The Concrete Kiss

                                                                      The Concrete Kiss

                                                                         By David Grace

                                                                          Chapter One

Leonard Berg and fifty other young lawyers eking out a hand-to-mouth existence on low-rent evictions and battered-wife divorces had put their names on the County's Indigent Appeal roster. On the day that Edward James Anderson was found guilty of murder Leonard Berg's name was at the top of the list. Through random chance or luck or fate, when Berg finished the appeal and barged into the Homicide-Squad bullpen Ned Danes was the only detective still there. Shifting the grimy banker's box clutched to his chest, Berg made his way across the room.  

"Hey, Detective," Berg said dropping the box on the edge of Danes' desk. "I was appointed to write the Anderson appeal." Danes glanced briefly at the bulging cardboard box then up at Berg. "I gave it to the clerk today, so, well, I brought back my copy of the PD's file. I'm supposed to turn it in for shredding or whatever." 

"That's Finley's case," Danes said, staring at the trespassing box. 

"I know, but he's on vacation-" 

"Family leave," Danes interrupted. "His father's got Alzheimer's." 

"Sure, I mean, anyway he's not here and I'm supposed to return this after I finish with the appeal. It has to go back into the system." 

Danes gave the box another glance, then shrugged.  

"OK, I'll have somebody sign it in tomorrow." 

"Thanks, detective. If you ever need something, you give me a call." Berg held out a thin, white card: "Leonard Berg, Esq. Attorney At Law." 

"You bet," Danes said, slipping the twenty-for-a-dollar scrap of paper into his shirt pocket. 

Berg smiled, took half a step, then turned back. "Oh, I almost forgot. There's something in there that doesn't belong. It looks like it got misfiled from another case." 

Berg pulled off the cover and, one at a time, stacked half a dozen manila folders on Danes' desk.  

"Got it," he said, holding up a plastic box containing a single, unlabeled CD. "It's some kind of a surveillance video." Berg placed the disc at Danes' right hand. "All I know is that it's got nothing to do with my guy's case. Maybe it'll mean something to you." Danes flipped the container over but the backside was as blank as the front. Berg gave Danes an awkward smile and a little wave and two seconds later was gone. 

Danes stared at the disc a moment longer then slipped it into his computer. Colored static speckled the screen then resolved itself into wide-angle shot of the inside of a convenience store. An ID strip ran along the bottom of the picture. The date was November 17th, about fifteen months ago. The address line listed a store in Highland Hills just outside the city limits on the east side of town. The front door opened and a big man in a black wool coat and a wool hat entered, paused and looked nervously around. The guy stood there for a couple of seconds then turned his back to the camera and bent over the magazine rack up against the front window. Thirty seconds later he handed the clerk a rolled-up magazine. The kid flattened it out to scan the price - "All Natural Babes." A big-breasted woman with white-blonde hair and empty eyes stared out from the cover.  

"Six ninety-five," the clerk said and the customer handed over a wrinkled bill. The kid gave him his change and, hunched over, the guy hurried out the door. The screen went black. Danes backed it up and studied the man - white, puffy face, ears flat to the skull, rounded shoulders, almost no neck. He looked familiar but Danes couldn't remember where from. He knew that face from someplace. Danes closed his eyes but the answer hovered just out of reach. He put the CD back into the case, dropped it in his bottom drawer and headed for the door.