by Parnell Hall
For once, Max lost his cool. His face reddened. “Well you son of a bitch.”
Steve shrugged. “Funny. That’s what Sheila said.”
31.
IT WAS A THIRD-FLOOR walkup in a grungy brownstone east of Allen. No one seemed to be home. Steve Winslow had been pounding on the door to no response. He was just turning to go when the lock clicked back and the door opened, revealing a gaunt man with disheveled gray hair and bloodshot, sleepy eyes. “Mr. Baxter?” Steve inquired. “Yeah?”
“Steve Winslow. I’m Sheila Benton’s attorney.”
For the first time, there was a gleam of interest in those tired eyes.
“Oh. Come in. Come in.”
Theodore Baxter stepped back and ushered Steve into a small, ill-furnished living room.
Baxter pointed to the couch. “Please sit down.”
Steve sat. Baxter moved some papers off an old easy chair and sat too.
“Excuse me,” he said. “But I was asleep. I work nights.”
“I know. Castle Hotel. Night clerk.”
“I see you do your homework.”
“I try.”
Baxter shook his head. “Terrible business, this thing with Sheila. I can’t imagine her doing such a thing.”
“I can’t either.”
“You think she’s innocent?”
“Yes I do.”
“And so do I. But, of course, it’s not what we think, it’s what a jury will think. So how can I help you?”
“I hoped you could clear up a few points for me.”
“Certainly. Would you care for some coffee?”
“No thanks.”
“Would you mind if I made some? I find it hard to function when I get up without coffee.”
“Go right ahead.”
Baxter got up, ducked into his kitchen alcove and put a pot of water on the stove.
Steve waited patiently while Baxter clattered around in the kitchen, opening cabinets and drawers.
“Sure you won’t have some?” Baxter called. “It’s only instant, but it’s not that bad.”
“No thanks. I’ve had my daily quota.”
Baxter emerged from the kitchen, holding a cracked coffee mug. He sat down and took a sip. A bit of color seemed to return to his cheeks. He looked up at Steve.
“I presume that Max has told you all about me?”
“I believe he mentioned you, yes.”
“I’m sure he did,” Baxter said. He sighed. “I don’t suppose I can make you see it from my point of view. My dear brother Max is a pompous, self-righteous, patronizing, moralistic snob.”
“I don’t find that hard to see.”
Baxter took another sip. “My father was the same way. Even more so, if that’s possible. At any rate, he was the stingiest man in the world. Except when it came to my sister. Alice, Sheila’s mother. He lavished all his love and affection on her. And money. Max and I got nothing. Well, Max was younger, and he didn’t find the situation quite so galling. He was quite a stick-in-the-mud even then. But I was the poor son of a rich man, and I couldn’t stand it. I was desperate to get away and get some money of my own so that I could break out of the situation.
“Well, you know what happened. I met some men who had a scheme to make some money, big money. It was a crooked scheme. I was arrested. I served two years in prison. When I got out, my father and my sister were dead, and Max was in control.
“So now I’m a night clerk in a second-rate hotel, and Max is God Almighty.”
Baxter paused and took another sip of coffee. “I know this isn’t what you came here to ask me, but when someone’s been talking with Max I like to have equal time.”
“I can understand that.”
“So, what did you want to know?”
“To begin with, what time was it when you and Phillip left Max’s apartment?”
“Eleven twenty-five.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. We had to get to Port Authority to catch the eleven forty-five to Boston. We just made it.”
“How did you get there?”
“By cab.”
“Did you see Phillip off on the bus?”
“No, I hopped out at Forty-second Street and took the subway downtown. But Phillip called me from Boston that night. He said he’d just made it.”
“Phillip’s there now?”
“Yes. Harvard Law School. School is the one thing Max is willing to shell out for.”
“Okay. Tell me about your father.”
Baxter looked up in surprise. “What about my father?”
“Any chance his death wasn’t an accident?”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Any chance he was murdered?”
“Murdered.”
“Yes.”
Baxter shook his head. “Not a chance in the world. He had cancer. His doctors gave him six months. He actually lasted nine.”
“Uh huh. What about Sheila’s father?”
“What about him?”
“Any chance he’s still alive?”
Baxter’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I think you know what I mean.”
Baxter thought that over. “You mean is Sheila illegitimate?”
“That’s one possibility. Another is that her parents were married, and then they divorced or separated. Her mother found it easier just to let Sheila think her father was dead.”
“Why is it important?”
“If Sheila’s father is living, he might be in a position to contest your father’s will and upset Sheila’s trust.”
“How? I’m Phillip’s father and a blood relative and I have no control over Phillip’s trust.”
Steve nodded. “Yes, but your case is different. You were specifically disinherited in the will. The will makes no provision at all for Sheila’s father. Thus her trust may be open to attack. If the trust is upset, the will’s upset, because the trust is a provision of the will.”
Baxter thought that over. “I see. Well, the answer is, I don’t know. I never met Sheila’s father. None of us ever did. Alice was in California at the time. She wrote us that she was married. To a Samuel Benton. Then she wrote that her husband had been killed in a plane crash. When she came back East, Sheila was three.”
Steve got up. “Okay. Thanks. That’s what I wanted to know.”
Baxter followed him to the door.
“Mr. Winslow?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know exactly what you’re driving at, but it seems as if somehow you suspect Max of something.”
“Well?”
Baxter looked at him with those sad, tired eyes.
“Well, it may not sound very brotherly, but if you could pin something on him, I’d be very grateful.”
32.
DISTRICT ATTORNEY HARRY DIRKSON WAS worried.
Steve Winslow. He’d never heard of Steve Winslow. And a check into Winslow’s background had told him why. The guy’d only been a lawyer for one year. He’d worked for one firm for two weeks and that had been it. He hadn’t worked since. And now, here he was in a murder case.
Dirkson didn’t like it. Sure, if the guy was as green as all that, he should be Dirkson’s meat. Dirkson should cut him up in court. But still.
He was an unknown quantity. That was what Dirkson didn’t like. The other, more seasoned lawyers could be a pain in the ass, but at least Dirkson knew them. He could deal with them. He was onto their tricks, and knew how to counter them. But this guy— Dirkson just didn’t know.
Well, take his current situation. Having been forced into the decision to charge the girl, Dirkson was eager to go to trial. Because the longer this dragged on, the longer he was caught between his duty as prosecutor on the one hand, and Maxwell Baxter’s influence on the other. Already he had had a painful phone call from the commissioner. The commissioner, though in essence backing him all the way, was, in reality, in between every other line demanding to know what the hell he
thought he was doing. And it could only get worse.
Yeah, Dirkson was eager to get to trial. And the thing was, he knew that if any other attorney was on the case, he’d be throwing roadblocks in his path right and left. He’d be storming his office with writs of habeas corpus, and orders to show cause, and demands for bail hearings, and what have you. All of which was a bother, but all of which he could deal with.
But Winslow wasn’t doing that. And even though Dirkson didn’t want it done, it bothered him that Winslow wasn’t. What was Winslow’s game? Was he just dumb, or what? Christ, he hadn’t even met the guy. He had reports of Winslow showing up at the jail to interview his client, and, of course, that bit about him getting arrested, which a shamefaced Sergeant Stams had been unable to hush up. The reports were that the guy looked like some long-haired hippie freak. Well, that didn’t mean anything— he’d clean himself up for court.
But who was he?
Yeah, that was the question.
The guy appeared to have Maxwell Baxter’s support—he had his twenty-five-thousand-dollar retainer check—so he must have something going for him.
But what?
The phone buzzed.
Dirkson scooped it up. “Yes?”
“A Mr. Steve Winslow on the line,” Reese said.
“I’ll take it.” Dirkson sighed. Well, that was a relief. Finally. Business as usual. He pushed the button. “Dirkson, here.”
“Yes, Mr. Dirkson. This is Steve Winslow. I’m attorney for Sheila Benton.”
“I know. I’d been expecting to hear from you.”
“Yes. I’ve been busy. I’d just like to know how you intend to proceed.”
Dirkson frowned. God, this guy was green. No demands. No assertions.
“Well,” Dirkson said, feeling he was doing the man’s job for him. “With regard to bail—”
“I’m not asking for bail.”
“What?”
“It’s a capital crime and the evidence you have is fairly conclusive. I see no hope of reasonable bail. I won’t contest it. But under those circumstances, I must insist on my client’s right to a speedy trial:
Dirkson blinked. Any other attorney would have got the client out on bail and stalled forever.
“I see,” Dirkson said. Though he didn’t.
“How do you plan to proceed? Preliminary hearing or grand jury indictment?”
“I’m going before the grand jury,” Dirkson said.
“Fine,” Steve said. “Indict her and let’s go to court. I’ll waive all matters of time, and stipulate away all red tape. Indict her and set the trial date.”
“Fine.”
“See you in court,” Steve said, and hung up.
Dirkson hung up too. He felt slightly nauseous. What the hell was going on? And why did he feel so uneasy about it? He’d wanted the guy to call him—the guy had called him. He’d wanted a speedy court date—the guy had given it to him.
Dirkson had just gotten everything he wanted.
And he didn’t like it at all.
33.
STEVE WINSLOW SLUMPED INTO ONE of Mark Taylor’s overstuffed clients’ chairs and rubbed his eyes. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s the rundown. The grand jury’s indicted Sheila Benton for murder. You can go over the transcripts all you want, but you won’t find anything we don’t already know. The D.A. gave the grand jury just enough to indict, nothing more. Any little surprises he has for me are gonna remain surprises until he springs them on me in front of the jury. Meanwhile, she is remanded to custody without bail.”
“As expected,” Taylor said.
Steve nodded. “Right. Okay. Let me tell you what I want you to work on, then you can tell me what you’ve got.”
Taylor grabbed a notepad. “Shoot.”
“You got any connections in California?”
“Yeah. I know a guy with an agency in LA. Why?”
“Samuel Benton.”
“Who?”
“Sheila Benton’s father.”
“What about him? He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“That’s what I want to find out. According to the best information I have, Samuel Benton married Alice Baxter in California shortly before Sheila was born. How shortly I don’t know, but I wouldn’t necessarily go back a full nine months. Sheila’s twenty-four now, you can do the math for yourself.
“Now, the story is he was killed in a plane crash before Sheila was born. That shouldn’t be hard to trace. Find out about it. I want to know for sure whether Samuel Benton is dead or alive.”
Taylor was staring at him. “What’s the idea, Steve?”
“All right,” Steve said. “Let’s look at this case objectively. To begin with, let’s assume Sheila is innocent.”
“I thought you said objectively.”
Steve looked at him sharply. “Don’t you think she is?”
Taylor looked uncomfortable. “Look, Steve, you’re my client. I’m partisan. I’m on your side. I give service. But—”
“All right. Fine. Then just bear with me. Assume that Sheila is innocent.”
“Okay.”
“Then how does any of this make sense?”
“That’s the problem. It doesn’t.”
“I know. But it has to. So here’s how I figure. If Sheila is innocent, then everything that’s happened to her is part of a deliberate frame-up. And the question is why. And the answer is Sheila. Not Greely. Not blackmail. Sheila. Someone has framed Sheila because of who she is. And who is she? She’s Maxwell Baxter’s niece. An heiress. The beneficiary of the Baxter trust. Now, if Sheila Benton’s father is alive, he would be in a position to upset that trust. And that opens up a lot of possibilities.”
Taylor’s nod was not enthusiastic. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Look, I’m going up in front of a jury. The prosecution has to prove her guilty beyond all reasonable doubt. Reasonable doubt, that’s all I need.”
“Yeah.”
“So get going on the California end.”
“Will do. You ready for the rundown?”
Steve sighed. “Yeah. Let’s have it.”
Taylor turned back a few pages in his notebook. “Here we are. Phillip Baxter, John Dutton, Carla Finley, and Tony Zambelli have complete alibis for the time of the murder. Stella Rosenthal, Maxwell Baxter and Teddy Baxter do not.”
Steve frowned. “Teddy Baxter. Why is that name familiar?”
Taylor grinned. “The anchorman on the Mary Tyler Moore Show.”
“Oh yeah. He must be the life of the Castle Hotel. Okay, let’s have ’em.”
“Phillip Baxter was on the bus to Boston. The evidence there is circumstantial. The bus driver doesn’t remember him, but then you wouldn’t expect him to. Phillip’s father says he was on his way to the bus, and Phillip checked into his dorm at Harvard that night.”
“Okay. Next.”
“John Dutton was in Reno at the time. I checked his reservation on the plane. His ticket was used.”
“Yeah, but is there any chance someone else used it?”
“None at all. One of the stewardesses remembered him. She identified his picture. He was handing her a line and trying to date her up for later that evening.”
“Great, just great. Next.”
“Before we move on, I got some more on John Dutton.”
“What?”
“Well, there’s a little discrepancy. According to his secretary, he was staying at the Wilshire Hotel. However, the Wilshire has no record of him staying there.”
“Really ...”
“Yeah, but before you get all excited, I think there’s an explanation. We know Johnny’s a playboy, and there’s every reason to believe he had something lined up in Reno he didn’t want anyone to know about.”
“Yeah, that checks,” Steve said. “No, it doesn’t either. If he had some girl waiting for him, what the hell would he be doing trying to date up the stewardess?”
Taylor shrugged. “Probably just running his game. It seems to be a compulsion
with him. Anyway, I don’t think it’s any big deal. The stewardess he was hitting on saw a young woman run up and hug him when he got off the plane, so that’s probably all there was to it.”
“I suppose so.”
“Plus we have the confirmation that he did meet with his wife’s attorneys while he was out there.”
“All right, all right, I give up,” Steve said. “If he met with the attorneys ... Hey, wait a minute.”
“What?”
“What about his wife? Did he meet with her too?”
“I don’t know.”
“Find out, will ya?”
Taylor looked puzzled. “Why? I mean, if the attorneys confirm the meeting.”
“They confirm him. What about her?”
“Her?”
“Yeah. Dutton’s wife.”
Taylor looked at him. “Are you kidding?”
“No. I’m not kidding. What I’ve been looking for all along is someone who hates Sheila Benton, who would have reason to want to frame her. I can’t think of anyone with a better reason than the present Mrs. John Dutton.”
Taylor shook his head. “I really think you’re grasping at straws.”
“I gotta grasp at something. What’s his wife’s name?”
Taylor consulted the pad. “Inez Dutton.”
“Fine. Check her out. Who’s next?”
“Carla Finley.”
“Ah, yes. Let’s not forget Carla Finley. What about her.”
Taylor grinned. “Carla Finley happens to have the best alibi of all. At the time of the murder, she was seen by at least fifty people. Naturally, none of them would be very eager to testify, even if they could be found.”
Steve grinned. “I’ll bet. Next.”
“Zambelli, as he said, was involved in a poker game at the time. There again, no one is particularly anxious to testify.”
“Which proves nothing. If he hit him, he’d have hired it out. Who’s next?”
Taylor wheeled around and put his feet up on his desk. “Now we come to the have-nots. Mrs. Rosenthal, the next-door neighbor, claims she was at the supermarket at the time.”
“For the whole hour?”
“So she says. She points to an eighty-nine-dollar, forty-seven-cent cash-register receipt and a stocked refrigerator and pantry as confirmation.”