Played!

by Michael A. Kahn

  Milton runs his lips tenderly along her forearm. Peggy sighs and shifts slightly. Milton turns on his side facing her and moves his fingers along the back of her neck and through her hair. Peggy turns to face him with a sleepy smile.

  She reaches over and touches his check. “Think we have enough time?”

  Milton squints. “I don’t hear them.”

  She reaches under the sheet and moves her hand down his waist.

  “My goodness. Someone’s ready.”

  She moves on top of Milton and nips him gently on the nose. “Let’s go, stud.”

  She reaches back and pulls the sheet over them.

  She winks. “Just in case.”

  She kisses him. “Mmm, you smell delicious, Milton.”

  Peggy stiffens.

  “What?” Milton says.

  “Shit,” she whispers, and rolls off him.

  The bedroom door bursts open and in charge their two daughters. Both are still in their pajamas, but each has donned a princess tiara. The older one—Sara, age seven—is holding a toy scepter.

  “Good morning, Your Highnesses,” Sara announces in a cheerful voice.

  “Morning girls,” Milton says.

  The younger one—Maddy, age five—says, “Hi, Daddy. Hi, Mommy.”

  Peggy sits up in bed and smiles. “Good morning, Princess Maddy.”

  “Daddy,” Sara says, “can we have breakfast?”

  “You certainly can.”

  “Is it a weekend, Daddy?” Maddy asks.

  “You are correct, Maddy. It is Saturday morning.”

  Maddy turns to Sara, eyes lit up. “Cartoons!”

  Sara screams. “Cartoons!”

  Both girls start jumping up and down.

  “Listen, girls,” Milton says. “Go on downstairs. Daddy will be right down. You can eat breakfast in the den and watch cartoons, okay?”

  “Awesome!” Sara shouts. “Come on, Maddy!”

  They charge out of the bedroom.

  Milton turns to Peggy. “I’ll fix them up with cold cereal. The cartoons ought to hold them for an hour. Don’t go away. I’ll be back in five.”

  “Hurry up, or I’ll start without you.”

  Downstairs in the den the girls are watching cartoons. Milton walks in holding a box of Wheaties and a box of Kix

  “Which one, girls. Wheaties or Kix?”

  “Oatmeal!” Maddie shouts.

  “Oatmeal!” Sara shouts.

  “Oatmeal?” Milton repeats. He turns and starts toward the kitchen. Under his breath he grumbles, “Shit.”

  Five minutes later, Milton is getting the breakfast trays ready. There is a container of oatmeal on the counter along with a bottle of milk, a jar of honey, and a carton of orange juice. The microwave Dings! Milton yanks open the microwave door and starts to reach in.

  “Oh, shit.”

  Both bowls of oatmeal have bubbled over the top. The microwave is a mess.

  He glances over at the kitchen clock. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  He steps out to the stairway. “Five more minutes, Peggy.”

  Five more minutes, and now Milton is peering through the glass door of the microwave, intently watching the rotating bowls. The phone rings.

  “I got it,” Sara shouts from the den.

  The microwave Dings!

  Milton yanks open the door and smiles. “Ah, yes.”

  A minute later, Milton comes into the den with the two trays. Each has a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of orange juice. Sara is still on the phone as Milton sets the trays down.

  She turns to her father. “It’s Uncle Hal, Daddy.”

  Milton takes the phone. “You’re sure up early.”

  “Oh, man. I’ve been up for a while. The cops woke me at four in the morning.”

  “Who woke you?”

  “The cops.”

  “Where are you?”

  “The police station. In one of their interrogation rooms.”

  “The police station? Why?”

  “I’m under arrest.”

  “What’s the charge?”

  “You ready for this? Kidnapping and murder.

  “What? Is this your idea of a joke?”

  “I wish. Jeez, Bro, they arrested me at four in the morning. They searched my apartment.”

  “Did they have a warrant?”

  “I think so. Maybe. I don’t know. It was four in the morning, man.”

  Milton turns toward the television, where one of those bizarrely violent cartoons is in progress: the coyote has just dashed off the cliff and come to a halt in midair, looks down, eyebrows raised, and then plummets a hundred yards, landing in a pool of water.

  “Kidnapping?”

  Hal sighs. “Yep. And murder.”

  “Who?”

  “This gal. Her name’s Cherry Pitt.”

  Milton sits down on the edge of the couch.

  “Milton? You still there?”

  “She’s dead?”

  “I’m in deep shit, man. Deep.”

  “What are the cops doing?”

  “They got a detective named Moran. He’s been trying to get a statement out of me.”

  “Have you told him anything?”

  “Not much.”

  “Tell him you’re waiting for your lawyer. Don’t tell him anything else. Nothing, Hal. Not a thing. Wait for me. I’m coming right down.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  We are now in the lobby of the police headquarters. Ten minutes to noon. Milton is up at the front desk, jabbing his finger at the fat bald desk sergeant.

  “I have now been here exactly one hour, Sergeant. I assume you have been fully briefed on the Supreme Court’s 1966 holding in Miranda v. Arizona, which can be found at 384 U.S. 486. Pardon my French, Sergeant, but quit jerking me around.”

  “Sorry, sir. Had a shift change. Still trying to confirm he’s up there.”

  “Exactly where else would he be? Riding the Screaming Eagle at Six Flags?”

  “Like I say, sir, just trying to confirm he’s up there.”

  Milton walks back over to the hard bench and sits down, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

  “Don’t feel bad.”

  Milton looks over at a skinny guy in his early forties with longish black hair and bags under his eyes. He’s wearing khakis and a short-sleeved white shirt. There’s a small notepad sticking out of his shirt pocket.

  “Bad about what?” Milton asks.

  “O’Bannon. He does it to every lawyer.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Peters. Post-Dispatch. You Bernstein’s attorney?

  Milton nods.

  “Not a criminal lawyer, are you?”

  “Not usually.”

  “I could tell. O’Bannon’ll play dumb for a couple hours. Give the dicks a chance to get your client to talk. When they give up, O’Bannon will suddenly locate your client.”

  “How do you know my client’s up there?”

  Peters chuckled. “I’ve been covering St. Louis County courts for six years, pal. This is the kind of case we call a heater. A kidnapping and a murder. Better yet, the victim is Leonard Pitt’s wife. It’ll be a media circus down here in a couple hours, Counselor. You’re going to get one hell of an introduction to criminal law.”

  Milton’s eyes widen. “Did you say Leonard Pitt’s wife?”

  Peters nods. “Yep. Like I say, a heater.”

  Milton leans back against the wall and shakes his head. “Excellent.”

  “Here comes Moran. He’s the dick on the case.”

  Detective Bernie Moran walks into the waiting area. He’s dark and stocky, with black hair and a Fu Manchu mustache. He’s wearing khaki slacks and a Chicago White Sox T-shirt. He nods at Peters and looks at M
ilton.

  “You Harold S. Bernstein’s lawyer?”

  “That is correct, sir. And who are you?”

  Moran shrugs. “Come with me, Counselor. Your client would like to see you.”

  They ride the elevator in silence and get off at the third floor. Milton follows Moran down the hall to a steel door labeled Interview Room C.

  Moran turns to Milton and shakes his head. “Got yourself a real pervert for a client.

  “Oh? And what is your definition of a pervert?”

  Moran pauses, hand on the doorknob. “How ’bout a guy who’d put a bullet in a naked woman’s head, shoot his wad in her mouth, and put out his cigarette on one of her tits? I’d say that’s just a little beyond Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.”

  He opens the door and smiles. “He’s all yours, Counselor.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Milton stares at the airshaft through the barred window. He turns to Hal, who is sitting at the table, handcuffed, the cuffs bolted to the table.

  “She was on the bed?”

  “Yeah. There was blood everywhere. Her eyes were open. Jesus, Milton. It was horrible. I almost threw up, Bro.”

  “You didn’t see anyone?”

  “No one. I ran back to the car and got out of there as fast as I could. I threw the room key out the window on the highway.”

  “What did she do during the day out there?”

  “I don’t know. She said she watched TV or read magazines. I was with her most of the day on Wednesday and Thursday. My days off.”

  “On the day you drove her out to the motel—you saw her house, right?

  “Yeah. The living room was a mess. She had a black eye. Her old man beat her up.”

  “Was there a note taped to the fireplace mantle?”

  Hal frowns, trying to remember. “I don’t think so.”

  Milton comes over to the table and sits next to his little brother.

  “They’re going to take you over to bond court. I’ll be there for you. If they have enough to charge you, the bond’s going to be high. I’ll do what I can.”

  Hal shakes his head, tears in his eyes. “What a mess, Milton. A total clusterfuck. What am I going to do?”

  “You’re going to hold yourself together in here. I’m going to find out what happened.”

  “I didn’t do anything, Milton. There was no kidnapping. She had me drive her out there. I’m innocent. I swear.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m scared, Bro.”

  Milton squeezes his younger brother’s shoulder. “Someone killed her, Hal. Killed her and set you up. I won’t let it happen. I promise.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  In the detective squad room, Detective Bernie Moran is sipping coffee from a thick, stained mug, his feet up on the edge of his metal desk. He stares at Milton, who stands across the desk from him.

  “What do you have on him?” Milton asks.

  “It’ll be in my report. Should be ready on Monday, Counselor. You can get it from the prosecutor.”

  “I’d prefer to know now.”

  “And I’d prefer season tickets to the Cardinals games. Preferably first row behind the dugout.” Moran shakes his head. “Fucking lawyers. You know the drill. What makes you think you deserve special treatment?”

  Milton stares at him. “Because he’s my brother.”

  Moran squints. “Your brother, eh?” He leans back in his chair and frowns. “Harold S. Bernstein. Wait…wait a minute. Hal Bernstein.”

  “Yes, Hal Bernstein. My brother.”

  “Jesus Christ.” He lowers his legs and sits up straight. “Hal Bernstein? That Hal Bernstein?’

  “What Hal Bernstein?”

  “Used to play ball?”

  Milton sighs. “Yes. Yes, you are correct. Why is that of interest here?”

  “Pitcher. Mizzou, right?”

  “Yes, Detective Moran, my brother attended the University of Missouri on a baseball scholarship.”

  Moran grins and tugs at his Fu Manchu. “That’s the guy, eh? Holy shit. I remember him back then. I was down at Champaign. Catcher. We played Mizzou. In that tournament in Iowa my senior year. Your brother was a sophomore then, I think.”

  Milton rolls his eyes. “Maybe.”

  “Son of a bitch pitched one helluva game. Dude had fucking control like I’ve never seen. Never before, never since. Our coach called it Barnum and Bailey control. Your brother, eh? He was a goddamn legend in college baseball back then. I shit you not. What did he have that day against us? Fifteen strikeouts?”

  “I have no idea. I was attending law school in Chicago at the time.”

  “Best goddamn pitcher I ever faced. Ever. Figured he’d be in majors by now. What happened?”

  “Motorcycle accident. Severely damaged his shoulder.”

  “That’s tough, man. He ever play since?”

  “You’d have to ask him.”

  Moran grinned and shook his head. “Yeah, right. He’ll tell me I have to ask his lawyer. So now I’m asking his fucking lawyer. He ever play since?”

  Milton forced a smile. “He told me he might have a chance to start pitching some. I think it might involving throwing batting practice to some minor league team across the river.”

  “The Grizzlies?”

  “That may be their name. And you, Detective? What about you and our so-called National Pastime?”

  “Me?” Moran chuckles. “I was never in your brother’s league. Just softball these days. Police league. Bunch of knuckleheads. Not the same. Different sport.”

  Milton took a seat facing Moran. “Tell me about my brother.”

  Moran mulls it over. “It’ll all be in my report anyway. No harm telling you a couple days early. Your little brother’s in bad shape. We can place him at the scene of the kidnapping. That took place at the house. We were able to lift his prints off a beer bottle near the ransom note. An easy match. He certainly hasn’t lost his cool from his baseball days. Drinks a beer after he kidnaps that woman. The ransom note was duct taped over the fireplace. The check-out girl at the Walgreens near your brother’s apartment says she thinks she sold him a roll of it around the time of the kidnapping. We confirmed that from the credit card receipt in the motel room. His credit card.”

  Moran shakes his head. “Not the brightest move there. Anyway, we found a half-used roll of duct tape in the motel room and a pile of used tape shoved under the motel bed. The medical examiner found traces of it on the skin of her ankles and wrists, all of which show abrasions from what appears to be her straining against that tape. Looks like she was taped to the armchair in the room. And, yeah, I’m pretty sure we’ll be able to place him at the murder scene. The lab guys were able to lift several prints at the motel room and what looks like semen from the bedsheets. We’ll have their report early next week. Ballistics says the bullet came from the handgun the kidnapper stole from Pitt’s house. The lab is checking the semen samples from the bedsheets and from inside her mouth. We’ll know if it matches your brother’s blood type Monday.”

  “Her mouth?”

  “Yeah. I’m guessing she either gave him a blow job or he jerked off after her shot her. And then he tried to wipe it off. He got almost all of it, but there are still traces.”

  Milton absorbs the information in silence. Finally, he asks, “Anything else?”

  Moran chuckles. “Oh, yeah. A homicide dick’s dream. We found two Time magazines and four Sports Illustrateds under the couch in your brother’s room. The Sports Illustrateds had his subscription label on them.”

  The phone on Moran’s desk rings. He answers it. “Moran…yeah…okay.”

  He starts taking notes. “Okay… right…got it.”

  He hangs up and looks at Milton. “They just pulled your brother’s cell phone account. Mrs. Pitt was kidnapped on Tu
esday. The ransom money was supposed to be wire transferred to a Swiss bank on Friday. According to the phone company records, someone made a long distance call to that bank on Thursday afternoon from your brother’s cell phone.”

  Moran opens a manila folder on his desk and sorts through several eight-by-ten photographs. He hands one to Milton. “The victim.”

  Milton takes the photo as Moran’s phone starts to ring.

  Milton stares at the photo. It’s a shot of Cherry Pitt, naked, on her back on the bed, arms at her sides, legs bent at the knees and hanging over the bed. There is a hole in her forehead, slightly off center to the left. The sheets around her head are stained dark. Her eyes are open.

  Moran hangs up and turns to Milton. “You want to see the other shots?”

  “Not now. What about those magazines you mentioned? How are they relevant?”

  “Oh, yeah. We found them under your brother’s couch. Each had a couple pages missing—torn out. We got complete copies of each magazine from the library. We compared the missing pages to the ransom note.”

  “And?”

  “And the kidnapper made the ransom note by cutting and pasting words and letters from magazines. The words and letters from the ransom note match up exactly—EXACTLY—with the words and letters from the missing pages of those magazines.”

  Moran pauses and shakes his head. “Sorry to break the news, Mr. Bernstein, but your brother is fucked. Totally. You better hope the prosecutor is in the mood to cut a deal. Otherwise, he’s going away for life—assuming you can help him avoid the death penalty.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Here we are, in the Law Office of Herschel P. Goldman, P.C.

  Yes, that Herschel Goldman. The one and only. Maybe you’ve seen that billboard on Highway 70—the one featuring the photo of the sixty-something attorney with the gray handlebar mustache, the fat red bowtie, and the comb-over. Or more likely, one of those cheesy late-night TV commercials, each featuring the same trademark sign-off: “Come see the Goldman.” Pronounced “Gold…Man.” The most recent one has him standing in front of that wrecked, overturned car, the windows shattered, steam rising from the engine. “If you’ve been injured,” he says, “someone somewhere out there owes you a pile of gold. That’s why I’m here. Come see the Gold Man.” It closes, as they all do, with Herschel Goldman twirling one end of his gray mustache as he winks into the camera.