Law and Disorder. Mary Jane Maffini

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Law and Disorder - Mary Jane Maffini


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“I guess there’s something to be said for combining business and pleasure.”

      “Truly pathetic,” Mombourquette said.

      “For sure, she’ll chew him up and spit him out. She is one tough cookie.”

      Mombourquette’s nose twitched. “That might be fun to watch.”

      As Wentzell elbowed her way through a group, one bystander turned away, avoiding her neatly. There was something familiar about him. I spotted a pair of hazel eyes and a stray lock of soft sandy hair falling over them. Sure enough, there it was: a crooked little-boy smile as the hazel eyes met mine. My all-time favourite client and the most talented burglar Ottawa had ever seen, Bunny Mayhew, the only man in the world who could ever look fetching in a flame-orange jumpsuit with the words Regional Detention Centre written on it.

      Damn. Why was he at the courthouse? It would be a shame if Bunny were pulled back into the criminal life he’d worked so hard to escape in the past few years.

      I leaned closer to Mombourquette, something I usually avoid. “Did you just see Bunny Mayhew? What would he be doing here?”

      “Time, I hope,” Mombourquette said. He’s a lot less sentimental than I am. They may deal with the heavy hitters, but there’s no warm and fuzzy spot for burglars among the guys in Major Crimes.

      “Maybe he’s a witness in something,” I said. “That might explain it. He told me he was going straight.”

      Mombourquette snorted, “And you believed him? You’ve really lost your edge, MacPhee.”

      I had believed Bunny. And maybe that was dimwitted of me. Of course, I wanted it to be true, for his sake as well as for his wife and young daughter. Sure he may have been a thief with a weakness for Canadian art, but to do him credit, Bunny never allegedly stole a single item from a person I could imagine liking. In my opinion, Bunny Mayhew represented the best the Canadian criminal classes had to offer.

      Plus, I owed him a lot. Even so, I didn’t want to find myself back in court defending him or even angling to get him a decent legal aid lawyer.

      Seconds later, Bunny appeared at my side. He grabbed my arm. Mombourquette gave him the rattiest look in his repertoire. “Bugger off.”

      Bunny recoiled. “But I need to talk to Camilla.”

      “Here’s the thing, I’m talking to her, and you’re buggering off.”

      Bunny turned to me. “Is that police brutality?”

      “Probably. Give me a call at the office, Bunny. You have my number.”

      Bunny stepped back. “Really? I didn’t think you had an office any more. Did you rent a new space?”

      “Never mind, call me at my cell number. It hasn’t changed. It doesn’t matter if it’s an office or not.”

      “I already called your cellphone. This is urgent.”

      I stared back at the boyish face, the sandy hair, the pleading eyes. “Fine,” I said, “what is it, Bunny?”

      Mombourquette looked as though he might go up in flames, leaving the rest of us to inhale the stench of burnt fur. Deep down I knew part of the reason was that Elaine, Mombourquette’s main squeeze, had once been Bunny’s social worker. She’d known him since he first hit Juvie. She liked Bunny even more than I did. Maybe more than she liked Mombourquette.

      All to say, Mombourquette was immune to Bunny. “That’s it, Mayhew. I don’t like lowlifes interfering in my conversations.”

      I said, “Get a grip, Leonard. What’s the matter with you? Wait for me outside, Bunny.”

      To tell the truth, it was astonishing to see Bunny melt into the throng of people. One minute there, then as if he’d never been. It’s a talent really. I imagined it must have come in handy in his former line of work. I didn’t think much more about it. Mombourquette and I went back to cheerfully speculating about exactly what might have sent Rollie Thorsten to the bottom of the Rideau.

      Why should you swerve to avoid hitting a lawyer on a bicycle? -Because that bicycle just might be yours.

      After the excitement of the courthouse, I clomped off down Elgin Street, pondering life as I went. For one thing, why were Bunny Mayhew, P. J. Lynch and Leonard Mombourquette so present in my life when the one guy I really cared about wasn’t? Ray Deveau didn’t have Bunny’s movie star looks, or P. J.’s quick wit and drive, or even Mombourquette’s furry familiarity. He was an unflappable cop with a solid sense of humour, a good father, a companion, a shoulder to cry on and a friend. Best of all, unlike the rest of the world, he liked me just fine the way I was. And I liked him a lot more than anyone I could think of. Of course, he was inconveniently located in Sydney, bound by family and a twenty-year career with the Cape Breton Regional Police. That was the bothersome part. If I’d seen a garbage can, I would have kicked it in frustration just thinking about that.

      But quite apart from the state of my personal life, the day had been just plain bad. The distressing part of having Rollie Thorsten die in his dramatic way was that it would derail the Brugel trial yet again. It was good news for bad guys. So good, in fact, that I stopped to wonder if Lloyd Brugel might not have had something to do with it. Stranger things have happened after all. Laurie Roulay’s death was a result of Brugel’s actions even if it had been by her own hand. As I said, there’s never a garbage can when you really need to kick one. If my sisters had been in town, they would have told me to stop feeling sorry for myself and get a job. Luckily they were far far away on a three-week cruise.

      There was no sign of Bunny anywhere. But with all this stuff on my mind, I didn’t give him another thought.

      At two in the afternoon, I was back in Court, curious to see what the judge would make of all this. The jury was in place, the prisoner in his bulletproof box. Brugel turned to face the jury and even in profile, his usual alpha dog sneer was evident. I could only see the back of the Crown’s head, but his shoulders were slumped.

      As everyone rose and I caught a glimpse of Madame Justice Lafontaine’s face, I knew I wouldn’t like the news. Or she might have just bitten into a bad clam.

      The judge said, “As a result of the death of Mr. Brugel’s counsel, Mr. Thorsten, and the withdrawal from the case of Mr. Thorsten’s junior, Mr. Kilpatrick, the Court has no choice but to recess to allow Mr. Brugel time to find new legal representation in this case.”

      Brugel smirked.

      The judge fixed him with a warning look. She is known for having little time for alpha dogs and their packs. She does, however, adhere to the rules.

      The judge swept from the room, robe flowing. As the door closed behind her, we began to trudge out of courtroom 23. Mombourquette hadn’t been there to witness this part. It would have ruined his day.

      After all those months of doing the work while Rollie took the credit, young Jamie Kilpatrick had a chance to be in charge. This could have been the case that made his name, no matter what the outcome. So why the hell had he withdrawn?

      “What difference does it make?” Alvin Ferguson, my ever-present former office assistant said after I’d stomped around the house for ten minutes, swearing. I’d topped off the stomping with a major rant. Alvin watched from the kitchen door, resplendent in the Cape Breton tartan apron that someone had given me years ago. He must have found that at the bottom of my kitchen drawer. As there is almost nothing in the house left unpainted, he has turned his hand to collecting and testing heritage recipes. Luckily he wasn’t testing any of them in this weather.

      I said, “It makes a big difference.”


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