Lie Down with the Devil by Linda Barnes Page A

I wanted my own copy, a clear record of a truncated case.
    The machine hiccuped and I removed the shiny paper, turning it right side up. You see a photo, you make a snap judgment. The first time I’d viewed the five-by-seven of Kenneth L. Harrison, I’d said to myself: handsome, well-off. The features were regular, easy on the eye, the smile self-assured, the teeth too even and white for poverty. Circumstances change and judgment alters. Photos, features, don’t change, but now, knowing what I knew, Ken’s smile seemed less carefree, more wary. Now, when I looked in his eyes, I saw the wreck of his hopes, the death of his bride.
    I sat at my desk and traced circles on a pad of paper. I know how fragile life is: One minute your mom smiling in the living room and the next, relatives talking in hushed tones, saying it’s not your fault; heart attacks happen. I know that blips on the hospital machines can seem strong one minute and disappear the next. But Jessica Franklin was so young, and I hadn’texpected it, and I’d been relieved when it was Jessie, not Paolina or Marta.
    Was that why I felt so sad, so guilty? I’d done nothing wrong, but part of me kept nagging, niggling, insisting I’d made a mistake, chosen incorrectly, followed the wrong person when Jessie and Ken split up at South Station. What was that about? Did I imagine some dark cloud had hovered over the girl, some portent of impending doom I’d failed to notice?
    The doorbell rang and I stuffed the photo hurriedly into a folder and stuck it in my top desk drawer. What was this? Police efficiency all of a sudden? I hadn’t finished copying my notes and here they were.
    Probably Roz had forgotten her key again. I bit back my annoyance. I’d tried phoning Roz so she could, in turn, reach the friend who’d recommended me to the dead girl, warn her before Jessie’s name blared across the news. If it was Roz, she could help me copy the file.
    The bell sounded again. I hollered, “Coming,” and hurried into the foyer, opening the door without checking the peephole, expecting Roz or, failing that, expecting the stolid Macs.
    Eddie Nardo, the mob lawyer, always wore a hat. I’d asked Sam about it once, and he’d said it was because Nardo couldn’t wear a crown without somebody making a wiseass comment. Now Nardo himself stood on my porch, hat in hand, and I decided the fedora might have something to do with his thinning hair.
    I was surprised at how small he was. He projected the power of a larger man, a take-charge guy, a serious person. A lot of little guys play tough, or so I’ve heard. Nardo was tough; his reputation had penetrated even my shell.
    “Mind if I come in?” He offered a disarming smile.His big black Mercedes was parked on the street. He had a driver, but no other obvious bodyguards. “Cold out here.”
    I said, “Okay, Mr. Nardo, come on in.”
    “Eddie,” he said. “Call me Eddie, like Sam does.”
    I hated to think of him and Sam together. Nardo’s black cashmere topcoat shamed my spindly coatrack, but I didn’t offer a coat hanger.
    “Hey, you got a nice place here.” He took his time crossing the foyer, down the single step to the living room. He sat across from my desk, settling in and crossing his legs, making the small chair look bigger than it was.
    “Thanks.”
    His shoes, supposing he’d paid retail, must have cost eight hundred easy. He sat there, relaxed, at ease, like I’d invited him by for a chat. Maybe he was expecting me to offer him a drink.
    “Can I help you?”
    He smiled and shifted his weight, leaning back like he was going to claim the chair for a while. “So, you hear from Sam lately?”
    “Why?”
    “Just if you’re talking to him, you tell him we’re keeping his dad out of the loop. No need for Big Tony to fret, ya know? Nothing he can do the way he is.”
    “Which is?”
    “If Sam asks, you say Tony’s holding his own.”
    “I
asked because I was curious. I don’t know that I’ll get a