by Parnell Hall
“So she was the one who gave him the manuscript?”
Penrose shifted in his seat. “Well, no, actually, I did. She wasn’t going to. Felt it wasn’t up to snuff. I didn’t agree. So I called him myself, used her name. Good thing I did. Now the guy’s read one of my books, we got a working relationship, he’ll be all primed for when I give him Death in the Afternoon.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “And was Sherry upset that you used her name?”
“Not really. She did take pains to point out she’d been proved right. Which I think is a close point. True, the guy didn’t take it. But he was impressed.”
“And this is a big-time agent you’re talking about?”
“Are you kidding me?” Penrose said. “He’s Kenneth P. Winningtons agent.”
“And who is Kenneth P. Winnington?”
Penrose looked at me as if I’d just arrived from another planet. “Who is Kenneth P. Winnington? Just the New York Times number-one best-selling author, that’s all. I can’t believe you don’t know that.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” I said. “Tell me, what do you think of his work?”
“Winnington?”
“Yes. How do you like his books?”
Penrose made a face. “Frankly, I can’t read them. The man’s an overrated hack.”
“Oh?”
Penrose put up both hands. “Please, please, don’t quote me on that. That just slipped out. You’re not going to write that up, are you?”
“Write it up?”
“Yes. Please. That was off the record. Please don’t use that.”
So. Penrose had taken me for a newspaper reporter, which was why he’d been so eager to tell his story. He’d envisioned a lot of free publicity, boosting his career.
I’d been slow to catch on because my mind had been-somewhere else. When Penrose mentioned Abe Feinstein, the pieces began to fit.
Here was your horribly frustrated wannabe writer. Getting his manuscripts read at five hundred bucks a whack. Then he gets an entry to a prominent literary agent. The agent rejects him. But the agent represents a famous author. A best-selling author. One the writer regards as a hack.
Well, that would be a pretty galling situation, wouldn’t it?
Suddenly, Wilber Penrose living two blocks away from that pay phone took on a whole new meaning.
Anyway, Penrose’s stock as a suspect had risen considerably. So if he wanted to think of me as a reporter, I saw no reason to disillusion him In fact, just to cement the idea, I whipped out my notebook, flipped it open, and jotted a few notes at random, saying, “The name of your book is Death in the Afternoon? And that is the one you were discussing with Sherry Pressman?”
Penrose practically beamed, “That’s right. That’s the one I’m working on right now.”
“And that’s the one you were discussing with her the last time you met?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you talk about anything else?”
Penrose blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Aside from the book, did you talk about anything else? Other writers, people she handled, perhaps?”
“People she handled?”
“Yes. Did she have anyone famous in her stable?”
Pennington looked at me narrowly. As a reporter covering the story, I should know that. “Kenneth P. Winnington,” he said.
“Oh, she handled him too?”
“She was his publicist, yes.”
“Oh, and did Mr. Winnington’s name come up in the conversation?”
“It may have. Why?”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “Anyone famous adds importance to the story. So, in what context did she mention him? Perhaps as an example of his work?”
“I didn’t say she mentioned him.”
“You said she might have. Can you remember if she did?”
“Not offhand.”
I frowned, “Would I be correct in assuming she has referred to him from time to time, and you just can’t remember whether she did on this particular occasion.”
“I suppose so. I don’t see why it’s so important.”
“Did she ever mention having his unlisted phone number?”
Penrose blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Just wondering if you ever got a peek at her address book.”
Bingo.
Talk about a guilty reaction. Wilber Penrose was no poker player. The answer was all over his face.
“Oh, now, look,” he said. “Why do you want to ask me that?”
Because Sergeant Thurman was too stupid to, was the thought that came to mind. I did not voice it, just fixed him with a steely gaze and said, “What were you doing in that book?”
Penrose began to fidget. “Oh, well, now, look,” he said. “You gotta understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Well, Abe Feinstein has an unlisted number.”
“Abe Feinstein?”
“Yeah. And if Sherry wasn’t going to show him my book, I figured I would.”
I suppose that could have been it. It also could have been a pretty good attempt to cover up. I decided to keep him off balance with another quick shift. “Know any editors?”
“Editors?”
“Yeah. You know any editors? For instance, this guy Winnington—you happen to know his editor?”
Before he could answer, my beeper went off. Talk about poor timing. Not only did it interrupt the flow, but from the way Penrose was looking at me, my newspaper reporter status, already shaky, was undergoing a serious reevaluation.
I shut the beeper off, asked to use the phone. I wondered what Penrose would think if he knew I was calling the unlisted number of Kenneth P. Winnington.
I also wondered if he knew the unlisted number of Kenneth P. Winnington.
Winnington answered on the first ring.
“It’s Stanley Hastings,” I said. “What’s up?”
“They got him!”
41.
SERGEANT THURMAN WAS BEING MODEST. Which was hard to take. An arrogant Sergeant Thurman was bad enough. A modest one was almost unbearable.
“Hey, no big deal,” Thurman said. “Not exactly the toughest case in the world. It’s like I told you, the guy makes the phone call, he’s mine.”
Which is exactly what had happened. Sergeant Thurman, in the course of his surveillance, had observed wannabe writer Noah Sprague making a call from a pay phone on the corner of Broadway and 106th Street. When the Winningtons called the police with the time and phone number of the latest crank call, damned if they didn’t get a match.
“So what’s his story?” I said.
“No story,” Thurman said. “The minute he saw what was going on he called a lawyer and clammed.” He jerked his thumb at the one-way glass, through which I could see Noah Sprague seated at a table in the interrogation room. “That’s why he’s alone in there. The way the stupid rules work, the guy wants a lawyer, you ask him another question you lose the case.”
“So he hasn’t talked at all?”
“No.”
“So how do you know he’s the guy?”
“Are you kidding me? He made the call.”
“Maybe so. But you don’t have him on the killings.”
“What, are you nuts? Didn’t you hear what he said? The publicist was a warning, you’re next. How much clearer could it be?”
ADA Frost came bustling up, looking pleased as punch. “Lawyer’s on the way over. I can’t wait. Ten to one he’ll want to play Let’s Make a Deal.”
“You’re gonna deal?” Thurman said.
“Probably not,” Frost said. “But I can’t wait to hear the offer. Aside from the harassment, I got two separate murder counts. If I get any sort of conviction on one, even manslaughter, I turn around, try him on the other, and it’s bye, bye, birdie. I’m telling you, this is one plea bargain attempt I gotta hear.”
“Even if the guy hasn’t talked?” I said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Frost said. �
�This is the type of case you almost rather they didn’t. I mean, you got an open and shut case. The only chance the guy has of getting off is if his attorney can find some way of proving someone violated his rights. Not talking to him at all is a plus.”
“Yeah, but it leaves a few gaps. Like you say, you got two separate homicides. One’s a strangling, one’s a shooting. Won’t it be hard to make the guy for both?”
“Not really,” Frost said. “I make him for the publicist first. I get any conviction at all, I go after him for the other.” He shrugged. “By the time we get there we should have evidence up the wazoo. We’re getting a search warrant for the guy’s apartment. This is the type of dunce, what do you bet he held on to the gun?” Frost pointed through the one-way glass. “I mean, just look at the guy. Is this your mastermind criminal here? No, this is just your poor schmuck playing games and getting in over his head. The way it works is, the guy is gonna spill his guts to his lawyer, and his lawyer’s gonna wanna deal.”
I frowned. “I don’t know.”
“Yeah, well, I do. It’s a nice one to solve. Everybody’s happy. Except maybe Winnington. Because there’s no way we keep his name out of it once this guy talks. Though he shouldn’t mind the publicity so much now the thing’s resolved.”
“Don’t you see some problems in this?”
“Like what?”
“Well, look at the guy. Can you really see him strangling someone?”
“Give me a break,” Thurman said. “You seen as many homicides as I have, you got no problem at all seein’ this guy strangling someone.”
“Yeah, but—”
“But what?”
“Well, you know the wannabe writers—the ones paying to have their manuscripts read? Well, I just talked to one of them. Wilber Penrose. And I gotta tell you, he looks real good for the killings. He’s a frustrated writer. He was paying the woman a lot of money to read his books. He knows Kenneth P. Winnington. Thinks he’s an overrated hack. He’s given his book to Abe Feinstein, Winnington’s agent, who happened to reject him. He got his number from Sherry Pressman. Who wouldn’t give it to him, by the way. So you know how he got it? He got it by looking in her address book. Or so he says, to cover up a guilty reaction he has when I ask if he’s ever looked in that book. And that is the book that has Kenneth P. Winnington’s unlisted number in it. And the guy lives two blocks from the phone booth on 106th Street where we traced the last crank call.”
“What, are you nuts?” Thurman said. “I don’t care if he lives in the goddamned phone booth. This guy made the call. I saw him make it. End of case.”
I exhaled. “Jesus Christ.”
“Hey,” Thurman said, “Don’t take it so hard. Sometimes you’re right, sometimes you’re wrong. You can’t always be right. I’m right this time, but I can’t really take any credit. It was an easy case, and it dropped in my lap.” He smiled, kicked shit. “No big deal.”
It was enough to make you sick.
42.
MACAULLIF WASN’T ANY HELP.
“If they closed the case, they closed the case. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is, what if they’re wrong?”
“No,” MacAullif said. “The big deal is, what if you’re wrong.”
“Huh?”
“That’s the big deal here, and that’s why you’re in my office being a pain in the ass for no reason whatsoever. They’ve closed the case, which means you’re wrong, you can’t bear to be wrong, so you won’t let it go.”
“That’s not it.”
“Oh, no? Did Thurman catch the guy makin’ the phone call or not?”
“He did, but—”
“There you are. Now, I understand that knocks you out of a five hundred dollar a day assignment, which is too damn bad. But on the bright side, you got more days out of it than you expected. Plus, as a silver lining, you didn’t have a bonus arrangement for completing the job. So you don’t have to feel bad about getting dorked out of it because Thurman solved the case and not you.”
“Jesus Christ, MacAullif. I never even thought of that.”
“Then you’re dumber than you look. What you’re getting paid should be your first concern.”
“MacAullif, my concern is if this guy didn’t do it, the killer’s still out there.”
“Yeah, but this guy did it. They have him dead to rights.”
“On the phone call, yeah, but on the rest of it?”
“Works just fine for me. What doesn’t work for you?”
“Well ...”
“Yeah?”
“What about the fish?”
MacAullif groaned. “Oh, Jesus Christ. The fucking fish.”
“This guy doesn’t know me. Why would he put fish in my car?
“How do you know he doesn’t know you?”
“Huh?”
“You’re investigating the case. You’re hot on his tail. He finds out and starts backtracking you.”
“Why?”
“How the hell should I know? The facts aren’t all in yet. Didn’t you say they got a search warrant for the guy’s apartment?”
“Yeah.”
“So there you are. Maybe they find a book this guy’s written, and maybe it’s about people dying clutching notes. And maybe someone gets a pile of fish in their car. Maybe this guy’s been told his piece of shit book would never happen in real life, and now he’s out to prove everyone wrong.” MacAullif exhaled, shrugged his shoulders, spread his arms, “But that’s off the top of my head, and that’s before a single fact is in. That’s why agitating yourself is a waste of time.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, the guy I talked to happens to look real good for this.”
“So you say. In the unlikely event that you’re right, I imagine he’ll look real good, for it tomorrow too.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What’s the point?”
“What if I do nothing and someone dies?”
“Oh, yes,” MacAullif said. “I forgot. Your universal guilt. Anything that goes wrong is your fault.” He cocked his head. “Tell me something. How do you ever get such an inflated opinion of yourself? That you and only you are responsible for what happens in this world.”
“Don’t be a schmuck. If I have information that could save someone’s life—”
“I would be the first one to urge you to speak up,” MacAullif said. “But you don’t. The simple fact is you don’t. You got some crazy, half-baked theories, and you’re so gung ho eager you’re ready to act on ’em, even though there’s nothing to be done.” He nodded. “Yeah, that’s it in a nutshell. There’s nothing to be done. But you, you’re gonna beat yourself up for not doing it.”
“I could check out this guy. And the other writer. The woman. I never even got to her.”
MacAullif lunged to his feet, wiggled his fingers alongside his head. “Jesus Christ, what have you got in there, snakes? The simpler something is, the more convoluted you wanna make it. Yes, it’s possible the man’s the killer, yes, it’s possible the woman’s the killer, yes, it’s possible some other guy you’ve never even heard of is the killer. And,” MacAullif said with elaborate irony, “it is entirely within the realm of possibility that this poor schmuck the police have in jail happens to be the killer.” MacAullif leveled his finger. “Now then, if I am to grant you the possibility, the slimmest of possibilities, that the killer, whoever he might be, just might be planning to strike again—and what’s more, might be planning on doing so this very night—well, then, would you like me to calculate the odds for you, that if you were to take it upon yourself to single-handedly attempt to prevent this happening—would you like me to calculate your probability of success? I’m talking about the overall probability, the one in a billion shot that, a, the killer tries something, and, b, you thwart it. Though, again, that is off the top of my head, and perhaps one in a billion is a little high.”
MacAullif stopped, looked at me. His face, was very red. He exhaled, controlled himself.
He exhaled again.
“Go home.”
43.
I GOT MY CAR OUT of the municipal lot where I’d been lucky to find a meter, and drove uptown, feeling bad. I was not at all happy with the solution to the case, and not just because it was Sergeant Thurman’s. For some reason, it just didn’t sit right. Something was bothering me, and while I couldn’t put my finger on it, I was sure it was there. Which meant it wasn’t something I didn’t know, it was something I did.
I know that makes no sense. What I’m trying to say is, it wasn’t just that I didn’t have enough facts. It was the feeling the police had a fact that didn’t fit.
I went over everything in my head, and could get no closer. The real stumper was Sergeant Thurman actually catching the guy on the phone. There was no question the wannabe writer Noah Sprague was the crank caller. While that didn’t necessarily make him the killer—which was my contention—it certainly didn’t look good.
If the guy was the crank caller, he had to have the unlisted phone number. Sources for that were limited. One was Sherry Pressman, who had been killed. Another was Elizabeth Abbott. She hadn’t been killed. But Doug Mark, who had been in her office, and who could have learned the number, had been killed.
So both murder victims had access to the new number. The crank caller had the new number. Didn’t that make the crank caller the killer?
Not necessarily. It certainly looked bad. What would certainly look worse would be if the police search of his apartment should turn up any other connection. For instance, if it should turn out Noah Sprague had also submitted a manuscript to agent Abe Feinstein, thereby connecting himself to all three of the publishing industry people who had Kenneth P. Winnington’s unlisted phone number, it would be enough to boggle the mind. Bad enough he should be connected to two.
Which bothered me.
It was overkill. No pun intended. But the simple fact was, the guy didn’t need the number twice. If he got it from the publicist, he didn’t need it from Doug Mark. And vice versa.
It occurred to me, maybe that was what was bothering me. Maybe that was the fact that didn’t fit. The fact that as the caller, he would only need the number once.