First Kill All the Lawyers by Sarah Shankman Page B

think someone murdered him, Hoke.”
    “The police say it was an accidental death, case closed. But you know better?”
    “Sheriff Dodd of Watkin County declared it an accidental death. That’s not the same thing.”
    The line was silent except for the sound of Hoke’s sucking on a cigarette—and then he was shouting again. “You’d do anything for this corrupt sheriff thing, wouldn’t you? Even if you have to make it up. It’s not Forrest Ridley you’re interested in. It’s the sheriff!”
    Sam stared at the receiver in her hand for a minute. It was an interesting coincidence—but no more than a coincidence. “I feel it in my bones, Hoke. There’s something there. You’re going to be sorry if we miss this one.”
    “With the power Simmons and Lee wields in this town, I’m not so sure if this is going to be good news or bad news. Providing, of course, that you aren’t just whistling Dixie.”
    Sam smiled. She’d hooked him. “Why, Hoke, I don’t know what you mean. I’m not even sure I remember the tune.” And then she hung up the phone—which rang again immediately. “Hello?”
    “Sam?”
    “Liza? Dear, I’m so sorry about your—”
    “Can you meet me at Manuel’s? Now, please? It’s very important.”
    *
    The bar was fairly empty on this rainy afternoon. Remembering that she hadn’t yet had lunch, Sam settled herself into a booth facing the back door and ordered a dozen oysters on the half shell and a Virgin Mary.
    Manuel’s Tavern on North Highland was, like the Varsity, an Atlanta institution. The original barroom with booths along one side was decorated with execrable paintings of proprietor Manuel Maloof’s heroes, FDR and JFK, as well as some pretty awful nudes. Long a favorite hangout of the city’s journalists and drinking liberals, it was a loud, comfortable, masculine watering hole. However, women were not only welcome, but protected by the ever-watchful bartenders. It hadn’t changed a whit in more than two decades. Sam hoped it never would.
    “Hi, Sam. How’s George?” Manuel called from the bar. No matter how long a regular was away, Manuel always remembered, even though he had become a power in DeKalb County politics and had other things on his mind.
    “Fine. He doesn’t get out as much these days. I’ll have to drag him in soon.”
    “You do that. Awful about Forrest Ridley, isn’t it? I remember a party he gave once in one of the back rooms. It was…” Manuel’s words trailed off as he recognized the dead man’s daughter coming through the back door.
    Samantha rose. “Over here, Liza.”
    The girl’s eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, which completed her all-black costume. She was dressed much the same as the last time Sam had seen her—could that have been only yesterday? But today her black garb wasn’t a punk artist’s affectation. Today it was mourning.
    “I’m so sorry,” Sam began as she had on the telephone, and again got no further as Liza waved her sympathy away. The girl couldn’t talk about that now—the fact that her father was dead, that she was never going to see him again, never going to place another basketball bet, never going to hear him call her by his pet name, “Miss.” She could only deal with the tangential.
    “She’s locked herself in her room,” Liza said. Sam didn’t have to ask to know she was talking about Queen. “She’s hardly said a word to me—as if she were the only one…” Her voice broke. She took a deep breath and regrouped. “She’s constantly on the phone.”
    “To whom?”
    “I don’t know. She has a private line. But”—Liza removed her dark glasses and stared straight at Sam—“I listened at the door once. She was saying, ‘Well, we don’t have long to wait, not anymore.’”
    “What do you think that meant?”
    “What do you think?”
    Sam was tempted to say I asked you first, but refrained. “I don’t know. She could be talking about anything. What do you really think,