by Parnell Hall
Judge Crandell looked from the defense table back to the witness. Crandell was only human. The look on Dutton’s face decided the point.
“Objection overruled. Witness will answer the question.”
John Dutton looked around the courtroom. He looked trapped. Desperate. Almost as if he were going to cry.
He looked back at Dirkson. “I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me.”
The court was in an uproar. Judge Crandell banged the gavel furiously, but nothing was going to stop the stampede of reporters who were charging for the exits.
48
John Dutton came out of the elevator in his luxury East Side apartment building, walked down the hallway and put the key in the door to his apartment.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder. He spun around. Steve Winslow was standing there. He was obviously in no mood to be trifled with.
“All right, Dutton,” he said. “What’s the story?”
“My lawyer said I shouldn’t talk to you.”
“I don’t give a shit what your lawyer told you,” Steve snapped. “Your girlfriend is going up the river on a murder rap unless you come clean. Now, I don’t know what your lawyer told you, and I don’t know what your legal rights are, but either you start talking or I’ll kick the shit out of you.”
Dutton looked at him, gave in. “All right, come in.”
He unlocked the door and let Steve into the apartment.
“I’m glad you said that,” Steve said, following Dutton in. “I was bluffing. I couldn’t fight my way out of a paper bag. Now let’s have it. It was coke, wasn’t it?”
Dutton looked at him. “How’d you know?”
“Seven grand over six months is too cheap for blackmail. Besides, Greely didn’t bleed people. He was a one-bite man. So it had to be coke.”
“Well, you’re right.”
“Great. I suppose Sheila knew all about this?”
“Of course. I bought it for her.”
“What about Greely?”
Dutton walked over to the couch, sat down and rubbed his head. “Just a damn coincidence. I hadn’t seen him in about three weeks, since the last game I went to. I had no idea. You can imagine the shock when I recognized his picture in the paper. Robert Greely. Jesus. But I kept quiet about it. I didn’t think anyone would ever find out.”
“You thought wrong. What about Sheila? Did she know you knew Greely?”
“Not then. I told her when I saw her yesterday.”
“And you told her not to tell me, right?”
“My lawyer didn’t want me to tell even her. We had no idea it would ever come out.”
Dutton rubbed his head some more and looked down at the floor.
Steve stood looking at him contemptuously. “Great,” he said. “Can I use your phone?”
“Sure. Why?”
Steve walked over, picked up the phone and punched in a number. “Hello Mark, Steve. We missed a bet on John Dutton. Just because he flew to Reno doesn’t mean he couldn’t have turned around and flown back. Check all flights from Reno that would have gotten him here in time for the murder and still let him keep that appointment with his wife’s attorney that seemed like such a sweet alibi. Then check all the flights back to Reno after the murder that would have gotten him there in time to catch the flight I met him on. It’s time we stopped taking things for granted.”
Steve hung up the phone. He had been watching John Dutton during the call. Dutton had looked at him, but had not betrayed any particular emotion. “Thanks,” Steve said. He started out.
“It’s a nice idea,” Dutton called after him. “But you’re going to draw a blank.”
Steve turned back in the doorway. “That I can live with. What I can’t take is any more surprises.”
49
Sheila Benton looked at Steve Winslow through the wire screen in the visiting room at the lockup. “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” she said.
Steve smiled ironically. “It would help if every now and then you would give me some little hint as to what was coming next. I might be able to plan a defense.”
“Why are you so upset? I’m the one who’s going to be convicted.”
“Oh, you’re finally starting to realize that?”
“Give me a break will you?”
“No, I won’t give you a break. This is serious. This is not fun-and-games time, like with you and Johnny baby.”
“Hey!”
“The big schmuck. Where the hell does he come off telling you not to tell me he knew Greely?”
“Lay off.”
“No, I won’t lay off. What an asshole. The guy’s supposed to love you. So what does he do? He tries to fuck up your defense in a murder trial. That’s really love.”
“Goddamn you-”
Steve threw up his hands. “Right, right. Mustn’t say anything bad about dear old Johnny. He may be a schmuck, he may be an asshole, he may be a murderer, but you still love him.”
“He’s not a murderer.”
Steve broke out laughing. “That’s funny, you know it? I call him a schmuck, an asshole, and a murderer, and you contradict one of the three. It’s an old vaudeville routine.”
“Oh you-”
“You love him, right? That’s what this is all about. You love him. No matter what. Is that true?”
“Yes… I love him.”
“Even if he killed Greely?”
“He didn’t.”
“Yeah, but what if he did? Would you love him then?”
“I am not answering hypothetical questions.”
“I don’t blame you. That’s a hard question. If he killed Greely and is letting you go to jail for it, it might make him a hard person to love.”
Steve leaned back in his chair, pursed his lips and looked around the room, thinking things over.
Sheila sat and glared at him.
“Well,” he said. “Any more little surprises?”
“No.”
“Anything else I should know?”
For a moment she just kept glaring at him. Then she sighed, and the resistance just seemed to drain out of her. He knew why. It was the relief of being able to talk about something other than John Dutton.
“Uncle Max was just here.”
“Oh?” Steve said. “What did he want? As if I didn’t know.”
“That’s right. He wanted me to fire you. He was vehement about it. He said after what happened in court today the situation was critical and I couldn’t take the risk. He wants Marston, Marston and Cramden, and he wants them now.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him to stick it.”
“How did he take it?”
“How do you think he took it? He started lecturing me on drugs, sex, my life-style, education, my choice of friends, you name it.”
“What did you do?”
“I stood it for as long as I could. He was rather amusing, really. Telling me if I’d just be serious, like Phillip. Finally it got boring so I shocked him and drove him away.”
“Shocked him? How?”
“Oh, I’ve always been able to shock him. He’s such a prude, you know. That’s how I deal with him. Flatter him, amuse him, kid him, shock him. Keep him off balance. It depends on whether I’m trying to get something out of him or he’s trying to get something out of me.”
“How did you shock him?”
“Oh. Well, you know, he always treats Phillip as if he can do no wrong. So I shook him up a little. Uncle Max had started off on a tangent about sex and promiscuity, and I broke in and said, ‘Speaking of sex, did I ever tell you about the first time I ever played “doctor”? You know, children’s sex games? It was with Phillip.’”
“What made you tell him that?”
“I don’t know. He’s just such a prude that I just love to shock him. I mean, you know, it was just a childish incident, no harm in it. I’d forgotten about it, then a couple of weeks ago I saw Phillip, and we got to talking and someho
w or other it came up-I don’t know what reminded me of it-but I told Phillip and he was amused. But Uncle Max almost hit the ceiling.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Well, I didn’t go into clinical details, if that’s what you mean. I just told it was a happy reminiscence. I suppose it was my attitude that bothered him more than anything.”
She chuckled softly and leaned back in her chair. Her eyes took on a dreamy, faraway look. “I remember it was a warm summer day in Vermont. I was supposed to stay around the house, but I wandered off into the meadow by myself. And then for some reason, I don’t know why, I slipped through the woods to Uncle Teddy’s property, and there was cousin Phillip. And we were full of mischief and played our little game. And then I remembered I wasn’t supposed to leave our yard, and I wanted to get back before anybody noticed I was gone. It was funny, you know, because I wasn’t worried they’d be angry at me for playing doctor, just for leaving the yard. So I hurried back through the woods.
“I remember I got back to the big circle in front of the house and there was no one there. I’d made it. And just as I got there, my mother came out the front door and picked me up and kissed me. And I realized I’d gotten away with it, and I was happy. Very happy.”
Sheila broke off, and the thin smile faded. “Later that afternoon my mother was killed.”
It clicked. Steve’s head snapped up. “What?”
“That was the same day my mother was killed.”
Steve leaned forward excitedly. “You told all this to Uncle Max?”
“Yes. I really shocked him. He got up and ran out of here-”
Steve was already tearing out of the room.
50
Steve Winslow came running down the front steps of the courthouse. There was a cab with the light on coming down the street. He raced out and hailed it. He hopped in the back seat, barked out the address and the cab took off.
The light at the corner was red. The cab stopped.
“Run the light.”
The cabbie, an old wizened man, half turned in the seat and gave him a look.
“It’s an emergency. Run the light.”
The cabbie grinned and shook his head. “Buddy, I got a license.”
“Run the fucking light.”
“Relax, buddy.”
Steve jerked open the door of the cab and hopped out. While the driver was turned looking after him, Steve jerked open the driver’s door. He grabbed the startled man by the shoulders and hurled him out of the cab.
Steve hopped in the cab, slammed the door and took off, running the red light.
The light at the next corner was red. He ran that too, almost colliding with a delivery truck. He shot on up the street.
By the next corner the lights were green. He floored it, weaving in and out of cars, streaking up the street.
Two blocks and the lights changed. And there was a jam at the intersection. No way to get through. He was going too fast to stop. He looked around desperately. Saw it. A break between the parked cars. He spun the wheel, fishtailed slightly then skidded between the cars and up onto the sidewalk. The cab sped down the sidewalk toward the intersection, half a block away. He kept his hand on the horn, scattering the pedestrians, who dove for safety.
Two cops, one fat, one thin, were having coffee and doughnuts at a diner on the block. They heard the horn and looked up to see a cab flash by the window.
“Holy shit!” the fat cop said.
They got up and rushed out to their car.
Steve heard their siren about five blocks later. He didn’t care. It was actually helpful in clearing the traffic out of his way.
He hit Houston Street and realized he’d gone too far. He hung a right, sped over to Allen, hung another right and headed back downtown.
The siren was getting closer as he hung a left off Allen and pulled up in front of the building. He left the cab standing in the middle of the street with the motor running. He hopped out and tore into the building.
The downstairs door was standing open. A break. He plunged up the stairs.
On the second-floor landing he heard a gunshot. It came from above. He didn’t stop. He turned the corner, ran up the stairs.
The door to Teddy Baxter’s apartment was open. Steve plunged through.
The apartment was empty. He stood there looking around.
A gust of wind moved the curtains by the opened window. Just as Steve spotted it, there came the sound of more gunshots from above.
He ran to the window and looked out. A fire escape. He climbed out onto it. Below him, in the street, the police car screeched to a stop behind the cab.
More shots from above. Steve looked up. The fire escape led to the roof.
He heard a voice call, “Hey!” He looked down and saw the cops looking up at him. He turned and climbed up the fire escape.
The fire escape’s steps ended at the fourth floor, but there was a ladder to the roof. He climbed the ladder and peered over the edge of the roof.
Maxwell Baxter was about ten feet from him. He was holding a gun. He was slumped down against a chimney near the edge of the roof. He was bleeding from a bullet wound in the chest. He was shielding himself behind the chimney, and aiming the gun at the stairwell, some twenty feet away.
Steve swung himself up onto the roof.
Teddy Baxter, who had been hiding behind the stairwell, poked his head out and aimed a shot at Steve. Steve hit the roof, and the bullet went over his head.
Max fired. The bullet caught Teddy Baxter right between the eyes. He slumped to the rooftop, gushing blood.
Steve jumped up and ran to Teddy. He was clearly dying. Steve ran back to Max.
The effort of firing that last shot had done a lot to sap Max’s remaining strength. He was slumped down on the roof, only the chimney keeping his head and shoulders up.
“Take it easy,” Steve said. “The police are right behind me.”
“Teddy?” Max gasped.
“He’s dead.”
“Thank god.”
“He killed your sister, didn’t he?” Steve said.
Max actually turned his head slightly to look at him. “How did you know?”
“The same way you did. He was supposed to have been in New York the day she was killed. But Phillip was in Vermont, and Teddy always took Phillip everywhere. He tampered with the brakes of the car, didn’t he?”
“He must have. I would have suspected him then, if he hadn’t had such a good alibi. He was supposed to be in New York. He was arrested there the next day. That made the two… tragedies seem unrelated. It was almost as if”-Max coughed-“as if he were in jail when it happened.”
“He did it for the money, didn’t he?”
“Yes. Father only had months to live. Alice would have gotten the bulk of the estate. She would have been his trustee. He thought with her gone he’d be next in line. He would have been too, if he hadn’t gone to jail.” Max coughed again. He looked at Steve. “You seem to know all this anyway.”
“Most of it. Sheila reminded Phillip about playing doctor, and Phillip told Teddy. Teddy knew if Sheila mentioned the incident to you you’d figure it out. So he had to get rid of Sheila. But killing her was too risky. There was too great a chance he’d be connected up somehow. So he needed a more indirect method-one that would leave him in the clear. Framing Sheila seemed to be the perfect solution.”
Max’s eyes closed, then lifted open again. “That’s right… and the son of a bitch almost got away with it.”
Steve looked at him. “You really love Sheila, don’t you?”
“I should,” Max said weakly. He looked up at Steve. “I’m her father.”
Steve just blinked at him. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Even a simple “what?” sounded wrong.
Max’s face contorted with pain. The pain passed. The features relaxed. He looked back at Steve.
“Sheila doesn’t know,” he said. “Even Teddy never knew. Father did. That’s why he was such a
stickler for morality. That’s why he put that asinine provision in the trust.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I know what you’re doing.” Max’s voice had fallen to a whisper. “My detectives have told me. You’re looking for Sheila’s father. You’re planning on springing the idea that he isn’t dead on the jury. That would make for a lot of sensational headlines, get you a lot of publicity, and maybe even get her off.” A pause for another spell of pain. “You don’t have to do that now. Stop looking for Sheila’s father. Go to the D.A. and explain what happened here. Except of course, what I just told you. But everything else. You handle it right, and he’ll drop the case.”
Steve frowned. “Yeah, maybe,” he said dubiously.
Max looked at him, and almost managed a grin. “I know what you’re thinking. That way you lose your… your brilliant courtroom finale. But that way Sheila never has to know. You save her a lot of unnecessary grief. A lot of grief.”
Max coughed and almost lost consciousness. He rallied, and locked eyes with Steve, taunting him, challenging him to do the right thing. “Can you do that, counselor? Whose interests come first? Your client’s or your own?”
Max’s eyes glazed over and his head fell back.
Steve touched his wrist, feeling for a pulse. He wasn’t sure how to do it, but he was sure that there would be none.
He slowly got to his feet. He stood there on the roof, not looking at either of the two bodies, just looking off into space.
So, it had come down to this. If he went back into court, he could clear the case up in spectacular fashion. He could make a name for himself. He’d be the hero, the winner, the courageous attorney who’d figured the whole thing out, who’d gotten his client off.
But at a price. It would take time. It would drag on. And meanwhile there was a chance those trails he’d started in California would be followed up, if not by the police then by zealous reporters sensing they hadn’t gotten the whole story. They’d follow the leads in California and find out what he had-that Sheila’s father was someone from the East Coast. A whole area of speculation would open up. And maybe-and Steve knew it was a slim chance-just maybe the real truth would come out.