by David Bishop
“No promises,” I said. “I’ll think on it. But, as long as I’m here, I do have a question about last night.”
The always perfect polish on her fingernails was chipped when she turned the back of her hand toward me and wiggled her fingers. “Bring it on.”
“When you got home from my place, did you look in on Garson?”
“No. His door was shut. He usually went to bed before me. He’d close his door when he turned off his TV. Unless he called out, I would never go in after he shut his door … Why do you ask?”
“It would have told us whether or not he had been killed while you were with me.” Her expression told me she understood.
“I expect,” she said, “the autopsy will show Tally died while I was with you.”
“That will show a range of time that will likely cover part of the time you were with me and some time you weren’t. But we don’t have the autopsy yet.”
She didn’t say anything, just looked down and pursed her lips.
“You handling this place okay?”
She shrugged. “It’s nasty and that’s just the surface. Look at these outfits. How’s a girl gonna look good in this ugly thing?” She tugged hard enough to billow the loose-fitting orange material over her bust, then glanced toward the door and the guard.
“You’d look good in anything,” I said, meaning it, “but this is not a place for looking sensuous. Let your hair go. Don’t bathe unless they insist, but cooperate when they do.”
“No sweat, Matt. I hold a brown belt in karate. If any of the lesbos in this place put a hand on me, they’ll wish they hadn’t.”
“Also, this is not a place to get in a fight. Walk and talk with confidence, not cockiness. Stay to yourself, but don’t act like a victim or like you’re too good for the rest of ‘em.”
She smiled for the second time. “Seeing we’re talking outfits here, I see you wore your trench coat. That ought to help you get into your detective persona.”
The trench coat may have been a little over the top into my novelist side, but I wasn’t about to confess that to Clarice. “Morning fog,” I said. “Wet. Now, did you get an attorney?”
“I called Sidney Blackton.” She stroked her fingers on the glass the way she might to tickle the open palm of my hand. “He was Tally’s lawyer for all his U.S. business deals.”
“You need a criminal mouthpiece, not a corporate attorney.”
“That’s what Blackton told me. He sent over Brad Fisher who went with me to the arraignment. I gave Fisher your name and told him you’d help. Was that okay? Do you know Fisher?”
“Only by reputation, which says he’s a topnotch criminal lawyer. I’ve heard him called the flim-flam man. No promises, but I’ll talk with him.”
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About the Author
David Bishop enjoyed a varied career as an entrepreneur during which he wrote many technical articles for financial and legal journals, as well as a nonfiction business book published in three languages. Eventually, he began using his abilities as an analyst to craft the twists and turns and salting of clues so essential to fine mystery writing. David has, as of now, thirteen stories of the mystery, suspense and thriller genres available for your pleasure reading. For more information on David and his writings please visit his website. He would appreciate hearing your thoughts on this mystery or any of his stories. Email contact is especially appreciated.
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