Overkill(37)

“Her name is Rebecca Pratt.”

“I know her name! Christ! How could I forget it? She ruined my life.”

Upton bit his tongue. The gall of the little prick! Speaking quietly in contrast to Eban’s shout and his own inner outrage, he said, “Others would say just the opposite.”

While Eban sat there glowering at him, Upton took a moment to get his temper under better control. “If Rebecca Pratt had recovered sufficiently to testify at your trial, she could have made a dynamic impact on the jury, and the outcome might not have gone so well for you in terms of sentencing.

“If she had died, even worse. You would be in Reidsville tonight serving a sentence for manslaughter at best, instead of being free to whiz around in your new Porsche. Either way, she did you a huge favor by becoming suspended in the dreadful state she’s in.”

Sulking, Eban carried his glass over to the bar and splashed more vodka into it. “Where is she?”

“In a special care facility in New Orleans.”

“What’s her status? Do you know?”

“I have an informant on staff who gives me periodic reports. Rebecca remains much the same as she was when she was first admitted.”

Eban swiped his hand in front of his face from forehead to chin and back up. “Nothing there?”

Upton replied with a brusque no.

“How is she otherwise?”

Upton shared what he knew of Rebecca’s general health.

Eban assimilated the information as he took several belts of vodka. “And she could stay that way indefinitely? I mean until old age, right? And die of natural causes?”

“In theory. But I’m told that someone in her condition typically doesn’t have a long life expectancy.”

“Great. Just great,” he muttered into his glass before taking a drink. “I’ve got a sword on the back of my neck.”

“That’s if nature takes its course.”

That caused Eban to start. “And if someone should decide to speed up nature’s course? How long would she last?”

“Days at most.”

“Fucking great.”

“My advice?”

“Well, Uncle Up, I don’t want to put you out any, but as long as I’m here.”

His sarcasm warranted a pop on the mouth, but Upton tamped down the impulse. “Leave the country, Eban.”

“What?”

“Pick a spot on the globe that appeals to you and hunker down there.”

“Hunkering doesn’t sound like something I would enjoy. For how long?” Upton just looked at him, and when Eban caught his godfather’s meaning, he chuffed. “You can’t mean forever. Are you crazy?”

Again, Upton struggled to keep a lid on his temper. “Listen to me, Eban. The challenges of prosecuting a case like this are as intimidating as walking a tightrope across the Grand Canyon. Crosswinds coming at you from all sides. One misstep would spell disaster.

“Extradition from another country would compound the challenges tenfold for even the most intrepid prosecutor and greatly reduce the chances of the case ever going to trial.”

Eban thought it over, then said in the intractable tone of a child told to eat his broccoli, “No. I don’t want to leave the country. I just got home. Besides, running off, disappearing, or even keeping that low profile that you and Dad are so keen on my doing would look like an admission of guilt.”

He planted his hand flat against his chest. “I didn’t do anything she didn’t ask for. She knew what she was getting into when she joined Theo, Cal, and me in that bedroom. Nobody had to talk her into a fucking thing.” He paused and then broke into a laugh. “A fitting choice of words.”

Having had all of his godson he could stomach, Upton pulled himself out of his chair. “It’s getting late, Eban, and I have an early morning meeting with Sid tomorrow.”

“Hold on. Are her parents still Bible-thumpers?”

“Her mother has since died. I’m told her father continues to see her daily. I assume his religious convictions remain rock solid.”

“So,” Eban said, giving an exaggerated shrug, “no problem with Holy Joe. Unless I’m mistaken, he was the holdout on pulling the plug. And her ex-husband isn’t a concern. When his career went from sugar to shit, he became a drunk and went on the skids.”

Upton hesitated. He was disinclined to share too much information, but, at the same time, reminded himself that Eban was his client by extension through Sid. He was entitled to be told.

And, as distasteful a human being as Eban had turned out to be, he remained his godson, to whom he had sworn an oath to treat him as his own child.

With reluctance, he said, “He went to New Orleans.”

“Who? Bridger? When?”

“Recently.”

“How recent?”

“Yesterday morning. He saw Rebecca, then had a closed-door meeting with the facility’s administrator.”

Eban paled a bit and shot the remainder of his vodka. “That doesn’t mean anything. How often does he visit her?”

“Never, Eban. This is a first, and I view it as significant.”

“Well, no shit, Sherlock. When the fuck were you going to get around to telling me about this significant visit?”