by Parnell Hall
“And how do you know that?”
“You told me so yourself.”
“Exactly. That’s hearsay. You don’t know where the list of numbers came from. What I told you is of no evidential value, and they can’t force you to testify to it.”
“Aren’t there some cases where they can?”
“Yes,” Steve said. “If they indict me and proceed against me on a criminal charge, anything I may have told you regarding the case could be received in evidence as an admission against interest.”
“Indict you!” Taylor said. “You’re kidding, of course?”
“Only half. I’m sure Stams would love to get me, if he could just figure out what to charge me with. But the point I’m making is, you don’t know that the letters have anything to do with the list, so you don’t need to say anything about them. It won’t be that hard because nobody knows about the letters, so nobody’s going to ask you.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What?”
“I saw that ten thousand dollars with my own eyes.”
“Did you compare the numbers on the bills with the list?”
“No.”
“There you are. Ah, here are our salads.”
“I’m rapidly losing my appetite,” Taylor grumbled.
The waiter served them and withdrew.
“Snap out of it, Mark,” Steve said. “You got nothing to worry about.”
“I don’t like it, Steve.”
“I’m not asking you to like it. I’m asking you to do it.”
Taylor sighed. He took a big pull of bourbon. “O.K. You win. But you’re going to have to protect me on this.”
“Of course,” Steve said. “No problem. Now that we got that settled, what have you got on the murder?”
Taylor shook his head. “Not much. You pulled me out of the office before I could get a line into headquarters. All I know is the desk sergeant got a complaint from a woman in the building that there was a fight going on next door. A patrol car went out to investigate, and the officers were the second ones to discover the body.” Taylor frowned. “I wish to hell you hadn’t found that body.”
“You and me both. So what about your line into police headquarters?”
“I got a friendly reporter feeding me stuff. Most of it is just routine, but this guy is friendly with one of the sergeants, so he gets the inside track on the police report.”
“Think he’d have anything yet?”
“Hell, he’s overdue now.”
“Might be a good time for you to check in with your office.”
“It might for a fact,” Taylor said.
The food arrived while Mark Taylor was still on the phone. He returned to the table, sat down, cut off a huge slice of steak, and popped it in his mouth.
“O.K., Steve I got the dope.”
“From the reporter?”
“Yeah.”
“Any visitors in your office?”
“You mean cops?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
“That’s strange. Well, what’s the dope?”
“The police place the time of the murder at 5:30 P.M.”
“5:30! How can they do that?”
“The desk sergeant got a call from Margaret Millburn, the woman across the hall, reporting an altercation in Bradshaw’s apartment. That call was logged at 5:28. Now the desk sergeant didn’t want to send a radio patrol car if it was just a family row or something like that. You know how it is with these 911 calls. Over half of them are just cranks. So the sergeant got the guy’s name and address from her. When he hung up, instead of dispatching a cruiser, he called information, got Bradshaw’s number, and called him up.”
“And got a busy signal?”
“Exactly. The desk sergeant called him at 5:31 by the police clock. That clock is accurate. Bradshaw’s phone was found on the floor with the receiver off the hook. The police theory is that the phone was knocked off the table during the struggle in which Bradshaw was killed. That fixes the time of death rather neatly. Bradshaw was alive at 5:28, because one obviously doesn’t have a fight with a dead man. He was dead at 5:31 because the phone was knocked off the hook. There’s no word from the medical examiner’s office, but it’s a good bet the autopsy surgeon will fix the time of death between 5:15 and 5:45.”
“I see,” Steve said, thoughtfully.
“Now then,” Taylor went on. “The police have picked up Marilyn Harding and are holding her for questioning. Her lawyer, a Mr. Fitzpatrick, is down there causing quite a stir, and has apparently advised her not to say anything. At any rate, she’s clammed up and won’t give the police the time of day.”
Taylor sawed off another bite of steak. “Now, here’s the strange thing. The police have uncovered something that’s making them absolutely ecstatic. I have no idea what it is. Even my reporter can’t get a line on it. But whatever it is, Sergeant Stams is prancing around like his wife just had a baby, and Harry Dirkson himself has been called in. That’s got the reporters puzzled. If Marilyn Harding isn’t going to sing, they don’t need the District Attorney to listen to her lawyer’s solo. So they must have something else they’re working on that clinches the case against the Harding girl, or is somehow of more importance.”
Steve’s eyes narrowed as he digested that information.
“So,” Mark Taylor said, “even though you can’t tell me certain things about the case, I can still make certain deductions.”
“Such as?”
“Such as,” Taylor said, watching Steve narrowly, “after you called me to tell me Bradshaw was dead, you raced out to the Harding mansion to talk to Marilyn. I don’t know whether she told you anything or not, but after you were there a little while, Sergeant Stams showed up to question Miss Harding. That was probably just before you called me the second time to send me out here, which would be around ten-thirty. The first report of Bradshaw’s murder was on the nine o’clock news. Someone gave Sergeant Stams the tip-off to pick up Marilyn Harding. Marilyn Harding was being followed by Miltner’s men. Now, if Miltner or one of his men saw the nine o’clock news broadcast, and if he knew that Marilyn had been to Bradshaw’s apartment sometime this afternoon, and if he felt he had to report that information to the police in order to keep from losing his license, it would place Sergeant Stams’s arrival at the Harding mansion somewhere around ten-thirty.”
Steve frowned. “You’re making a lot of deductions, Mark.”
“I’m not through yet. Let’s go a little further. If Stams got a tip from Miltner and went to see Marilyn Harding, and if you were there when he arrived, and if shortly after he arrived a Mr. Fitzpatrick showed up claiming to be Marilyn Harding’s attorney-and if Stams suspected you of having a client who had asked you to remove evidence from Bradshaw’s apartment and whose identity you were attempting to conceal-then Stams would probably assume that Marilyn was the client, that after you left Bradshaw’s apartment you dashed out to talk to her, that you advised her that under the circumstances the fact that you were her attorney would absolutely crucify her, and that therefore on your suggestion she immediately called in Fitzpatrick to act as a cat’s-paw so that you could fade into the woodwork.”
Steve Winslow said nothing.
“Well,” Taylor said, cutting off another piece of steak, “look who’s lost his appetite now.”
Steve picked up his knife and fork and began mechanically slicing off a piece of steak.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Mark said. “If they can ever prove that you took anything out of that apartment, Dirkson will throw the book at you.”
“Don’t worry, Mark. They can’t prove it.”
“You mean you didn’t do it, or they can’t prove it?”
“I told you there were certain things I couldn’t tell you.”
Mark Taylor’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth, “Jesus Christ, Steve, don’t even suggest you did that. If you did, I don’t want to know it.”
“Th
en stop asking questions I have to refuse to answer on the grounds that an answer might tend to incriminate me. For a guy who doesn’t want to know the answers, you do ask the damnedest questions.”
“It’s the detective in me. I can’t help it.” Taylor wolfed down the last bite of steak. “All right. It’s been a fun dinner and all that, but being out of touch is getting me a little crazy. When can I get back to the office?”
“You could go back now if it weren’t for that new evidence. That’s got me worried. I’d like to know what it is before the cops talk to you.”
“Let me call in again. Maybe the reporter’s managed to turn up something.”
“Do that. And while you’re at it, call information and see if Tracy Garvin’s number is listed.”
“Her home number?”
“Yeah.”
“No problem. I got it.”
Steve grinned. “Oh? Like that, eh?”
Taylor chuckled, shook his head. “No. Not like that. When I got the news about the Harding autopsy, I called your office trying to catch you. You’d already left, but Tracy was still there. When I told her she got all excited. Said she’d stay there, keep the office open, wait for more reports.” Taylor stopped and looked at Steve. “I don’t know what your problem is with that girl, but in my book she’s quite something, you know?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Steve said impatiently. “So?”
“So, I knew you didn’t want her doing that, so I tried to talk her out of it. It took some doing. Finally, she agreed, but only after she gave me her home number and made me promise if anything broke I’d call her, so she could come back and reopen the office.” Taylor chuckled. “This case may be a big pain in the ass for us, but for her it’s like she won a trip to Disneyland.”
“And you didn’t call?”
“I forgot.”
“She’s gonna be pissed. Well, call her now, tell her to hop in a cab, and come join us.”
“Not the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” Taylor said. “But I’m sure the only reason you’re doing it is so you can tell her what she knows.”
Taylor pushed back his chair and went off to telephone. Steve sat and looked at the half-eaten steak in front of him. He’d missed dinner, but he wasn’t a bit hungry. Christ, what a fucking mess. All right, he had to admit he’d been bored. Tracy was quite right in complaining that nothing ever happened. But he’d liked that, at least at first. After a whole life of scratching out a living, first as an actor, then as a lawyer, it had been nice to sit back, not worry about the rent, and watch the monthly check from Sheila Benton roll in. Yeah, it was a little monotonous. And yeah, after three months of leisure he could have stood a case of some kind.
But not this.
Not two homicides, the cops on his case, and him not knowing who the fuck his client was.
No, not this.
Mark Taylor came back and sat down.
“Well?”
Taylor shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing,” he said. “Everything at the station is very hush-hush. Dirkson is closeted with someone, apparently either a witness or a suspect, but no one on the force seems to know who it is.”
“Well, the officers who made the arrest know,” Steve said impatiently.
“Sure, and Sergeant Stams knows too. But the officers who made the arrest are nowhere to be found. In fact, no one seems to know who the arresting officers are. Of course, Sergeant Stams is taking the credit. Stams is very much in evidence, and about as helpful as you would expect. He’s willing to pose for pictures, and he modestly admits that it was his investigative brilliance that cracked the case, but that’s about it.” Taylor sighed. “So I guess I’m stuck here for a while. You gonna finish that steak?”
“No.”
“Then pass it over. If I gotta sit here, I might as well eat.”
Steve shoved his plate toward the center of the table, and Taylor speared the piece of meat.
“So, what about Tracy?” Steve asked.
Taylor shook his head. “I struck out there too.”
Steve’s head snapped up. “What?”
Taylor shrugged. “No answer. I let it ring ten times, just in case she was asleep.”
“Oh shit!” Steve jumped to his feet. He whipped out his wallet, flung money on the table. “Let’s go!”
“What?” Mark Taylor said, but Steve was already halfway to the door. Taylor lurched his 220 pounds into gear and followed.
By the time Taylor caught up, Steve was out in the street trying to hail a cab.
“Steve! What the hell’s going on?”
“It’s Tracy, damn it! Where the hell’s a fucking cab?”
“What?”
“Stams set a trap. No wonder he’s so happy. He must figure I sent her back to get the evidence I ditched.”
“What evidence? What are you talking about?”
“Tracy said she’d be waiting for your call.”
“So? Maybe she had a date.”
“Not that girl. She wouldn’t have missed your call for the world.
No, she heard it on the radio and went out there. Damn it, where the hell’s a cab?”
“Steve. What the hell are you talking about?”
“There’s one. Taxi!” Steve turned back to Taylor as the cab swerved in to the curb. “Don’t you get it? Shit, Mark. She’s the mystery witness!”
16
District Attorney Harry Dirkson shifted his bulk in his chair, ran his hand over his bald head, and frowned. Jesus Christ, what a fucking mess. First Phillip Harding getting murdered, and now Marilyn Harding mixed up in the murder of a blackmailer. The media always loved to see rich and powerful people in trouble, but not Dirkson. Rich and powerful people had connections. They could stir things up, make waves, put pressure on you. And you always had to step lightly. If you let someone big off the hook, the press and the public would scream bloody murder. And if you went after them, and they were big enough, there was no telling who you might offend.
Still, Phillip Harding was dead, and Marilyn was just a kid, too young to have any significant political connections. So the situation shouldn’t have been that bad. Except for one thing. Steve Winslow.
Steve Winslow. The name haunted Dirkson like a death knell. Steve Winslow. Dirkson had had only one case against Steve Winslow, but that had been enough. Steve Winslow was young and inexperienced, probably didn’t even know that much law, but Jesus Christ. The man was a clown, that was the problem. An actor, a showman, a jury-grandstander. After the things Winslow had done in court, Dirkson had been lucky to escape with his political career. And here he was, popping up again to taunt him. Steve Winslow discovered in the dead man’s apartment. Steve Winslow interviewing Marilyn Harding at her mansion.
And now this. Now this young woman sitting before him. The young woman who had been apprehended attempting to enter the dead man’s building. The young woman who’d told a few unconvincing lies to the police and then clammed, refusing to talk and demanding to call her attorney. And who was that attorney?
Steve Winslow.
Dirkson glanced over at Sergeant Stams, stolid and impassive as ever. Then at the stenographer, waiting, pen poised, for something to take down. And finally at the young woman, the girl, really, who might well be a college student for all he knew, sitting there in blue jeans, sweater, and glasses, her jaw set in an angry pout as if she’d just been called into the Dean’s office and was refusing to name the names of the students to whom she’d slipped answers on the final exam.
Dirkson sighed. “Now, Miss Garvin, let’s try this one more time. What were you doing at that apartment building?”
Tracy said nothing.
“There’s no reason to keep you here,” Dirkson said. “If you would just tell us what you were doing, I’m sure you could go home.”
“I have nothing to say. I want to call my lawyer.”
“We called your lawyer. He’s not home.” A fact for which Dirkson was grateful.
Tracy set her jaw again.
“Now then,” Dirkson said, with a glance at the stenographer, “I would certainly not want to violate your constitutional rights, and I would be the first person to suggest that you are entitled to a lawyer should you want one. But as a reasonable man, I have to ask myself, why in the world would a decent young woman such as yourself want a lawyer?”
The door opened. Dirkson frowned. The sergeant who had been standing guard in the outer office came in.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said to Dirkson. “But there’s a man here says you sent for him.”
“What?” Dirkson said.
“Yes, sir. He says he’s a witness and you called him in. He says you want to question him and-Hey!”
Steve Winslow stepped in front of the sergeant, took in the scene at a glance, and said, “Hello, Dirkson.”
Tracy Garvin gasped and relief flooded over her features like a drowning person who’s just been thrown a lifeline. Sergeant Stams’s jaw dropped open, and his face darkened, murderously.
Only Dirkson kept his cool. Dozens of thoughts flashed through his head-my god, he hasn’t changed a bit; he’s still a clown; same hair, same clothes who the hell would dress that way? how the hell’d he find us?; who’s this damn sergeant, and how stupid can he be, and who the hell assigned him, anyway? some heads are going to roll for this-but his face reflected none of them. Instead he matched Steve’s smile and said, calmly, “Mr. Winslow. And how did you get in here?”
Steve smiled. “Being a private citizen, I just walked in. You, I believe, had to be elected.”
The sergeant, fearful he was in deep shit, said, “He’s not a witness? He said you sent for him, and-”
“I’m sure he did,” Dirkson said. “Don’t worry about it. But if you would just go see that no one else gets in here.”