Show of Evil

by William Diehl

'Fleishman?' Vail said.

  'Yeah, we bust him. It'll hold up the insurance payoff and that could shake him up. And maybe Rainey, too.'

  'Good point. Meyer? Indict him?'

  'Pretty risky. Our whole case hangs on Shunderson's testimony. Maybe we need something more.'

  'There's plenty of strong circumstantial evidence to go with it,' Parver countered.

  'Abel?'

  'If it gets that far.'

  Vail smiled. The young lawyers looked at one another. 'What's that mean?' Parver said.

  Vail stood up and circled the desk slowly. He finally lit a cigarette, then returned to the corner near the exhaust fan and blew the smoke into it. 'What we're after here is justice, right? Here's a man who killed his wife in cold blood for greed and another woman. He planned it, even down to putting the gun in her dead hand and using gloves to fire it so she'd have powder burns on her fingers. That's planning. No way around it, he didn't even have time to think about it if we believe Mrs Shunderson's testimony. He knew exactly what he was going to do when he walked into the house. That's what we have to prove to get a first-degree conviction. Flaherty's right, the whole case will hinge on whether the jury believes Shunderson and the time element involved. If they don't, he could walk off into the sunset with his jiggly girlfriend and two hundred and fifty thousand bucks. So, do we go to the wall with this guy? Or maybe try an end run?'

  'You mean a deal?' Parver said with disbelief.

  'Not a deal,' Vail said. 'The deal.'

  'And what's that?' she demanded. She was getting angry.

  'Twenty years, no parole.'

  'Part of our case is that he premeditated this,' Parver said, defending her plea for a murder-one indictment. 'Twenty years, that's a second-degree sentence.'

  'No, it's a first-degree sentence with mercy. Think about it, Shana. If we go to trial and get a conviction, but the jury brings in second-degree instead of first, he could get twenty years to life and be back on the street in eight.'

  'You think you can manoeuvre Rainey into twenty, no parole?' asked Flaherty.

  'If we can shake his faith in Darby. Right now, he's sold on his client. Look, most defence advocates don't give a damn whether their client is guilty or innocent. It's can the state make its case and will the jury buy it. Rainey's a little different. If he finds out he's been lied to, then it comes down to whether he thinks we can prove our case. It's really not about guilt or innocence, it's about winning. If he thinks we've got him, he'll make the best deal he can for his client.'

  'You think the tape will do that?'

  'I don't know,' Vail said. 'But I don't know whether we can win a trial with this evidence, either. If we put the SOB away for a flat twenty, he'll be fifty-six and dead broke by the time he's back on the street.'

  The room fell silent for a few moments. Vail put his feet on the edge of his table and leaned back in his chair. Stenner could almost hear his brain clicking.

  'Shana,' Vail said finally, 'get an arrest warrant on James Wayne Darby. Murder one. Tell the sheriff's department we'll serve it. Naomi, set up lunch with Rainey as soon as possible. Flaherty, check with your pals in the audio business, see if you can get the sound on that tape enhanced a little.'

  'Ah, the art of the deal…' Stenner said softly, and smiled.

  Eleven

  The section known as Back of the Yards sprawled for a dozen square blocks, shouldering the stockyards for space. Its buildings, most of which were a century old, were square, muscular structures of concrete, brick, and timber behind facades of terracotta. The warehouses and old manufacturing plants were once headquarters for some of the country's great industrial powers: Goodyear and Montgomery Ward, Swift and Libby. Developers had resurrected the structures, renovating them and turning the once onerous area of canals, railroad tracks, and braying animal pens into a nostalgic and historic office park.

  The Delaney building was six storeys tall and occupied a quarter of a block near Ashland. The brass plaque beside the entrance road simply: DELANEY ENTERPRISES, INC., FOUNDED 1961.

  The executive offices were on the sixth floor and were reminiscent of the offices that had been there a hundred years before. As Shock Johnson stepped off the lift, he looked out on a vast open space sectioned off into mahogany and glass squares. With the exception of Delaney's office suite and the three vice presidents' offices that adjoined it, which occupied one full side of the large rectangle, all the other offices lacked both privacy and personality. Johnson thought for a moment of Dickens: he could almost see the ghost of Uriah Heep sitting atop a high stool in the corner, appraising the room to make sure everyone kept busy. The executive secretary, Edith Stoddard, was dressed to mourn in a stern, shin-length black dress. She wore very little make-up; her hair was cut in a bob reminiscent of the Thirties and was streaked with grey. She was a pleasant though harsh-looking woman; her face was drawn and she looked tired.

  'I've arranged for you to use three VP suites,' she said, motioning to them with her hand. 'You got the list of employees?'

  'Yes, ma'am, thank you,' Johnson answered.

  'We have very hurriedly called a board of directors meeting,' she said. 'I'll be tied up for an hour or two.'

  'Are you on the board?' Johnson asked.

  'I'm the secretary,' she said.

  Three teams of detectives were assigned to the VP offices. The forty-two secretaries, sales managers, and superintendents had been divided into three lists. Each of the interrogation teams had its list of fourteen subjects. Johnson and his partner for the day, an acerbic and misanthropic homicide detective named Si Irving, took the middle office. Irving was a box of a man, half a foot shorter than his boss, with wisps of black hair streaking an otherwise bald head. He was an excellent detective but was from the old school. As he had once told Johnson, 'Catch 'em, gut 'em, and fry 'em, that's my motto.' They suffered through a half-dozen dull men and women, none of whom would say an unkind word about 'Mr D.' and none of whom knew anything. Shock Johnson was leaning back in a swivel chair, his feet propped up on an open desk drawer, when Miranda Stewart entered the room. She was a striking woman, zaftig and blonde, wearing a smartly tailored red business suit and a black silk shirt. Her hair was tied back with a white ribbon. Johnson perked up. Irving appraised her through doleful eyes.

  'Miss Miranda Stewart?' Johnson said, putting his feet back on the floor and sitting up at the desk.

  'Yes,' she said.

  'Please have a seat. I'm Captain Johnson of the Chicago PD and this is Simon Irving, a member of the homicide division.'

  She smiled at sat down, a composed, friendly woman in her mid-thirties who seemed self-assured and perfectly at ease. She crossed her legs demurely and pulled her skirt down. It almost covered her knees.

  'I want to point out that this is an informal interview,' Johnson said. 'By that I mean you will not be sworn and this session will not be transcribed, although we will be taking notes. However, if at some point in this interview we feel the necessity of reading you your rights, we will give you the opportunity to contact an attorney. This is standard operating procedure in a situation like this and we tell everyone the same thing before we start, so I don't want you to feel that bringing that up, about reading you your rights, is in any way a threat. Okay?'

  'Okay,' she said in a sultry voice. She seemed to be looking forward to the experience or perhaps the attention.

  'What is your full name?'

  'Miranda Duff Stewart.'

  'Where do you live?'

  'At 3212 Wabash. Apartment 3A.'

  'Are you married, Ms Stewart?'

  'No. Divorced, 1990.'

  'How long have you lived at that address?'

  'Since 1990. Three years.'

  'And how long have you worked at Delaney Enterprises?'

  'Eighteen months.'

  'What did you do before you came here?'

  'I was the secretary to Don Weber, the vice president of Trumbell and Sloan.'

  'The advertising
agency?'

  'Yes, in Riverfront.'

  'And what is your job here at Delaney Enterprises?'

  'I was recently appointed Mr Delaney's new executive secretary. Edith Stoddard - she has the job now - is getting ready to retire.'

  'So you haven't started in that job yet?'

  'Well, I've had some meetings with Mr Delaney. You know, about what he expects of me, my responsibilities. Things like that. I know what I'll be doing.'

  'Have you been working with Mrs… Is it Mrs Stoddard?'

  'Yes, she's married and has a daughter going to UC.'

  'What's her husband do?'

  'He's crippled, I understand.'

  'And have you been working with Mrs Stoddard during this period?'

  'No. Mr Delaney said he wanted me to start off fresh.' She smiled. 'Said he didn't want me carrying over any of her bad habits, but I think he was kidding about Edith. I mean, everybody knows how efficient she is. I think he was just, you know, looking for a change?'

  'Do you know how long she's had the job?' Johnson asked.

  'Not really. She's been here forever. Maybe fifteen years?'

  'What we're lookin' for here, Ms Stewart, is if any bad blood might've existed between Delaney and people on his staff or maybe his business associates. Know what I mean?' Irving's voice was a raspy growl. 'Arguments, disagreements, threats… bad blood.'

  'Well, I don't know about his business associates, you'll have to ask Edith about that. He seemed to get along fine with the people in the office… of course…' She stopped and let the sentence hang in the air.

  'Of course, what?' Irving asked.

  'Well, I don't think Edith was real happy about the change.'

  'Was she bein' demoted, that what you mean?' said Irving.

  'She was, uh, she was leaving the company.'

  'Did she quit?'

  'He said, Mr Delaney said, that she was taking early retirement, but I got the impression that it was an either-or kind of thing.'

  'Either-or?' Johnson asked.

  'Either retire or, you know, you're out on your…' She jerked a thumb over her shoulder.

  'So Mrs Stoddard wasn't happy about it?'

  'I got that impression.'

  Johnson said, 'Did Delaney discuss this with you?'

  'No, it was just… just office gossip, you know how people talk. See, it wasn't really announced yet, about me taking that job.'

  'So you're the only one that knew officially?'

  'That I know of.'

  'Did his wife know?'

  'I never met his wife. She never came up here. I've seen her picture in the society pages, at charity things and stuff, but I never saw her face-to-face.'

  'That wasn't the question,' Irving said bluntly. His tone was brusque and formal compared with that of Johnson, who was warmer and tended to put people at ease.

  'Oh. Uh, I'm sorry, what was the question again?'

  'Did his wife know you were taking Mrs Stoddard's place? That was the specific question,' Johnson said.

  'Oh. I don't know.' She shrugged.

  'When did he first approach you about takin' over Stoddard's position?' Irving asked.

  'This was about two months ago.'

  'Was it mentioned when you first came to work here? I mean, was it kinda, you know, in the works?' Irving asked.

  'It was mentioned that if I lived up to my resume, I could move up rapidly.'

  'Specifically to be Delaney's exec?'

  'That was mentioned. He didn't dwell on it.'

  'So it was kinda like a carrot on a string for you, right? You do good, you could nail the top job? That's what it is, ain't it, the top woman's job here?'

  'There are some women in sales, but you know how it is, working that closely to the boss and all, it's a very personal thing. A very good job. For a person with my qualifications, it was one of the best jobs in town.'

  'So then, two months ago, Delaney offered you the position, that it?' said Irving.

  'Yes.'

  'Let me ask you something, Ms Stewart,' said Johnson. 'Are you under the impression that Mrs Stoddard was upset by all this?'

  'I never talked to her about it. I worked on the first floor, she's up here on six.'

  'But you said earlier, when you were talking about Mrs Stoddard leaving… uh, you implied it was "an either-or kind of thing" ' Johnson said, checking his notes.

  'That was what Mr Delaney said,' she said.

  'Well, lemme put it this way,' Irving said. 'Did you ever see anything in Mrs Stoddard's attitude towards you that would indicate she was upset with you about the change?'

  'I told you, I was at pains to keep out of her way,' she said. Annoyance was creeping into her tone.

  'Whose idea was that?'

  'What?'

  'Whose idea to keep outta her way, yours or Delaney's?'

  'His. Joh - Mr Delaney's.'

  'Call him by his first name, didja?' Irving said.

  'So does… did… Edith. That was his idea, to call him John.' She sighed. 'Look… can I smoke? Thanks. When this first came up, about Edith retiring? He took me to lunch because he didn't want people around the office to know what he had in mind. So I never really saw much of him around the office. Sometimes just walking through the first floor, that was about it.'

  'So he picks you. I mean, there was obviously a lot of other women who'd been working here longer…' Irving let the sentence die before it became a question.

  'Am I under suspicion or something?' she asked, her forehead wrinkling with apprehension.

  'Not at all, Ms Stewart,' Johnson interjected. 'There's been a homicide and we're just trying to get a fix on this man, you know, the people who work around him.'

  'I'm a computer expert, among other things, Captain,' she said. 'I took courses two years ago. I knew sooner or later I'd have to be an electronics whiz to get along in the world. That's one of the things that attracted him to me. On the resume, I mean. Also that I was familiar with advertising. That appealed to him, too.'

  'Okay, just to catch up,' Irving said. 'You was workin' as a VP's secretary at Trumbell and Sloan and you took courses to become computer… computerized…'

  'Computer literate,' Johnson suggested.

  'Computer literate, yeah. And Delaney saw that and offered you a job and mentioned the top slot might come open. Then you and Delaney slipped out to lunch and he offered you the job and implied that Edith Stoddard was given an "either-or" option, which I assume means either retire or get canned. Is that generally the way things went?'

  'Yes.'

  'How did he get your resume?' Johnson asked.

  'What is this?' she snapped suddenly. Blood rose to her face and her cheeks reddened. 'Why are you asking me all these personal questions? I didn't have anything to do with this. I lost a damn good job when… oh, when Mr Delaney was, uh, was…'

  'Nobody's accusing you of anything,' Johnson said reassuringly. 'We're just trying to get a feel for office politics and how Delaney operated. For instance, have you ever been to Delaney's penthouse apartment over on the Gold Coast?'

  'Not really…'

  ' "Not really"?' said Irving. 'I mean, either you was or you wasn't. It ain't a "not really" kinda question.'

  'I don't want anybody to get the wrong impression.'

  'We're not doin' impressions today, we're listenin',' Irving shot back.

  'Just level with us,' Johnson said softly, with a broad, friendly, 'trust me' smile. 'Did you have a key to the penthouse apartment?'

  'No!' she said, as if insulted. 'Edith was the only one I know who had a key.'

  'Edith Stoddard had a key? How do you know that?'

  'The time I went over there, I took a cab over at lunch. He had a desk in his bedroom and he had spreadsheets all over it. He said he worked there a lot because he never could get anything done at the office. He had some sandwiches brought in and we talked about the job. That's when he told me that Edith had a key because he was thinking of having the lock change
d when she left. I mean, that's not uncommon, you know? When somebody leaves - to change the lock.'

  'Did he say why she had a key?' Johnson asked.

  'He told me there were times when I might have to go over there to pick something up or to sit in on meetings outside the office. He also said I was never to mention the apartment. That it was a very private place for him and he wanted to keep it that way.'

  'Do you own a gun, Miss Stewart?' Irving asked suddenly.

  'No!' she said, surprised. 'I hate the things.'

  'You know does the Stoddard woman own a weapon?'

  'I have no idea.'

  'Did Delaney have any problems with Edith Stoddard recently? Over this thing, I mean?' said Johnson.

  'I don't know.'

  'When's the last time you saw him?' Johnson asked.

  'Uh, This is Thursday? Monday. Monday or Tuesday. . I was coming back from lunch as he was leaving the office. We just said hello. I told you, I didn't see him that often.'

  'And when was Stoddard due to leave?'

  'Today was her last day.'

  When they had dismissed Miranda Stewart, Irving snatched up a phone, punched one of a dozen buttons, and tapped out a number. Johnson was going back over his notes.

  'Who's this?' Irving asked. 'Hey, Cabrilla, this is Irving. No, Si Irving, not Irving whoever. Yeah, down in Homicide. I need a check on a gun purchase. Well, how often do they turn 'em in? Okay, if it was the last week I'm shit outta luck. The name is Edith Stoddard. S-t-o-d-d-a-r-d. I don't know her address, how many Edith Stoddards could there be? Yeah.' He cupped the mouthpiece with his hand. 'They turn in the gun purchases every week. He says with the new law, they're behind entering them in the comp - Yeah? Oh, hold on a minute.' He snapped on the point of his ballpoint pen and started scratching down notes. 'That it? Thanks, Cabrilla, I owe ya one.' He hung up the phone, punched out another number, spoke for a minute or two, then hung up.

  'Mrs Stoddard purchased a S&W .38 police special, four-inch barrel, on January twenty-two, at Sergeant York's on Wabash. I called Sergeant York's, talked to the manager. He remembers her, says she asked who could give her shootin' lessons, and he recommended the Shootin' Club. That's that indoor range over in Canaryville, mile or so down Pershing. Wanna take a break? Tool over there?'