Such Wicked Friends

by Rod Hoisington

  “I don’t know yet.” Sandy took out her yellow pad. She started making a list. “Possibilities are some mistake in his plan, the gun, the payoff money or something you know and don’t realize is important.” She started discussing each item with her.

  Sandy threw her some possibilities, but Priscilla was no help; such deep contemplations were not her thing. Sandy kept at it. “How many meetings did you have with him?”

  “Once, to ask me if I’d do it. And again to give me the info on Margaret, the gun, the envelope and the cash.”

  “Where did you meet?”

  “Like you said, Jolly Roger.”

  “How did you know where to find Margaret? Did he write down her name and address and give it to you?”

  “Name, address and photo were on a piece of printer paper. The lines I had to learn were also on there.”

  Sandy wrote it down and looked back up. “He showed you that paper above the table, and you kept it?”

  “Yeah, he didn’t try to hide it. He told me to get rid of it after I did the job. And that’s what I did.”

  “How did he hand you the gun? I mean, above or below the table?”

  “The gun and the cash were in the envelope. He passed me the envelope below the table.”

  “Didn’t he show you the gun and explain anything? Maybe how to put the safety on and off?”

  “I told him I already knew about the safety. I have a little .22 in my nightstand. I know how to fire it. It’s easy.”

  “Did you count the cash at the table?”

  “No, he said it was all there. When I got home, I was laughing and tossing money all over the bed.”

  “New bills, old bills?”

  “I had visualized crispy new bills, but they were all so old they smelled.”

  “Did anyone see you there?”

  She shook her head.

  “The bartender didn’t see you?”

  “Oh, sure Butch saw us.”

  “But no one else. Okay. Do you remember anything unusual about the meetings or any of the stuff he gave you? Do you get what we’re doing here, Prissy? A planned murder has many pieces. The tiniest little thing might put him on death row and take you off. He must have let down his guard or screwed up something.”

  Priscilla squinted her eyes trying to think. “We both had beer and I spilled some of mine. I guess I was nervous. Butch came over and wiped it up. You don’t mean dumb stuff like that do you?”

  “Yes, anything out of the ordinary that was done or said.”

  “I think Butch had something to do with the gun.”

  Sandy stopped writing and looked up. “What?” She quizzed her at length, but Priscilla didn’t remember Butch seeing the envelope passed. So what did she mean? Just a feeling she had. Okay, at least the woman was trying. Sandy made some notes on the gun and went on down the list: the plan, the gun, the payoff. Bichadel had been very clever in handling Priscilla; he’d arranged it so she had no knowledge of anything that might link back to him.

  “Can you think of anything else?”

  “To tell the truth, I wasn’t paying much attention. All I could think about was all that money.”

  She had Priscilla replay everything she could think of regarding the meeting. Finally, Sandy put down her pencil and stood. That would be it for now. She told her there might be hope. Sit tight. She’d be back in touch.

  Priscilla’s expression was blank. She’d already cycled through a range of emotions. “Well, what the hell am I supposed to do? Just sit in my stinking cell and trust you? Thirty minutes ago you were my enemy. Next, you’re going to save me. Now you’re walking away. You’re not going to use what I’ve told you against me, are you?”

  “Yes, I am. Now I must decide how to go after Bichadel. One more question. Is Bichadel’s divorce final?”

  “He said it was.”

  “What can you tell me about his ex-wife? Where does she live? You know anything about her?”

  “No! Can we get back to talking about me?” She pushed back from the table. “Don’t know anything about her. Sister, you’ve really got me confused. Did I make a mistake by trusting you?”

  Sandy thought yes. Priscilla had probably made a mistake by incriminating herself, and that had been Sandy’s intention all along. However, if everything worked out she should end up with a lighter sentence. “You didn’t exactly trust me. I sort of weaseled it out of you.”

  “I think I’ve made a big mistake,” she said slowly as she moved along quietly over to the guard. Her walk already had a noticeable stoop to it. Her shoulders drooped and her head was down. After mere days, the confident stride of a beauty contestant had disappeared.

  Sandy called after her, “Don’t give up Prissy. Keep your chin up and face this bravely.” What Sandy had just done in setting up the woman certainly hadn’t been pleasant. However, the cocky manner she had assumed was the correct approach. She’d obtained an important admission of guilt, but none of it was evidence, and Priscilla could deny all of it in court.

  After all this, she still needed more. It might all mean nothing unless she could tag Jack Bichadel as the man behind it. Now she had to think things through. She thought about what a detective in Philly had once told her: when you commit a crime there are a dozen ways to screw up before the crime, during the crime and after the crime. Where did Jack Bichadel screw up?

  Chapter Thirty-two

  When Sandy returned to the office later that same day, Martin was waiting. He knew she’d just come from seeing Priscilla in jail. There was quite a bit he wasn’t aware of in her confession. And much of what he knew about Brad’s death was incorrect. Since Jack Bichadel’s involvement was now certain, and Priscilla was cooperating in going after him, the truth of Brad’s suicide had to come out for Martin, for the authorities and for everyone. She’d have to confess at some point that she had withheld his note. Whether justified or not, she could expect to receive a reprimand from him and punishment from Moran.

  She wasn’t eager to confess to anyone least of all to Martin. She saw no easy way to tell him. The death had hit him with thunderous disbelief.

  She began with the words she’d spoken to herself many times, “Brad wasn’t murdered, he committed suicide.” The reaction on his face frightened her. She put her head down on her desk to hide from him. After a minute she was able to continue, “Three days before his death, he came to the office to see me. He was concerned about his financial bequests. I begged off, of course, and suggested he talk with you. That’s when he began talking suicide. I encouraged him to seek medical help. Obviously, I should have done more. Obviously, I failed at intervening. He didn’t want you to know. I couldn’t tell you. I’m sorry, he was ill, bipolar I suppose.”

  “Unless you were there, you couldn’t know for certain he killed himself.”

  She opened her lower desk drawer. “I have this note he left behind.” She passed it to him. “At the bottom there—don’t tell Martin what I’m about to do.”

  He stared at the words in silence. Then slowly shook his head and a cloud crossed his face. “I have to tell Jenna.”

  “Did she believe it was suicide?”

  “She started to blame herself, and then the police called it a homicide. We were all relieved. That meant Brad wasn’t sick wasn’t depressed—he was a victim. Now it starts all over. Now she’ll be back blaming herself. Do you realize the anguish you’ve caused everyone with your actions? It’s not that simple. You put us through the unnecessary distress of dealing with the murder of a friend that never happened. That was highly emotional. And the wretchedness of hating an innocent person for his murder. We were trying to process events that didn’t take place. You doubled the anguish and lengthened the time of suffering. How could you have done this?”

  “I’m so sorry I’ve upset you like this.” She put her hands to her cheeks. “I thought I was doing the right thing. He’d spoken to me in confidence, and I assured him it would remain confidential. My personal commitment to hi
m. Keeping quiet seemed to make sense at the time and right up to today. I didn’t think about all that unnecessary anguish you mentioned. Later I had crime solving on my mind. I thought I was considering other people, but I see now I wasn’t. I can do better than that.”

  “Now let’s talk about poor Priscilla.” He sat shaking his head. “She’s been investigated, hassled, arrested and is sweating it out in jail. So, why aren’t you rushing to clear her of this? What is going on with you anyway? I no longer know you. For chrissake, why are you just sitting there? Go get her out.”

  “This is more complicated than you think. She’s bad, Martin, let me explain.”

  “Forget your explanations. You just said she didn’t murder Brad. I don’t care whatever else she did that you don’t like. I’m upset about things right now. I don’t want to talk about her anymore.”

  “Yes, you do. And you’d better sit down because the big news is yet to come.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “For a long time now, I’ve suspected Priscilla of murdering Margaret Frome in the courtyard. Today she admitted it to me.”

  He was stunned. He’d never connected Priscilla and the courtyard murder in his mind. It took a few minutes for it to sink in. “You’ve got to be kidding. I never dreamed. Priscilla? Are you absolutely certain?”

  She went on to explain everything from the phony southern accent and the pizza boy to the hundred thousand dollar murder contract with fifty thousand of the payoff wired to Priscilla’s bank.

  “I know you hate me for keeping quiet about Brad’s suicide and causing you and others so much additional grief. To my way of thinking, I had no choice. I wanted her to pay for such a brutal murder, but I couldn’t prove it. If I’d let her off the hook on Brad’s death, she might escape all punishment. I wanted both of them and at least I had her. I had to keep my secret. All of your anguish and stress was the price to be paid to be certain she was punished.”

  “I have to think about all this. I don’t completely understand or agree with your motives. One thing is for sure, it all boils down to you didn’t trust me. You kept all this secret from me. We can’t have that kind of relationship.”

  “I was trying to protect you. If you had known, as soon as they arrested her you would have agonized over whether to tell the police. I saved you that. Maybe that was wrong. In any case, I still can’t reveal the suicide note until I’m certain she’ll go to prison for the courtyard murder. And it won’t happen unless I get Bichadel.”

  “Have you considered the legal consequences for yourself? You’ve perpetrated a serious offense by withholding evidence. The police and the state attorney aren’t going to be pleased. How are you going to get around that?”

  Nailing Bichadel was important to her to avenge the deaths of Margaret and Robert Frome. However, now his capture had risen to a critical personal necessity to save her career. She must be the one to get him. At present, Moran had her for obstructing justice and withholding the suicide evidence. It wouldn’t be enough for her to be a bystander and wait until his office or the FBI brought Bichadel down, and the complaints against her were eventually resolved. She has to be heavily involved, or she’d have nothing to trade with Moran for leniency. She must be the one who wraps it up. It was the only way.

  “I have a plan and I need your help.”

  “You’re going to drag me down with you.”

  She shook her head. “I must hand Moran the prosecution of Bichadel and Priscilla for the murder of Margaret Frome all tied up with a ribbon, in exchange for dropping the charges of obstructing justice and the withholding of evidence.”

  “I agree with that part,” Martin said. “For Moran to go along with such a trade the incriminating evidence against Jack Bichadel would have to come from you and be rock solid. Nevertheless, if you could do it, Moran would get to run a colossal trial with national exposure.”

  She smiled. Martin was back on her side. “Jack Bichadel is an important player in global energy circles. His trial would be on international TV every night. Moran’s celebrity would be assured. He could run for Congress and go off to Washington where his incompetence would go unnoticed. I believe he’ll go for it. But I have to be the one who develops the critical evidence. Somehow I must do it.”

  “Sounds simple enough. All you need is a miracle.” He rolled his eyes and frowned. “I guess I understand the way you handled Priscilla. Let me help you go after Bichadel.”

  She loved hearing those words. “Here’s a sobering thought about this affair. If Brad had not committed suicide, they would never have checked Priscilla’s bank account. She would never have had to explain the money, and I might never have connected her with the courtyard murder.”

  “I’ve no doubt you would have kept at it until you caught her some other way. I’m still shocked to learn she murdered that woman.”

  “Bichadel picked her up at Knockers. He was divorced or getting one. At any rate, they had an affair. Perhaps he picked her out purposely since he needed her type for his scheme. They met twice at Jolly Roger just before the murder. First, to get her to agree to the plan, and second to give her instructions, the money and pass the gun. Priscilla thinks the gun may have come from Butch, the bartender at Jolly Roger. She can’t back it up—just a feeling.”

  “The police now have that gun.”

  “And that’s good. Bichadel told her to toss it off the bridge, but she didn’t. That was a big mistake—the kind that earns people lethal injections. If we can trace the murder weapon back to him, then he’s toast.

  “The other possibility is to follow the payoff money. Any chance of tracing the cash he gave her at the Jolly Roger?

  “I thought of that, but it was old smelly bills. However, he did have to get the final payoff money to her somehow. Shapiro knows that some offshore bank sent fifty grand to Priscilla’s bank account. They can’t trace the source farther. Shapiro even called the FBI in on it. They are mistakenly assuming it came from Brad somehow. I know it came from Bichadel. In either case, it can’t be traced without the actual offshore location and account ID or access code.”

  “So, you can follow the money and still get lost.”

  “True. If we could just prove the fifty grand came from him to her account, then he’s dead,” she said.

  “This all started with sex and ended with murder.”

  “Just follow the sex or the money, and you can solve any mystery. I’m putting those words up on the office wall.”

  “Why is everything always about sex and money?”

  She laughed at that, “Are we still buddies? Am I forgiven?”

  “No.” But he forced a slight smile.

  “Let’s follow the gun first. It’s a feeble lead but all we have. Can you drive me up Palm Point right now? The bad guys who shot Ted recognize my car.

  “Thanks a lot. The lion is chasing you so you want to switch cars and have me drive you to his den. Perhaps you failed to get the point when they shot Ted and ventilated his car. You might be bulletproof, but my car isn’t.”

  “I’m not worried about it.”

  “That’s nice. So what do you really want?”

  “What do I want? I want to beat the crap out of Bichadel.”

  “And you want me to hold him while you do it, right?”

  “No, actually I need you to play a small acting part. Let’s go talk to Butch at Jolly Roger.”

  “You mean, let’s go accuse him of a crime. I truly don’t care to get that close to criminal activity. What if this Butch isn’t in the mood to go down for accessory to murder, pulls out a gun and shoots us? I’m not actually into everything you’ve been doing anyway.”

  “But it’s exciting. My adrenalin is bubbling just thinking about it.”

  “An exciting day for me is when I accidentally spill the vermouth.”

  “Drive me over to Chip’s place first. I need to pick up something.”

  He drove her there and waited while she ran in. She came out smil
ing carrying something wrapped with a hand towel. Once they were on their way, she pulled off the towel and held up a gun.

  He shied away from it. “God save me.”

  “I stole it from Chip. He’ll never miss it.”

  “Right, he’s only a detective. Do you know how to use it?”

  “How hard could it be? Hey, I’m joking. Of course, I know how to use it. The bullets go in here or maybe over here.”

  During the drive to Palm Point, she explained their goal was to worry the bartender enough to make him give himself away. “You go in first. Sit at the bar. Forget about your Martini and order a beer. Don’t call attention to yourself. I’ll come in a few minutes later and try to shake him up—let him know we’re on to him. After I leave, you watch him to see if he makes a phone call. If he does, it’s probably to Bichadel and we know he’s our link.”

  “You’re not going to slap him around, throw him up against the wall and beat him senseless are you?”

  “Not unless I have to.”

  Darkness had set in by the time they parked in the Jolly Roger lot. “Okay, show time,” she said. “I’m leaving this gun under the front seat. Give me the car keys.”

  He got out and stood with the door open looking back at her. “Is this risky?”

  “Define risky.”

  She watched him walk stiffly to the bar entrance. She should have had him take off the suit jacket and roll up his sleeves. He looked like an undertaker going in to pick up a body.

  She followed five minutes later. She stood inside the door for a moment to let her eyes adjust then looked around. Two booths were occupied and five men plus Martin were sitting at the bar. All the men except Martin turned instinctively toward the door to check her out. She tried not to look at Martin but could see he was a terrible actor looking straight ahead and sitting awkwardly. At least, he had unbuttoned his jacket and loosened his tie. She sauntered down to the far end and settled onto the end stool.

  “I’ll need to see some ID, Miss.” The young bartender’s face was expressionless.

  She said, “Very funny. Do you get a lot of tips with that line?”