by Parnell Hall
I followed her as far as Route 100 in Yonkers, which runs parallel to the turnpike, so there are a zillion cloverleaves. I took the exit for Route 100 north, which spiraled me around and spat me out just in time to catch an exit that spiraled me around and spat me out on the Cross County Parkway west. I was now heading back the way I came, having executed the equivalent of a U-turn as performed by a confused or drunken driver.
Just before I reached the Saw Mill River Parkway, a Jaguar whizzed by in the other direction on the Cross County. I couldn’t really tell at that speed, but the driver sure looked like my client. I briefly considered going through another series of cloverleaf turns and giving chase.
Very briefly.
I drove home in a rotten mood. I was only slightly mollified to find a parking space right in front of my apartment building.
Alice was still up. I had to admire her forbearance. On the one hand, she hadn’t called me on my cell phone.
On the other hand, she was still up.
“All right,” Alice said. “What’s this about a topless bar?”
13.
RICHARD ROSENBERG LEANED back in his desk chair. “What’s your problem?”
“Ethically, how am I bound?”
“Ethically, schmethically. I’m not even sure what you’re asking. What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly,” Richard said. “That’s your whole problem. Ethics have nothing to do with it. You just don’t know what you want.”
“I want to do the right thing.”
“Then you’re in the wrong business. You wanna do good deeds, join the Boy Scouts. You wanna work as a PI, sometimes it won’t be nice.”
“That’s the problem. Was I really working?”
“What do you mean?”
“Balfour didn’t ask me to tail his daughter. And he sure didn’t ask me to tail him.”
“Ah. You wanna charge him for your time. Now, there’s a matter worth consideration.”
“I don’t wanna charge him for my time.”
“Why not?”
“Because he didn’t ask me to do this.”
“Yes, he did. He hired you to find out who sent the blackmail note. Your efforts in that direction have been invaluable.”
“But they’re not what he wanted.”
“What, you think PI work comes with guarantees? If not satisfied, the investigator will refund your money and tear up your bill?”
“Of course not. But ...”
“But what?”
“I tailed his daughter.”
“Exactly. And that’s your whole problem. You don’t wanna charge the guy for looking at his daughter’s tits.”
“I don’t even wanna tell him.”
“Once again, you’re in the wrong game. If you’re a doctor, you’re gonna have to tell patients they’re gonna die. Comes with the territory. As a PI, you will sometimes be the bearer of bad news. This happens to be one of those times.”
“Yeah, but there’s bad and there’s bad. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Balfour, but the blackmailer’s your daughter the topless dancer.’”
“I think it’s the topless bit that’s hanging you up. The blackmail you could handle.”
“Well, it’s the guy’s daughter, for Christ’s sakes.”
“So? He may not have the same prudish inhibitions as you.”
“Suppose it was your daughter.”
“I don’t have a daughter.”
“Suppose you did.”
“You want me to assume a hypothetical daughter?”
“Richard—”
“More to the point, you want me to assume a hypothetical daughter’s hypothetical tits?”
“I’m sorry I asked.”
“You should be. You’re a professional. At least, you should be a professional if you weren’t still crazy after all these years. A client is a client and a case is a case, and you don’t get involved. What’s the first thing I taught you?”
“Make sure they sign the retainer.”
Richard made a face. “Don’t be silly. That goes without saying. I don’t mean procedure. I mean how you approach your job.”
“Richard, I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“Don’t get involved.”
“I’m not getting involved, I’m just getting confused.”
“No, that’s the answer. Don’t get involved with your clients.”
“I know that.”
“I know you know that. You get involved all the same. You do it all the time. You take a perfectly easy job that would be a piece of cake, and you torture it and twist it into knots, because you want things to come out nice for your client. Well, guess what? That’s not always possible. Because clients aren’t always nice. This particular one you’re so concerned about, this Balfour, if I recall correctly, happens to have a manslaughter conviction.”
“Not according to MacAullif.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Has lied about having a manslaughter conviction. Which makes him much more trustworthy. I would certainly advise taking a personal interest in his well-being. To the point of agonizing over whether or not to give him the information you’ve collected.”
I heaved myself out of my chair.
“Going so soon?”
“I don’t intend to stay here and be abused.”
“Oh? Just where do you intend to go to be abused?”
“Great, Richard. That’s one of those unanswerable questions, like ‘Have you stopped beating your wife?’”
“I’m not married.”
“Your hypothetical wife.”
“Ah, yes. The mother of my hypothetical daughter. The one with the nice tits.”
“Very funny. I’d love to stay and banter, but I happen to have a client.”
Richard called after me, “Don’t forget the first rule.”
I stopped in the doorway. “Don’t worry, Richard. I won’t get involved.”
“No, no.” Richard waved it away. “Make sure he signs the retainer.”
14.
THE RECEPTIONIST AT ALLIED Associates wasn’t exactly welcoming. “You don’t have an appointment?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then it’s unlikely Mr. Balfour will be able to see you. He sees people only by appointment.”
“Then let’s make one,” I said. “It’s nine forty-five. Let’s make an appointment for nine forty-six. By the time we’re done making it, it will probably be time for you to call him.”
The receptionist was not amused. “You don’t understand.”
“Oh? It seems perfectly simple to me. Where did I go wrong?”
“I don’t make Mr. Balfour’s appointments.”
“Who does?”
“Mr. Balfour.”
“All right, let me talk to him.”
“You can’t talk to him.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t have an appointment.”
“What is this, a Saturday Night Live sketch? Is there a hidden camera?”
“No, sir. Company policy. Employees inform me of their meetings, and I don’t let anyone else in.”
“And you’re doing a fine job of it. When I see your superiors, I will be sure to commend you. In the meantime, could you get Mr. Balfour on the phone?”
“I’m not supposed to ring through.”
“You did when I called yesterday.”
“That was a phone call. That’s entirely different.”
“I see.” I whipped my cell phone out of my pocket, punched in the number on the switchboard phone. It rang. She picked it up. “Allied Associates.”
“Mr. Balfour, please.”
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Stanley Hastings.”
“One moment, please. Mr. Balfour, I have Mr. Hastings on the line.”
His voice came on a moment later. “What’s up?”
“We need to talk.”
“Okay, talk.”
“Not on the phone.”
“So get over here.”
“I am over here.”
“Huh?”
“I’m at the switchboard. They won’t let me in without an appointment.”
“So make an appointment.”
“I can’t make appointments. You have to.”
“Okay, let me talk to her.”
I handed her the cell phone. “It’s for you.”
Minutes later, Joe Balfour was ushering me into his inner office. “This better be good,” he said. “I’m pressed for time.”
“Fine. Then I’ll be brief. The blackmailer is your daughter. She’s the one who showed up in the bar looking like millions and slapped the cop with the flower.”
Balfour’s mouth fell open. “That can’t be.”
“Why not?”
“It just can’t.”
“Well, maybe I’m wrong. When you went home last night after work, who was the girl who climbed into the Nissan and drove off?”
“You followed me?”
“Was that your daughter? ’Cause I would hate to go on a misassumption here. If you have a teenage mistress who hangs out at home, now would be the time to speak up.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“I find it hard to believe myself. But facts are facts. The girl in your house is the girl in the bar. Now, would that be your daughter?”
“You followed me home?”
I shook my head. “You’re getting repetitive. From that I conclude you’re stalling for time. Don’t bother. I’m a very minor person in your life. What I think of you doesn’t mean much in the general scheme of things. Failing in my eyes is not the worst thing that could happen. Why don’t you just bite the bullet and come clean?”
Balfour, after sputtering a few moments, picked up steam. “Who the hell are you to talk to me like that? I hired you. You fucked up. Muffed the job. Then you start poking around in my personal life. I would think I have a cause of action here.”
I nodded. “I would think so too. It will be interesting airing these stories in court.”
Balfour blanched. “What the hell do you want?”
“I might ask you the same thing. I just told you your daughter’s the blackmailer. But you don’t want to hear about that. You just want to gripe about how I got the information. From which I would assume you already knew.”
“And now you’re trying to trick me into talking. My god, you’re the lowest of the low.”
The door banged open and a cop walked in. He was big and beefy like MacAullif, with a little more of a potbelly and a little less of a chin. He was in plain clothes, so he didn’t have to be a cop, but I knew him.
In all my dealings with the New York Police Department, I’ve found the officers to be capable, intelligent men. Oh sure, there’s an occasional rotten apple, but even the bad cops are good at what they do. In particular, any cop who had risen to the rank of sergeant was not likely to have done so unless he was proficient in his job.
With one exception.
“Well, Sergeant Thurman,” I said. “What brings you here?”
Sergeant Thurman stopped, took in the scene, registered my presence. I’m not sure he appreciated the significance beyond the fact he didn’t like it. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Just conferring with my client,” I said. “Mr. Balfour, allow me to present Sergeant Thurman of the NYPD. Are you still with Homicide, Sergeant?”
Thurman’s face darkened. “Okay, get the hell out of here.”
“I’m afraid our business isn’t over, Sergeant. But don’t let us hold you up. What did you want?”
“You heard me. Get out.”
“Well, no, I don’t have to do that,” I said. “Unless you’re placing Mr. Balfour under arrest. You’re not doing that, are you Sergeant?”
Thurman turned to Balfour. “Where were you last night between the hours of eight o’clock and midnight?”
“That’s rather broad,” I said.
“Shut up, Hastings. Where were you?”
Balfour hesitated.
“Find out why he’s asking before you answer the question,” I suggested.
Thurman glared at me as if he might punch me out. He’d actually done that, once. I wasn’t angling for it again.
Balfour, who’d seemed awed by the presence of a policeman in his office, rallied enough to take the hint. “Why do you wanna know?” he asked. “What’s going on?”
“We’re investigating an accident that took place last night. There’s a possibility you might be a witness. If you tell us where you were, maybe we can cross you off the list.”
“Since when did Homicide investigate traffic accidents?” I asked.
“I didn’t say it was a traffic accident.”
“What kind of an accident was it, Sergeant?”
“I’m not talking to you.” Thurman kept his eyes on Balfour. “So, can you tell me where you were?”
“I didn’t see any accident. I’m afraid I can’t be of help.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Where were you last night?”
“See, he’s not going to take your word for it,” I said. “You’re better off saying nothing.”
Thurman wheeled on me. “If I have to drag him downtown to get you to shut up, I will. Believe me, you’re not doing the guy any favors.”
“I can’t go downtown now,” Balfour said. “I have a client coming in.”
“Don’t be a sap,” I told him. “Missing an appointment’s the least of your worries. Focus in on the situation. Thurman’s a Homicide sergeant. If he’s here, someone’s dead. So who is it, Sergeant?”
“It’s gonna be you in a minute. Mr. Balfour, you claim you didn’t see an accident last night on the corner of Third Avenue and Eighty-first Street?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You were nowhere near that street corner from eight o’clock till midnight?”
“No, I wasn’t.”
Thurman fished a piece of paper out of his pocket. “Then perhaps you could explain how it happens your car was tagged for double parking on East Eighty-first Street at ten forty-five. That is your plate number, is it not? You do own a silver Jaguar?”
Balfour looked to me for help.
“Go ahead and tell him,” I said.
Balfour blinked. “What?”
I shrugged. “He has reason to suspect you of a crime, and he hasn’t advised you of your rights. Nothing you say can be used in evidence against you. Go ahead and tell him the whole thing.”
Thurman grabbed my shirtfront and threw me up against the wall. The partition was not substantial. I had visions of flying through it, leaving a hole like a cartoon character. It merely rattled my teeth. What few I have left.
Thurman released me, whipped out a tattered card, and began reading. ‘“You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent ...”’ He droned through the rest of it, shoved the card back in his pocket. “There. You happy now?” He jerked his thumb at Balfour. “All right, asshole. Let’s go.”
“You’re arresting me?” Balfour said incredulously.
“I sure am, and you can thank your friend here. We could have cleared this up with a few simple questions, but, no, he’s gotta be a wise guy. So now we’re going downtown and we can do this nice and legal. Just the way your buddy wants.”
Thurman took Balfour by the shoulders, spun him around. A moment later came the click of handcuffs.
“Okay, you’re comin’ with me.” Thurman stuck his finger in my face. “And you’re not.”
“But, but—” Balfour sputtered.
“Don’t say a word,” I advised. “Just demand to see a lawyer. Aside from that, don’t give ’em the time of day.”
Before Balfour could reply, Thurman jerked him out of the office.
15.
RICHARD ROSENBERG WAS madder than a wet hen. He came stomping out into the hallway of the Criminal Court Building, glared at me as if it were all my fault. “Come on. Let’s go.�
��
“They wouldn’t let you see him?” I said incredulously. I found it hard to imagine that happenstance.
“Let’s not talk in the corridor,” Richard said tersely.
I realized the well-dressed young men and women who looked like college students to me were probably assistant district attorneys. Yet another reminder that I am slightly older than Haley Joel Osment.
I held my tongue until we got outside. But not without some difficulty. There is nothing in the world Richard Rosenberg loves more than bopping cops around. The thought of him giving up so quickly simply didn’t compute. I expected him to be inside, biting some ADA. in the leg, whipping another to a standstill through skillful cross-examination. Securing, at the very least, a written apology from the police, and their assurance they would never do it again. But, no, here he was, slinking away in abject defeat. I made a mental note to circle this day on my calendar, for future reference. “No, Richard, you can’t always push everyone around. Remember the Balfour case?”
It was torture riding down in the elevator, but I managed to hold it together until we got out the front door. “Richard,” I said. “What happened?”
He stuck a hand in my face, marched over to one of the hot dog vendors who lined the street. He bought a Coke, gulped it down, slammed the empty can back on the hot dog stand.
He turned on me. “Stanley, what made you think that man wanted a lawyer?”
My eyes widened in surprise. “You mean he didn’t?”
“What made you think so?”
“He was being arrested, for Christ’s sake.”
“Yes, he was.”
“I told him not to say a word, and to demand a lawyer.”
“That’s what he did.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“He called a lawyer. Gordon Millsap. From the firm of Millsap & Millsap. I believe he’s the elder Millsap, though I’m not that well versed in Millsaps. Anyway, he’s representing Mr. Balfour, and he did not take kindly to the idea I might be trying to steal his client. So it was rather embarrassing having to assure him I was not.”
“Richard—”
“That’s why I’m curious, you see, as to what made you think he wanted a lawyer in the first place.”
“Richard—”
“I assume this was entirely your idea. If I might offer a suggestion. The next time you take it in your head to have someone hire me, I suggest you clear it with them first.”