by Gorman, Ed
“I didn’t know Bass worked for Rupp. Thanks for the tip.”
I take a sip to ease the dryness in my throat. “Anything to help clear me.”
Stone places the folder on the table and hooks one arm over the back of her chair. “So how do you think the evidence got in Bass’s car?”
I lean forward. “Rupp must’ve found out Toscar kept a lot of money in his safe. He knew Bass had done time for burglary. Maybe he offered Bass a cut to pull off the job. Maybe Toscar surprised Bass during the robbery and things got out of hand. My guess is, Bass threw the hammer in his car and planned to ditch it later. But he and Rupp got into a fight at the Shamrock and he never had the chance. That’s why it was in his car.”
I sit back in my chair and feel some of the tightness leave my chest. I’ve always done my best thinking under pressure. It’s why I’ve done well in court. I’ve given Stone a scenario that fits the facts — and she’s got to know my version offers a jury enough room for reasonable doubt.
But she won’t let it go. “You’re saying you didn’t have anything to do with the gym bag found in Bass’s car?”
“How could I? I was home all night.”
Stone reaches into the folder once again, pulls out more pho tos, and spreads them in front of me. Seconds later, I realize I’m facing the death penalty.
“Last year,” she says, “after being robbed three times in two months, the pawnshop across the street from the Shamrock in stalled state-of-the-art surveillance cameras.” She pauses and picks up one of the photos, then places it back in front of me. “As you can see, they offer a pretty good view of the Shamrock’s parking lot.”
Stone taps the photo farthest on my left. “In this one, you’ve just arrived in the parking lot. I can even make out the writing on the baseball cap you’re wearing.” She squints at the photo. “What do you know? We listen to the same radio station.”
I stare at the photos, unable to avert my eyes.
“See how clear your face is in the one where you’re putting the gym bag in Bass’s car?” She leans closer to me. “And guess what? We found your prints on the hammer used to kill Steven Toscar.”
My head snaps up. I know I didn’t leave any fingerprints. I wrapped the handle in plastic and wore gloves. The latex made my hands sweat. I rack my brain, searching for an explanation.
All at once, I know who set me up, and the realization leaves me lightheaded. I bend over and suck air into my lungs.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, her green eyes sparkling. “Cat got your tongue?”
I look into her eyes. “Why’d you keep looking when you al ready had Bass in custody?”
Stone scoops up the photographs and slips them into the folder. “The fingerprints on the hammer didn’t match his. We expanded our search and got a hit on yours. You remember get ting printed when you worked in the DA’s office? After we got the photos of you and Rupp — plus the ones from the pawnshop — all the pieces fell into place.”
The walls seem to close in on me. “I’ll tell you who set this up, but I want a deal.”
She considers this for a moment. “I’ll have to talk to my boss.
I slowly nod. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Stone pauses in the doorway. “There’s one more thing.” “What’s that?”
“You’re slipping, Jack. I’d call another lawyer if I were you.”
• • •
I follow Stone’s advice and call Curt Beyer. Beyer is the best defense attorney I know. He’s expensive, but from what I’ve seen in court, he’s worth every penny. I make the call, and forty-five minutes later he shows up. After two hours of hurried meetings with, me and the DA, he hammers out a deal: I testify for the state and the DA won’t seek the death penalty. There’s even the slim possibility of parole in the distant future. When Stone returns, I agree to the deal.
She leans back in her chair and peers at me through her lenses. “So, what’ve you got?”
With my lawyer’s blessing, I spill my guts, from my initial meeting with Eve Toscar to the night of the murder. Stone listens quietly. She doesn’t look impressed.
“This is your big expose? That Toscar’s wife wanted him dead?”
I didn’t expect high-fives or pats on the back, but I thought she’d be more excited. “That’s right. Eve wanted his money, but due to the prenup, she couldn’t get it any other way.”
“Jack, do I look stupid?” Stone’s voice drips with scorn. “Don’t you think we’d check her out?”
“Of course, but — ”
“We put her under a microscope,” she says. “She came off smelling like a rose. Everyone we talked to — including Toscar’s friends — said the marriage was rock-solid. Hell, Jack, Toscar re cently changed his will to dissolve their prenup.”
The news hits me like a sledgehammer. “What?”
Stone smirks. “Didn’t know that, huh? Here’s something else I bet you didn’t know. When we asked if her husband had any enemies, she gave us your name. She swore Toscar told her you threatened him when he cut you out of a business deal.”
“That’s a lie!” I shout.
“So you say. She also denied knowing Dexter Bass, and he confirms that.”
“No way. I’ve got him on tape telling how Eve asked him to kill her husband.”
Beyer grabs my arm. “Shut up, Jack. You can’t divulge any thing Bass told you in confidence.”
I jerk my arm free and look at Stone. “You want to hear it?”
Lois Stone sits back in her chair and taps her lush lips with her index finger. “Curt’s right. Whatever Bass told you is covered by attorney-client privilege. It’s not admissible.”
“Screw privilege,” I say. “The tape’s in my briefcase at home.”
Hall clears his throat. He’s been so quiet, I forgot he’s in the room. “His briefcase is in the evidence lab.”
Stone’s eyes narrow. “You’re kidding, right?”
Hall can’t meet her gaze. “We, uh, brought it just in case.” Stone looks at me and shrugs. “I guess I can’t stop you from playing the tape.”
Ten minutes later, over Beyer’s repeated objections, I pop open the locks on my briefcase and pull out my tape recorder. After I met with Bass, I never listened to the tape. Why bother? But now, with my life on the line, I’m glad I taped it. My hand shakes as I press the Play button. The tape spins. Nothing.
“Are you sure it’s the right tape?” Stone asks.
I paw through my briefcase, searching for other tapes, but the rest are still in their cellophane wrappers. I fast-forward the tape, hoping to hear Bass’s voice, but all I get is faint static. Then it hits me.
“I had the tape when I went to Eve’s house after meeting with Bass,” I explain. “She would’ve had plenty of time to grab the tape while I was in the shower.”
“You have anything else to back up your story?” Stone asks.
I scour my memory but come up empty. My meetings with Eve took place after office hours, after everyone had gone home. She wanted to keep our meetings hush-hush, so I never logged them in my appointment book. And I never billed her, since she paid me in her own special way.
“No,” I mutter. “Nothing else.”
The door opens and a uniformed officer hands Stone several sheets of paper. She studies them, then looks at me.
“While we’ve been talking, the police checked Rupp’s employee records. There’s no record that Bass worked for him. No job application, no W-2, nothing. We even checked the service records for Toscar’s pool. All the forms were signed by Dan Dorsey.” She hands me the sheets of paper. “See for yourself.”
I glance through the pages. “Maybe Bass used that name as an alias.”
Stone shakes her head. “Rupp’s secretary said Dorsey has worked there for years. We talked to Dorsey, and he confirmed that he did all the work on Toscar’s pool.”
The pages slip from my hands and flutter to the floor. Stone stands up and walks to the door. “Jack,” she
says, then waits until I look at her. “You’ve got zilch. No deal.” She looks at Hall. “See that Mr. Cleary gets back to his cell.”
• • •
At my arraignment, Beyer works his magic and gets me out on bail. It’s a miracle, but that’s why I’m paying him the big bucks. I have to wear a tracking bracelet on my ankle, but it beats sitting in jail. Stone objects, but the judge cuts her off and calls for the next case. After. I’m released, I go home, make a couple of phone calls, and wait.
Three hours later, I stroll into the Shamrock Bar. At this time of day, even the hard-core drinkers have other places to be, so it’s easy to spot Dexter Bass waiting in the booth in the far cor ner. With my arrest, his claim of self-defense rang true. His new attorney didn’t have any problem getting the charges dropped. Bass raises his glass when he notices me.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” I tell him.
“I’m a curious guy,” he says, a sly grin creasing his face. It quickly fades. “So, what’d you wanna talk about?”
“How did you do it?”
Bass sits up straighter. “Hold on there, Counselor. How’d I do what?”
“Cut the crap,” I hiss. “I’m looking at life, maybe even the needle. The least you can do is tell me how you and Eve set me up.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bass finishes his drink and starts to leave. I grab his wrist, stalling his exit. I need to hear the truth, and to get it I’m gambling that his ego is bigger than mine.
“C’mon, you can tell me. I’m pretty bright, but I know when I’ve been outsmarted. It was your idea, wasn’t it?”
Bass jerks his hand free. “You wearing a wire?” I tell him no, but he isn’t convinced. “Follow me.”
We head to the bathroom and Bass motions me inside. The smell stings my nose, and I watch where I step. Must be the maid’s day off. Bass locks the door.
“Unbutton your shirt.”
I undo the buttons and show him my bare chest. He spins me around and shoves me against the wall. He frisks me, leaving no place unchecked. I’ve had less thorough exams at my doctor’s of fice. Bass seems satisfied.
“It was Eve’s idea,” he says.
My stomach churns as Bass guides me through the double-cross. He and Eve worked a few scams in Vegas until he went to prison and she reinvented herself. When he got out, they hooked up again and looked for a patsy. I fit the bill. After I contacted Rupp, Eve had Bass take the photos of my meetings with him. Then Bass “bumped” into Rupp in the bar. Once everything was in place, he and Eve waited for me to murder her husband. And while I was busy killing Toscar, Eve snuck into Rupp’s office and planted the photographs.
“How did my fingerprints get on the hammer? I wore gloves that night.”
He gives me a smug grin. “It’s your hammer.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Eve took the hammer from your garage,” Bass explains. “She gave you your own hammer and said it was one I’d used. But I never touched it.”
My cheeks burn. “What about Dan Dorsey?”
Bass smirks. “What about him? I never met the guy. I visited Eve on the days Dorsey wasn’t scheduled to be there.”
I step toward him. “Was it worth it?”
Bass jabs his fingers in my chest. “Don’t go righteous on me, Counselor. You tried to frame me too.”
“Aren’t you worried she’ll set you up?”
“No. Lucky for me, Eve likes outlaws better than lawyers.” There isn’t much to say after that. Bass looks at his watch and tells me he has a plane to catch. He unlocks the bathroom door and walks out.
The bartender is clearing the table where Bass was sitting. As I walk by, he puts his hand on my chest. I recognize him as one of the cops who searched my house.
“Stone’s waiting for you across the street,” he says.
I push through the back exit and cross the street to the pawnshop’s parking lot. I knock on the side door of the gray cargo van parked in the shadows. Lois Stone opens the sliding door and steps out into the afternoon heat. She’s wearing a dark green pantsuit that complements her auburn hair. There’s something on her lips — lipstick or gloss — that leaves them shiny. I’d like to think she did it for me, but that’s wishful thinking.
“Did you get it?”
“Loud and clear. There’s enough for arrest warrants. Eve Toscar and Dexter Bass won’t be spending her money anytime soon.”
“How’d you know he wouldn’t find the bug?”
Stone grabs the van’s door handle. “Jack, guys like you and Bass always think you’re smarter than the rest of us. That’s your downfall. Once he frisked you and didn’t find anything, I knew he’d stop looking. There was no way he’d suspect we bugged the john.”
I know she’s right. “So is our deal back on?”
“Yeah, it’s back on. You’ve got until Monday to get your affairs in order.”
I shake my head. “I’m gonna die an old man in prison.”
Stone’s face softens for a moment. “Cheer up, Jack. With good behavior, you could get paroled in fifteen, twenty years. You’ll still have plenty of life left.”
“Not quite what I had in mind.”
She shrugs. “A word of advice?”
“Sure, what’ve I got to lose?”
Her eyes sparkle. “When you’re in the shower, don’t drop the soap.”
• • •
CHARLES DREES admits that when it comes to his literary preferences, he’s a mystery-genre snob. “Chances are, if someone doesn’t die, I won’t read it,” he says. “By Hook or By Crook,” first story accepted for publication, appeared in the Mystery Writers of America anthology The Prosecution Rests, edited by Linda Fairstein. A licensed psychotherapist with more than twenty years experience, he lives with his wife in Manhattan, Kansas — the Little Apple.
THE FINAl NAIL:
A VAl O’FARREll STORY
By Robert J. Randisi
ONE
When Val O’Farrell entered Muldoon’s, he immediately spotted his friend, Sam McKeever, sitting at the bar. It was early and the basement Bowery speakeasy was pretty empty. Even the regulars didn’t start drinking in earnest until after noon. Of course, at one corner of the bar was Eddie Doherty, who started drinking the minute his eyes opened and didn’t stop until they closed.
O’Farrell approached the bar and shook his head at Lars, the Swedish bartender, indicating he did not want a drink. When Lars picked up the coffee pot and raised his eyebrows, O’Farrell nodded. A steaming mug was on the bar by the time he seated himself next to McKeever.
His friend was staring morosely into a shot glass of what O’Farrell had no doubt was Irish whiskey.
“Kind of early for that, don’t you think, Sam?” O’Farrell asked. “Especially when you have to go in to work.”
Without looking at the private detective, the cop said, “No, it ain’t early, and no, I don’t have to go to work.”
O’Farrell picked up his mug of coffee and asked, “You takin’ a day off?”
“A career off,” McKeever said, raising his glass. “I’ve been suspended.”
“A disciplinary thing?” O’Farrell asked. “They’ll make you stew and then reinstate you.”
“I don’t think so,” McKeever said. “I’m finished.”
“Why, Sam?”
“They say I’ve been taking payoffs.”
“It’s 1924,” O’Farrell said. “We’re in the midst of Prohibition. Who isn’t taking payoffs?”
“Well,” McKeever said, “I guess I’m gettin’ roasted for it. That’s the difference.”
“Let ‘em go to hell, then, Sam,” O’Farrell said. “Come in with me.”
For the first time, the cop looked at the shamus.
“Me? A private dick? Don’t make me laugh. I’m a cop. My father was a cop. He’d turn over in his grave.”
“Then don’t just sit here and take it,” O’Farrell said.
“What am I suppos
ed to do?”
“Fight them.”
McKeever laughed and turned his attention back to his Irish whiskey. “With what?”
O’Farrell grinned and said, “Me.”
O’Farrell got McKeever off the stool and told him to go home to his wife. He’d been up all night and hadn’t seen her since the previous night when he went to work.
“I can’t go home, Val.”
“Isn’t she going to be worried when you don’t show up?”
“She’s used to me not coming home,” McKeever said. “What she’s not used to is me coming home without my gun and badge, suspended pending a payola investigation.”
“Okay,” O’Farrell said, digging into his pocket. “Go to my place, get some sleep. I’ll clear this up today so you don’t have to tell her.”
• • •
As O’Farrell installed the police detective behind the wheel of his roadster, the cop asked, “How’d you know where to find me?”
“Lars called when you started drinking Irish whiskey at 6:00 AM,” O’Farrell told him.
“Snitch.”
“He’s a good friend,” O’Farrell corrected, “and an even better bartender.”
Luckily, he’d gotten to McKeever before he could have a third drink, so he was fine to drive home.
With McKeever on his way home, O’Farrell went to his own car — a yellow Pierce Arrow Roadster — and drove to police headquarters.
TWO
Police Headquarters had been located on Mulberry Street until 1909 when it moved to 240 Centre Street. O’Farrell spent his last ten years on the job working out of that building so he knew his way around. He also knew a lot of the men who still worked there, some by name, others on sight.
It was surprisingly easy for him to get in to see Captain Mike Turico, even though he’d sent his name in ahead. Turico was not only McKeever’s commanding officer, but O’Farrell’s old C.O. as well. They never got along when they were peers and since O’Farrell left the department and made a name for himself as a private detective, their relationship had not gotten any better.
“Whataya want, Val?” Captain Turico demanded as O’Farrell walked in. “I’m busy.”