Wildcat Wine Read Online Free PDF Page B

neutral.
    â€œNot that crazy brother, one who thinks he’s John the Baptist?” This, from a man who thought he was the reincarnation of Stonewall Jackson, struck me as just a tad sanctimonious.
    â€œNo, not Delvon. This is Dan’s friend. Dan’s the normal one.” Of course Dan might have nodded at Dave if they’d passed close enough to each other, but it was Delvon and Dave who were fully bonded blood brothers. However, Jackson disapproved of Delvon.
    â€œCohen, huh? Yeah, he’s good. Wait a minute,” Jackson bellowed, and I heard the phone go clunk against something. A moment later, he came back on the line and repeated a number.
    â€œUnlisted,” he thundered. “Don’t tell him you got it from me.”
    â€œDeal,” I said, “and thanks,” and then I hung up without saying good-bye and punched in the numbers Jackson had recited.
    A woman answered, sounding peeved.
    â€œMay I please speak with Mr. Cohen?” I asked, making myself sound as professional and polite as I could.
    â€œCall his office on Monday,” she said, and hung up.
    I called right back.
    This time a man answered. “How’d you get this number?”
    Despite his bad phone manners, I assumed this was Cohen. The anger in his voice suggested that a direct answer was the quickest way for me to get to my real point. But I wasn’t ratting out Jackson for giving me Cohen’s private number, and, besides, I was still mad at Sam for dumping me with scant explanation. So I told Cohen that Detective Sam Santuri had given me his home number and hoped it was remotely possible that Sam could have had it.
    In the pause that followed, I braced for a hang-up.
    â€œWho are you and why would Sam give you my private number?”
    â€œSam investigated the murder of one of my clients recently.” A doctor killed by a toxic marijuana cigarette. “We became . . . friends. I’m a partner at Smith, O’Leary, and Stanley, and—”
    â€œThat’d make you Lilly Cleary, then.”
    I was immediately flattered.
    â€œI know you,” he said, the tone suddenly flirtatious. “Black hair worn like Lauren Bacall, you always wear gray suits, and you pummeled that Miami attorney in that brain-damaged infant case last year.”
    Pearl gray, I corrected to myself, and sometimes midnight blue suits.
    â€œYes,” I said, notching my voice down to low and sexy. “Jackson Smith tells me you are absolutely brilliant. The best criminal-defense attorney anywhere.” Well, okay, that was close enough to what Stonewall had said for lawyer-to-lawyer communications.
    â€œAny chance this could wait until Monday?” The flirt was over.
    â€œIf it could have waited until Monday, I would have waited until Monday. But a friend of mine and one of his buddies got arrested. I’m not sure yet exactly what the charges are, but I suspect they’ve been arrested for stealing a truck full of organic wine and I need to get them out of jail tonight.”
    â€œAnd just how am I supposed to do that?”
    â€œIf I knew, I wouldn’t be calling you.” Yes, the flirt was definitely over.
    â€œA truckload of stolen wine? That’s probably a first- or second-degree felony. You think I just go down there, sign some papers, post the bail, and they walk?”
    Well, I had hoped it was something like that, but his tone suggested otherwise, so I took a wild guess, and said, “No, of course, I know it’s not that simple, but, please, could you just meet me at the jail and speak to Dave? His name is Dave Asa Baggwell.”
    I could hear the woman in the background. The sound became muffled, and I suspected Cohen had put his hand over the phone. In a couple of seconds, he came back on, and said, “I’ll meet you there in half an hour. Bring a checkbook.”
    He hung up before I could ask if he minded cash in a sack.
    For a few minutes, I pondered