She did a little sizing up of her own when he finally opened the door. Up close he was even huskier than he’d seemed at a distance. Large head and thick neck, like a football player. Real judge’s face: stern eyes, streaks of gray in the curly black of his hair, and an expression blank as a wall.
The first thing he said to her was, “You’re not what I expected, Ms. Corbin.”
“No? Not a sister, you mean?”
“Not a sister and not so young. You sounded older on the phone.”
“I’m not as young as I look,” she lied.
He stood aside to let her come in. When he shut the door behind her he said, “We’ll talk in my study,” and didn’t quite put his back to her as they moved through the house.
Some house. The furniture was modern and expensive, the décor black and white, mostly, with lots of African sculptures and carvings and such on shelves and in nooks and crannies. His wife’s doing—Tamara knew that as soon as she walked into his study. Everything in there—desk, chairs, sideboard, wall paneling—was dark, gleaming wood, masculine and somber. There were a couple of framed paintings, also dark toned, and some framed documents that looked to be copies of his law degrees. A big polished silver golf trophy reared up on a shelf above the sideboard.
Mantle indicated a chair in front of the desk, went around, and sat down in a big leather chair behind it. He folded his thick hands together on the blotter and sat statue stiff, studying her some more with those stern eyes. Not saying anything, waiting for her lead.
She didn’t waste any time. “Lucas Zeller,” she said, “isn’t who he claims to be. His real name’s Delman, Antoine Delman. And his business isn’t investments; it’s petty theft and con games.”
Nothing changed in the judge’s expression. He still didn’t say anything, just kept looking at her. Hadn’t blinked even once since they’d sat down. She wondered if he was trying to quietly intimidate her. Wasn’t working, if that was it. She’d grown up with Pop’s stares and glares; the hard eye didn’t phase her anymore.
She said, “He doesn’t work alone. Has himself a partner—his mother. Her name is Alisha Delman.”
That got a couple of blinks out of Mantle. “Alisha?”
“As in ‘Psychic Readings by Alisha.’ That’s her specialty—posing as a psychic to help set up marks.”
Silent stare. Mr. Stone Face.
“They both spent a couple of years in prison,” Tamara said, “for running a con in Southern California—bilking black investors in a charity scam. A fund that was supposed to help struggling African American families keep their homes. The investors put up the cash and take a tax write-off; the families pay back the money at a reasonable interest rate, everybody makes out. Only the fund doesn’t exist and the only folks who make out, if they don’t get caught, are the Delmans—they disappear with the investment capital. Sound familiar, Your Honor?”
The stony look.
“Operation Save is their new con,” she said. “More sophisticated than the one they worked down south. They set up a Web site this time, desktop-published some brochures with fake quotes and statistics. I’ll bet you looked at the Web site but didn’t investigate Operation Save any further than that. Am I right?”
More silence. She let it go on, let him be the one to break it. Took more than a minute. His lips barely moved when he said, “How do you know all this?”
“It’s my business.”
“You seem to believe it’s mine as well.”
“No, I meant the business I’m in. The detective business.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Who hired you?”
“I can’t tell you that. Privileged.”
“Stop playing games with me, young woman. Tell me what makes you think I’m associated in any way with Lucas Zeller.”
“Antoine Delman,” Tamara said. “And I don’t think it; I know it.”
“What do you know?”
“That he and Alisha are behind Operation Save. That he’s been working on you and Doctor Easy to invest—others, too, probably. And that his mother’s been working on Viveca Inman.”
“Am I supposed to know these people you’re talking about?”
“Come on, Judge, you were with Hawkins last night at the Twilight Lounge on Ocean. And you were driving the BMW you just bought from Mrs. Inman.”
The look. Seemed like you couldn’t crack it if you used a hammer.
Finally he said, “You were there and you followed me,” in the same tone you’d use to talk about the weather. Statement, not a question.