by Parnell Hall
“I’m not in a position to admit I even know about them.”
“Why not?”
“It would be betraying the confidence of a fellow attorney.”
“And you wouldn’t do that?”
“Of course not.”
“I’ll keep it in mind. If I’m ever on the other side of a case, I’ll have my attorney tell you everything he knows on the theory you won’t use it.”
Richard scowled and picked up his coffee.
“Did Millsap say anything about the doorbell?”
Richard’s coffee cup froze on the way to his lips. He set it down on the desk, laced his fingers together, leaned on his elbows. “What a coincidence, your asking me that. As a matter of fact, he did. According to Millsap, late yesterday afternoon the police investigated the buzzer system in the building and determined the bell in Starling’s apartment was out. Further investigation revealed that the reason it was out was that someone had cut the wire just under the cellar stairs. Not that difficult to do. Anyone leaving any of the apartments in the building would have access to the stairs. It would merely be a question of knowing which wire to clip. Luckily for the perpetrator, the wires were labeled, making it an extremely simple job.”
“Well, that’s interesting,” I said. “Anything else of note?”
“Yes. To reach the wire, a person would have had to lean out over the stairwell. The easiest way to do that would be to hold on to a water pipe.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“That’s right. The police got three clean latents off the pipe. Not perfect, but good enough to get a match.”
“With who?”
“I don’t know. But it’s not the girl, and it’s not her old man.”
“How about her mother?”
“I doubt if they tried. She’s not a suspect, and they don’t have her prints. The father and daughter were both booked.”
“And it’s not them. That must throw a bit of a monkey wrench into their case.”
“The police aren’t treating it as if it were that important. They only looked because he asked them to.”
“Even so, it’s a huge point in her favor.”
“One you seem to have anticipated.”
“Well, I know the girl’s innocent. So it had to be someone else.”
“No, doofus. I mean the fact the bell was tampered with. You asked me about it before I even brought it up.”
“Did I?”
“You know you did.”
“Well, then, if I could make another suggestion. It would be awfully nice to have copies of those fingerprints the police found. I bet Millsap could get them for you, what with him feeling so cooperative and all.”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Richard quite so exasperated. He looked at me sideways. “Let me tell you something. You seem to be having a very good time here. Perhaps a little too good. As if that girl bewitched you somehow. Got you acting all out of character. Some macho detective fantasy you saw on TV. If you wanna do that, fine. But do it on your own time. Don’t involve me in it. Particularly as an unwitting dupe. That’s really no fun. It’s not the part I want to play. Unless ...”
“Unless what?”
“Unless there’s money in it. I’d be perfectly happy to help you act out your fantasies if we pocket a bundle. So far, we got zip. The late Mr. Starling/Grackle or whatever had only two known bank accounts—one checking, one savings—for a grand total of six thousand, three hundred twenty-two dollars and forty-five cents. The thought of dragging that amount through probate does not thrill me. Plus, the guy was renting his apartment and didn’t own a car. So, much as I would love to pursue the somewhat tenuous claim of the so-called widow, I find very little reason for doing so, outside of keeping you out of jail. So if you expect me to continue to concern myself in this matter, I expect you to either let me in on the fun, or come up with a sizable amount of cash.”
“Which would you prefer?”
“I would prefer both. I would accept one. I will not tolerate neither.”
“That’s quite clear.”
“Care to tell me what you’re doing?”
“No.”
“Then you better have a lot of money.”
“I’m working on it.”
42.
I WAS LUCKY. I only had to sit at the Balfour house two and a half hours before Jenny came out. I followed her far enough to make sure I wouldn’t run into Mom and Dad, then honked her over.
Jenny looked good in a nubby pullover and tan pants. She’d have also looked good without a nubby pullover and tan pants, but I tried to keep such thoughts at bay.
“What is with you?” Jenny demanded, as she slammed the car door. Her chest bounced fetchingly. I concentrated on my task. “You come in, push my lawyer around, get him all upset. Can’t you leave anything alone?”
“You’re pissed off?” I said. “Unbelievable. All I did was prod your lawyer into prodding the police into finding another suspect in the case. That helps you. It also helps your dad, since it isn’t him. As a matter of fact, I would think the police are pretty close to rethinking the whole affair.”
She opened her mouth to speak.
I held up my hand. “But your lawyer will tell you that. Talk this over with him. Personally, I don’t wanna get into it. All I want is the answer to a few questions.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Your lawyer would tell you not to answer them, but I want you to anyway. For starters, the police found nude pictures of you. They think that’s real cool grounds for blackmail. I think that’s bullshit. I don’t think that’s what you were paying Grackle for. Not for any nude pictures of you.”
She said nothing, glared at me.
“Okay, we’ll hold that question in abeyance for a moment. Two years ago you checked into the hospital for injuries sustained in a car accident. You care to tell me about that?”
Her surprise was genuine, but she wasn’t relieved. Quite the contrary. “What’s that got to do with anything? I’m not talking about that. You talk to my lawyer.”
I shook my head. “Bad way to play it, Jenny. Simple automobile accident and you refuse to talk? Makes it look suspicious. Like you got something to hide.”
Jenny said nothing.
“Someone in the car with you?”
“No.”
“You’re pretty sure about that one. I almost tend to believe you. But everything points to the fact you weren’t alone. If someone died and your father dumped the body, wouldn’t that fit in pretty well with a dead John Doe?”
Her lip trembled. “You think ... you think my father...?”
“Go on.”
She seemed horrified. “No. No. I’m not talking to you. You talk to my lawyer.”
I nodded. “Very protective. Interesting.”
“Will you please leave me alone?”
“You’re more protective of each other than of yourselves. That’s why it fits so well. Your father covering up for you. Like you’re covering for him now.”
She gazed at me pityingly. “You’re mental, you know it? You haven’t got a clue.”
“Your father didn’t do that?”
She started to answer, then realized I was goading her, and clamped her mouth shut.
“Okay, no more questions. I’m gonna tell you something. You just tell me if I’m wrong. Grackle wasn’t blackmailing you about your naked pictures, or your hospital visit, or anything else you ever did. I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts Grackle was blackmailing you about someone else in your family. It’s just a question of who. So it’s a toss-up. You got your mother’s dirty pictures, and your father’s barroom brawl.”
“Talk to my lawyer.”
“I don’t think your lawyer knows. I don’t think you told him. Which is good. I wouldn’t tell him either. Let him think the pictures are it. The pictures of you. The ones the cops are so happy about. The way I’m guessin’, you were payin’ off your dad’s manslaughter, just like you said you were way bac
k in the beginning. The simplest explanation turning out to be true.”
She heaved a sigh. She looked good heaving it.
“One question and I’m out of here. Was Grackle alive or dead when you left?”
She said nothing.
“I know. Tough choice. Either answer hangs a parent out to dry. But you gotta pick one. What’s it gonna be?”
“Talk to my lawyer.”
I nodded. “Good girl. Just keep sayin’ that.”
43.
ALAN RICKSTEIN HAD moved, died, or otherwise ceased to exist, but Craig Keyson was still hanging out at Murphy’s Pub. He was a little old man who chugged draft ale like water and chain-smoked non-filtered Camel cigarettes. It was amazing not that I had found him after all these years but that he was still alive. Icy at first, Keyson warmed up when I bought a round.
“Fights? I tell you somethin’, sonny. I seen some fights like you wouldn’t believe.”
“This is one particular fight.”
His eyes twinkled. “They all are.”
“I’ll buy you another draft if you can recall the one I want.”
“Which one is that?”
“It goes back to 1990.”
He smiled. “No problem. So do I.”
“Man by the name of Balfour.”
“Joe Balfour?”
“That’s the one. Remember that fight?”
“Which fight?”
“He had several?”
“Oh, sure. Real hothead, Joe.”
“This would be with a Mr. Headly.”
“Thought it might.”
“And why is that?”
“Only fight of Joe’s I can remember where someone wound up dead.”
“Oh?
“Plus I signed a statement. No one gonna find me if I hadn’t signed a statement.”
“Why’d you do it?”
He grinned, smoke pouring out through the cracks between his teeth. “Good Samaritan. Just doin’ my duty.”
“You got paid?”
“Says you. Try and prove it.”
“So tell me this. If Headly died, how come the police didn’t make an arrest?”
“They did. They made the arrest. They just didn’t make the connection. Not very bright, the police.”
“You didn’t straighten them out?”
He looked offended. “Hey, you ask me, I tell ya. They didn’t ask me.”
“And you weren’t about to go running to the police if they didn’t come to you?”
“Go running to the police with what? Barroom brawl? They know about a barroom brawl. They were there. They made an arrest. You want I should go running to the cops, say, ‘Hey, stupid, you got your charges wrong?’”
“What if someone paid you to?”
He looked offended again. “Hey, what I tell you? I’m a good samaritan.” He drained his beer. “A good, thirsty Samaritan.”
I signaled the bartender. I needn’t have bothered. He was already filling another draft. Keyson accepted it, took a huge gulp. “So, you finally here to do something, great. Usually it don’t take this long, but what the hey. What’s your angle?”
“You read the paper much?”
“Why?”
“No reason. Just wonderin’ how you pass your time.”
“What are you, a comedian? You care a rat’s ass how I pass my time? What’s your pitch?”
“How well do you remember the incident?”
“How well would you like me to?”
I gave him a look.
He cackled into his beer. “That was a joke. Can’t you take a joke?” He tapped another Camel out of the pack, lit it from the butt of the last and stubbed the butt out. He puffed mightily on the new cigarette to keep it lit, and hissed the smoke out like a steam engine. After that, he took a slug of beer, snuffled twice, pulled out a disgusting-looking handkerchief, and blew his nose. When he was done, he jammed the cigarette back in his mouth, picked up the glass of beer, and looked at me. “I remember it well.”
Keyson spun around on his bar stool and gestured toward the area in the back. There was a small pool table in the open space between the bar and the rest rooms. A cue stick and cue ball lay on the table. None of the half a dozen patrons of the bar showed any interest in wanting to play.
“See the pool table?” Keyson said.
I trusted it was a rhetorical question. If I couldn’t see it, I could never have found the bar.
“Well, that’s where it started, right there. Over a game. A game of eight ball. Lots of fights over eight ball. Guys play for money. Usually just a small draft, but you’d think it’s the family jewels. The arguments start up. You gotta call the kiss. No combinations off the other guy’s balls. Do you lose if you scratch on the eight?”
“In this case?” I prompted.
“Beats the hell out of me. First thing I know they got cue sticks in their hands and talkin’ loud.”
I frowned judiciously. “It might be important to know what they fought about.”
“That’s why I took pains to remember,” Keyson said, without skipping a beat. “Balfour was shootin’ the eight. Headly scratched. The eight ball was behind the line. Balfour claimed he got to spot it. Headly said, no, he had to leave it where it was, bank the cue ball the length of that table. You know what I mean?”
Having played pool in my reckless youth, I did. I could even recall arguments of a similar nature.
“It wasn’t the other way around?” I said. “It wasn’t Balfour who scratched, and Headly who wanted to spot the eight?”
He side-spied up at me. “Would you like it to be?”
“No, I just want the facts.”
“You got ’em.”
I sized up Keyson for a moment. Then I reached out, took the beer out of his hand, set it on the bar. “Cut the bullshit. The fight wasn’t about a pool game. Balfour and Headly wouldn’t play pool. Balfour and Headly didn’t like each other. That’s why they fought. Now, what did they fight about?”
Keyson looked like he’d just lost the winning lottery ticket. “Damn!”
“What’s the matter?”
“You’re the guy. After all these years, you’re the guy, and it ain’t worth a damn.”
“What you talking about?”
“You’re the guy needs to know. Well, you’re way too late, damn it. What kept you?”
“I’m here now.” I signaled the bartender. “Gimme a pitcher.”
Keyson’s eyes brightened slightly, but instantly dimmed. “Why not? Drown your sorrows.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I said. I wasn’t going to, but it seemed the thing to say.
The bartender set down the pitcher with an extra glass. I handed it back to him and said, “Diet Coke.” I poured Keyson’s glass full, clinked it with the pitcher and said, “Cheers.”
As I had hoped, the activity distracted him from his morass. It also distracted him from the subject. That was okay. I talked baseball with him for a few glasses. He hated the Yankees, liked the Mets. As a Red Sox fan, I’d found it hard to like the Mets since ‘86, still I played along.
Three glasses of beer later I steered the conversation back to Balfour. I must have been doing something right, because this time Keyson didn’t look like he’d lost his best friend. This time he was pissed.
“Yeah, I signed a witness statement. What’s it to you?”
“I’d like to know how it happened.”
“How what happened?”
“How you signed a statement.”
“I was there. I was a witness.”
“The witness statement—you give it to the cops?”
“Sure, I told the cops.”
“I know you told the cops. I’m talking about your signed statement. You give that to the cops?”
“Didn’t ask me. What’s it to you?”
“Who’d you give the statement to?”
He shrugged. “Some guy.”
“Grackle?”
He said nothing, sipped his
beer.
“Was it Grackle?”
He shrugged. “Guys have a lot of names.”
“For example?”
He shrugged again.
“I notice nothing in your statement about why Balfour and Headly fought. So I guess you didn’t know.”
He thrust out his jaw belligerently. “Who says so?”
“Well, it stands to reason. If you knew, it’d be in there.”
“If it was in there, I wouldn’t get paid.”
I don’t know how long the silence was that followed that remark. I was afraid to speak for fear I’d blow it somehow, make him clam up. Which he already had. From his point of view, he’d stopped talking with the sudden realization that he’d gone too far. We sat there on our bar stools, as if frozen in time, neither one of us wanting to break the spell.
I picked up the pitcher, filled his glass.
He drained it dry.
I filled it up again.
He picked it up again. Seemed to have forgotten his faux pas.
“How come you’re so pissed off?” I ventured.
He shook his head. “Ain’t goin’ to trial.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Ain’t never goin’ to trial.”
I sat there, trying to piece together the fragments of the man’s story from what he was and wasn’t telling me, trying to figure out which button to push to make him talk.
“No, it’s not going to trial,” I agreed.
He nodded. “ ‘Course not. No way now.”
“How come?”
Wrong button. He seemed to steel himself for the interrogation.
I abandoned questions, tried conversation. “Yeah,” I said. “It’s too bad there won’t be a trial. But that’s how things worked out.”
“Not fair.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“After all, you did your part. Signed the paper.”
“Damn right.”
“And what did it get you? Lotta hassle, no reward.”
He nodded emphatically. “Right. And I remembered everything.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“Damn right I did. Hell, I saw the pictures.”
My voice faltered slightly while my mind maneuvered over that speed bump. “Damn right,” I said, “and how many people saw them? You were important.”