Read Extenuating Circumstances for Free Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Valin
blinded window, a dusty air conditioner wheezed and rattled as if it were carrying the room on its back.
When Finch spotted me his red, sullen face bunched up miserably. "Chrissake!" he grumbled. "That guy Trumaine calls me three times a day. When he's done the mother or the wife or that commissioner, Geneva, gets on the line. Now they send you."
"They're worried." I drew a chair up to the desk and sat down. "They want Ira back. They'd like to know how long it's going to take."
"What am I, a fortune-teller? It'll take as long as it takes. I've already told them that."
"Art, the wife is close to a nervous breakdown. She needs to hear something concrete. They all do."
"Concrete, huh?" Finch sighed melodramatically. "This is a criminal investigation, Stoner."
"C'mon, Art," I said. "Stop being a prick and give me a little something. Enough to make the Lessings happy. Enough to get them off your back."
That interested him. "No more phone calls?"
"I guarantee it."
He thought it over for a second, then tossed his hands in the air as if he were surrendering. "What the hell. We're so close as it is, I guess it won't matter. But if I hear back from the Lessings about this or see anything in the papers, you're going to be one sorry camper."
"It's that bad?"
"It ain't good." He plucked the cigarette butt from his mouth and tossed it in a tin ashtray, then leaned back in his chair. "We're pretty sure that the guy who went joyriding in Lessing's car is a kid named Terry Carnova. We got his name from some other kid who saw him on the night of the Fourth. Carnova told the second kid that the car belonged to his father. He claimed the bloodstains came from a fight he'd had with a nigger earlier that night. Criminalistics checked the stains, and they matched Lessing's blood type. The family doesn't know this yet, but we also found some bloodstained gear in the trunk."
"What kind of gear?"
"A tire iron, some jumper cables. They had Lessing's blood on them too -and some tissue."
"Christ," I said grimly. "He must've really been worked over."
"I told you it wasn't good."
"Were there any prints on this stuff?"
"On all of it. And all over the car. Just like the demented bastard didn't give a shit."
"Anything usable?"
"There was a piece of broken glass on the backseat, come out of the moon roof of the car. Criminalistics got a positive lift from it. One from a credit card too. They're Carnova's prints."
"The kid has a record, then?" I said.
"Twelve priors as a juvenile. B and E's, assault, possession. He's a typical Price Hill street kid -tough, nasty, anything for a buck."
"A JD?"
"Not anymore," Finch said with something like glee. "He turned eighteen last week."
"You figure he treated himself to a ride in Lessing's BMW for a birthday present?"
"We've got a couple theories about why he mugged Lessing. When we talk to Carnova I'll let you know for sure."
"And when will that be?"
Finch shook his head firmly, as if we'd reached the limits of his sense of obligation or expediency. "Just tell the family we're real close."
"And Lessing?"
"I'm not absolutely sure, but I don't think the news is gonna be good."
We stared at each other for a moment.
"You wouldn't have a photograph of Carnova, would you?" I asked.
Finch rummaged through a pile of papers, pulled out a Xeroxed rap sheet with a mug shot in its corner, and handed it to me. Terry Carnova was a muscular youngster with a lean, pretty, snake-eyed face and long, dirty blond hair that curled like sunlit ivy about his forehead and cheeks. He looked like an altar boy in hell.
"How could a guy like Lessing end up getting his brains bashed in by a kid like this?" I asked.
"That's the question, all right," Finch agreed.
When I got back to my apartment I phoned Len Trumaine. Finch had given me a copy of Carnova's rap sheet, and I stared at the kid's picture again as I waited for Trumairie to pick up. Try as I might, I had a hard time putting that dead-eyed kid together
When Finch spotted me his red, sullen face bunched up miserably. "Chrissake!" he grumbled. "That guy Trumaine calls me three times a day. When he's done the mother or the wife or that commissioner, Geneva, gets on the line. Now they send you."
"They're worried." I drew a chair up to the desk and sat down. "They want Ira back. They'd like to know how long it's going to take."
"What am I, a fortune-teller? It'll take as long as it takes. I've already told them that."
"Art, the wife is close to a nervous breakdown. She needs to hear something concrete. They all do."
"Concrete, huh?" Finch sighed melodramatically. "This is a criminal investigation, Stoner."
"C'mon, Art," I said. "Stop being a prick and give me a little something. Enough to make the Lessings happy. Enough to get them off your back."
That interested him. "No more phone calls?"
"I guarantee it."
He thought it over for a second, then tossed his hands in the air as if he were surrendering. "What the hell. We're so close as it is, I guess it won't matter. But if I hear back from the Lessings about this or see anything in the papers, you're going to be one sorry camper."
"It's that bad?"
"It ain't good." He plucked the cigarette butt from his mouth and tossed it in a tin ashtray, then leaned back in his chair. "We're pretty sure that the guy who went joyriding in Lessing's car is a kid named Terry Carnova. We got his name from some other kid who saw him on the night of the Fourth. Carnova told the second kid that the car belonged to his father. He claimed the bloodstains came from a fight he'd had with a nigger earlier that night. Criminalistics checked the stains, and they matched Lessing's blood type. The family doesn't know this yet, but we also found some bloodstained gear in the trunk."
"What kind of gear?"
"A tire iron, some jumper cables. They had Lessing's blood on them too -and some tissue."
"Christ," I said grimly. "He must've really been worked over."
"I told you it wasn't good."
"Were there any prints on this stuff?"
"On all of it. And all over the car. Just like the demented bastard didn't give a shit."
"Anything usable?"
"There was a piece of broken glass on the backseat, come out of the moon roof of the car. Criminalistics got a positive lift from it. One from a credit card too. They're Carnova's prints."
"The kid has a record, then?" I said.
"Twelve priors as a juvenile. B and E's, assault, possession. He's a typical Price Hill street kid -tough, nasty, anything for a buck."
"A JD?"
"Not anymore," Finch said with something like glee. "He turned eighteen last week."
"You figure he treated himself to a ride in Lessing's BMW for a birthday present?"
"We've got a couple theories about why he mugged Lessing. When we talk to Carnova I'll let you know for sure."
"And when will that be?"
Finch shook his head firmly, as if we'd reached the limits of his sense of obligation or expediency. "Just tell the family we're real close."
"And Lessing?"
"I'm not absolutely sure, but I don't think the news is gonna be good."
We stared at each other for a moment.
"You wouldn't have a photograph of Carnova, would you?" I asked.
Finch rummaged through a pile of papers, pulled out a Xeroxed rap sheet with a mug shot in its corner, and handed it to me. Terry Carnova was a muscular youngster with a lean, pretty, snake-eyed face and long, dirty blond hair that curled like sunlit ivy about his forehead and cheeks. He looked like an altar boy in hell.
"How could a guy like Lessing end up getting his brains bashed in by a kid like this?" I asked.
"That's the question, all right," Finch agreed.
When I got back to my apartment I phoned Len Trumaine. Finch had given me a copy of Carnova's rap sheet, and I stared at the kid's picture again as I waited for Trumairie to pick up. Try as I might, I had a hard time putting that dead-eyed kid together
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