Read Online Eleven Little Piggies by Elizabeth Gunn - Free Book Online Page B

sandpapery quality of seasoned old age. ‘Jake Hines, hello,’ he said. ‘This is Jonas Robbins. I haven’t had the pleasure of speaking with you in some time.’
    â€˜Jonas?’ I said. ‘I didn’t know . . . I’m afraid I didn’t make the connection with your name and . . . Was Owen Kester your nephew?’
    â€˜My grand-nephew, actually,’ he said. ‘Anna Carrie’s boy.’ As if I should know who Anna Carrie was. Even distaff relatives of the Kesters seemed to think everybody knew who they were. But I was never aware of this family connection so I hadn’t associated his law firm with the angry brother who confronted me now.
    I got acquainted with Jonas when I was a new detective and he was getting ready to defend a bad apple named Updike. It was maybe ten years ago, an assault case – his firm must have been a little less focused on corporate clients then. We had the DNA evidence and two neighbors’ testimony that Jonas’ client routinely beat up his girlfriend and then talked her out of signing a complaint. This time she’d stood firm and the case was going to trial, because even though every word of her complaint was true, Updike was counting on his buddies to come up with enough damaging slurs on the woman’s character to get him off. The chief was determined to put him away, saying, ‘He’s going to kill her one of these times if we don’t stop him.’
    Jonas came to us during the discovery phase as he was preparing his defense. ‘Show him everything,’ the chief said. ‘Convince him we got the goods on that numbskull, so we can all save the trouble of going to trial.’
    Robbins was wary, sure he was going to get snowed. I was guarded, on the lookout for put-downs. Less favorable conditions for beginning a friendship would be hard to find, but he was an intelligent man and a good listener. As he saw the weight of the evidence we had, his questions became more and more incisive. I began to enjoy the conversation, and realized it was because this man was really interested in what I had to say and didn’t give a shit about the color of my skin. It made me wonder if maybe
he
was from out of town.
    Minnesota was already transitioning out of heartland all-whiteness then, but there were still many citizens around who found my face – about the shade of good spice cake and with an odd collection of features – puzzling as hell. It was tough enough being a uniformed officer, but when I made detective and began working in street clothes, I soon learned I had to have my shield in plain sight when I knocked on a door.
    Talking to Jonas today made me realize that my town has been moving at a blistering pace – culturally speaking – in the last twenty years: it’s as diverse as the Twin Cities now, school enrollments nearing twenty per cent non-white, scatterings of Hmong and Somali and Vietnamese, and almost enough Muslims around to start our own Sunni/Shia conflict.
    And Jonas Robbins is still the smart, good-natured gent he always was. I’d forgotten how much I liked him, back when I was a newbie investigator and he shook my hand and said, ‘His father’s an old friend and I wanted to help. But facts are facts, aren’t they? You’ve saved me a lot of time and work. Thank you.’
    A couple of days later the chief said, ‘Robbins is dropping the Updike case. Good job.’ So I knew the lawyer had put in a good word with the chief too. You remember guys like that.
    Today I told him, ‘Ethan’s understandably upset about his brother’s death. We’re hoping to have more information for him soon.’
    â€˜I appreciate your patience,’ Jonas said. ‘May I speak to him again, please?’
    The old man must have told Ethan to cool his jets, because he folded up his phone after a minute and said, ‘My uncle said that