The Viper

This was Gurney’s first clear sight of Ziko Slade. Three years had elapsed since his descent from tennis star to dissolute druggie to moral conversion and involvement with Emma Martin. The man’s face seemed to contain two opposing personalities. The mouth—full-lipped, pouty, on the verge of a sneer—was that of a corrupt Adonis, a mixture of creepiness and seductive charm. The eyes, however, radiated a calm intelligence and something almost ascetic. The mixture of qualities struck Gurney as both unsettling and magnetic.

“Ms. Stryker,” Judge Wartz said, speaking in a voice that sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a wet barrel. “Are you ready to proceed?”

She rose, straightening her blazer. “I call Thomas Cazo to the witness stand.”

A bull-necked man in a silvery gray suit approached the witness box, sat down, and cleared his throat. The top two or three buttons of his shiny green shirt were open, revealing more hair on his chest than on his head.

In response to a question from Stryker, he stated that he was employed as a night manager at the Beer Monster in Calliope Springs Mall and that he had been Lenny Lerman’s boss until Lerman quit at the beginning of the previous November. Stryker regarded him with respectful attention, conveying to the jury that this was a man worth listening to.

“So, when he quit,” she said, “that would have been about three weeks before he was murdered?”

“Yeah.”

“And that was your last conversation with Lenny?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you please describe that conversation to the court.”

Cazo cleared his throat again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He came into my office to tell me he was quitting. I asked him why. He said he was onto something real big, and he didn’t need to be stacking cases of beer anymore.”

“Did he tell you what that ‘real big’ thing was?”

“He said he had some facts worth a fucking fortune. Excuse my language, but I’m just saying what he said. A fucking fortune.”

“Did he tell you where he expected that fortune to come from?”

“From Ziko Slade.”

“Did he tell you why Slade would be willing to pay him a fortune for these facts?”

“Because they were about him.”

“About Slade?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he tell you what these facts were?”

“About bad shit that went down with Slade a few years back. I told him all sorts of bad shit about Slade was already common knowledge. He said, not this. This was worse than what everybody knew about. This could get Slade put away for life.”

Stryker nodded, her lips pressed together in a grim line. “Did you interpret what Lenny told you as a plan to extort money from Slade?”

“What else could it be?”

“Did you comment on his plan?”

Cazo grinned. “I told him he better watch his ass and keep away from Slade.”

“Because you thought his plan was too dangerous?”

“Too dangerous for him.”

“Thank you. I have no more questions.”

Wartz peered at his watch. “Mr. Thorne?”

Thorne was already approaching the witness box. “Your name is Thomas Cazo?” He managed to inject some distaste into the name.

“Yeah.”

“The same Thomas Cazo also known as Tommy Hooks?”

Cazo gave him a long hard look. “I might’ve heard somebody say something like that.”

“Interesting nickname. How’d you get it?”

Cazo shrugged. “I used to be a boxer. I had a good left hook.”

“Doesn’t it also refer to your custom of using a meat hook to persuade people who owe you money to pay up?”

Stryker, who’d been on the edge of her chair during this exchange, leapt to her feet with an outraged cry. “Objection! That’s a scurrilous smear! It has no relevance, no—”

Wartz cut her off. “Sustained. Defense counsel’s comment is to be stricken from the record. Mr. Thorne, you’re over the line.”

“My apologies, Your Honor. I have no more questions.”

“Mr. Cazo, you’re excused. Ms. Stryker, call your next witness.”

After a dramatic pause, she called Adrienne Lerman to the stand.

A heavyset young woman in a loose-fitting earth-colored dress made her way to the witness box. She wore no makeup or jewelry. There was a dark mole above her upper lip.

Stryker’s opening questions established that she was a twenty-four-year-old unmarried nurse who provided care to the terminally ill, that she was Lenny Lerman’s daughter, and that she was sure she knew her father better than anyone else on earth.

Adrienne Lerman’s tone sounded both sad and syrupy, worn-down and wistful. She struck Gurney as the sort of woman who believed in lighting candles rather than cursing the darkness, while fully expecting them to be blown out.

Stryker spoke softly, a good imitation of empathy. “Ms. Lerman, we’ve heard witness testimony that your father had a plan that he claimed would make him rich. Did he tell you about it?”

“He told us in a restaurant one night.”

“By us, you mean you and your brother, Sonny?”

“That’s right. We were at the Lakeshore Chop House.” Adrienne frowned, as though making a distasteful admission.

“Not your favorite place?”

She lowered her voice. “It has a reputation for being mob-connected.”

“That didn’t bother your father?”