. The case had been sound before and had the makings of good publicity, but now it was all but lost.

She stared at the certificates on the wall alongside her desk: college graduation; law school graduation; bar admissions in two states; appointment as county attorney, term to expire at the end of the year. She felt something welling up within her: the determination not to let Don Lewerke and his no-good client best her and the public she worked for.

A plan was gelling in her mind. It wasn’t the sort of scheme that would be found in the books, but it was the best she could come up with. She found her file of eavesdropping warrant requests and filled in the blanks with as much material from the file — augmented by her conversation with McNamara — as she could. She signed the form and dialed Judge Corwin’s number.

His voice was, as ever, solemn, steady, and unruffled. “Hello.”

“Judge, Lori Prewitt. May I come over with an eavesdropping warrant request?”

“Sure, if you can make it before my favorite TV program at nine.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Twenty-six minutes later Lori was watching His Honor give the papers his customary cursory study, with the usual distant gaze that seemed to Lori to mean that he was almost lost with such warrants. Twenty-one minutes after that she was explaining to the sheriff’s chief deputy what she wanted in the setting of the bugs in Archer’s apartment in the seedy Riverfront section of town. And in another nineteen minutes she was home with her cat.

Lori’s third telephone call at a little before eight the following morning confirmed that the bugs had been securely set in Archer’s digs while he was at his job overnight.

Her next call was to Archer’s lawyer, Don Lewerke, the hotshot who was rapidly acquiring a reputation for being the least cooperative and most arrogant lawyer in four counties. Three years out of Yale, where he was near the top of his class, he had joined the practice of the Graves brothers, who were in their seventies. When they left their practice, feet first, five months apart, Lewerke ran with dozens of files, milking the firm’s connections for a bunch more. He was much that Lori was not, haughty and overconfident. A bachelor and a workaholic, Lewerke would be at his office before heading out to court.

“Lewerke here.”

“Don, Lori Prewitt.”

“Okay, oppressor of the poor and humble, what are you dealing?”

“Are you ready for the Archer case? It’s third on the list, and the other two may sugar off.”

“Settling everything, are you?”

“Your guy’s last chance. I’ll ask for the maximum terms.”

“My guy isn’t inclined to plead.”

“He’s looking at ten years on each count, and I’ll ask for consecutive terms. I’ll take pleas to serious assault, two counts, four years on each, consecutive.”

Lewerke laughed.

“Run it by him.”

“Not before trial. He doesn’t respond to my letters.”