12-Scam

by Parnell Hall

  I drove back to the municipal lot, left the car, and went back up to the office.

  The answering machine light was not blinking.

  The mail had long since arrived, bearing nothing of note.

  Great.

  I ran out to the PhotoMat, dropped off the roll of film with the pictures of Betty Brody’s broken leg, and picked up the rolls I’d dropped off the day before. I took the pictures back up to the office to ID.

  ID’ing film is boring and important. It’s boring because the pictures are all the same, and it’s important for the same reason. Take a roll of film with pictures of three black men with casts on their legs. If you wanna know which is which, they better be pictures you took yesterday, not sometime last week. That’s not racist, by the way—three white men with casts on their legs, you’d have the same problem. You just don’t get them that often.

  I finished ID’ing the film, which left me with really nothing to do. Great. Two in the afternoon and I’m done?

  It occurred to me maybe I should take in a movie. That would be one way to get work. Kind of like hopping in the shower when you’re waiting for a phone call. The minute I got in the theater my beeper would go off. Hell, the minute I plunked down the nonrefundable seven fifty for the ticket. But it would be worth it. At twenty bucks an hour and seventy-five cents a mile, a three-hour, twenty-mile sign-up would be seventy-five bucks. So if you looked at it that way, it would be a ten to one return on my investment.

  I picked up the New York Post, tilted back in my desk chair, and turned to the entertainment section.

  I couldn’t find a damn thing I wanted to see. At least, not in a convenient theater at a convenient time. I mean, Broadway in the forties was where I was. By the time I had expanded my search as far as the Third Avenue and 59th Street theaters I knew I was in trouble.

  I flipped to the back for the sports pages. Of course, I’d already seen them early this morning. The Red Sox had lost again, minimal coverage—tough being a Boston fan in New York City. On the other hand, the Yankees had earned a two-page banner headline insinuating they had committed the crime of the century in failing to win.

  The Mets had won. That was a rare enough occasion these days to have prompted the headline “You gotta believe!”

  I flipped a page. Pete Sampras was the men’s singles winner. No surprise there, he’d been winning everything lately.

  I flipped another page. “Knicks embarrassed by Nets, still team to beat in playoffs.”

  I flipped another page.

  Something I’d just read bothered me. I had a feeling it was the Knicks headline. At least they’d be making the playoffs. The Celtics, never having recovered from the death of Reggie Lewis and the retirements of Bird and McHale, would not.

  But that wasn’t it.

  I frowned, flipped back a page. There was the tennis headline, “Sampras men’s singles winner.” That bothered me too. Sampras was the man, but it wasn’t that long ago it was Courier. And how long ago was it Lendl?

  How old am I?

  I sat there, devastated for the thousandth time by the aging process, the newspaper a blur in front of me.

  I focused in again.

  Sampras, men’s singles winner.

  It wasn’t just him.

  The headline wasn’t a banner headline. Being only tennis and not a top tournament, it was relegated to two columns. And the headline wasn’t even set in caps. They were upper-and lower-case block italics. I don’t know what they call them in the printing trade, but that’s what they looked like to me. Anyway, they were block letters slanted slightly to the right.

  When I say upper and lower case, only the S in Sampras was capitalized. All the other words were entirely lower-case letters.

  What struck me was the word singles.

  Cranston Pritchert’s threatening letter was lying face up on the desk. I picked it up and compared.

  Sure enough, the word singles in “I saw you in the singles bar” was made of lower-case block italics of exactly the same size. If there was a difference, I couldn’t see it.

  I looked at the letter again.

  The words had been cut with scissors, yes, but not in neat little rectangles. There seemed to be an element of haste about the letter. The cuts were sloppy and not exact.

  Particularly the word bar. The three letters, b, a, r, were all lower-case block letters. But they were bigger than the letters in singles and they were not italics, they were straight up and down.

  But that wasn’t all. As I said, the word had not been neatly cut out. Particularly, the cut in front of the b was slanted, and along it you could see the rounded curve of what appeared to be another letter.

  I turned the paper back to the basketball page. “Knicks embarrassed by Nets, still team to beat in playoffs” was an upper-and lower-case banner headline spread out over two pages. I held the letter up next to it. Sure enough, the word embarrassed could have yielded the word bar. The sloppy cut would precede it with a small round piece of the m.

  I blinked, flipped another page.

  “You gotta believe!”

  I looked at the letter. Sure enough, capital Y, lower-case o, lower-case u.

  Son of a bitch.

  You gotta believe, indeed.

  10.

  RICHARD ROSENBERG LOOKED UP FROM the letter and frowned. “Why did you bring me this?”

  “You’re a lawyer.”

  The frown deepened into a wince, seemed to border on a scowl. “I know I’m a lawyer. What’s that got to do with it?”

  “I need your advice.”

  “Aha!” Richard said. He leaned back in his desk chair and smiled smugly, as if he had just scored a telling point.

  I recognized the tactic. It was one of the cross-examination techniques that had made Richard Rosenberg one of New York City’s top negligence lawyers. A little man, with a seemingly endless supply of nervous energy, Richard Rosenberg was a human dynamo with a reputation for wearing opposing counsel down. Insurance companies tended to settle with him rather than risk going to court. I couldn’t blame them. Talking to Richard always was a challenge. Even for a friend and employee.

  In this instance, I wasn’t sure of my best response to “Aha!” I decided to wait, and see if Richard intended to amplify it.

  He did.

  Richard raised one finger in the air, cocked his head, and squinted at me sideways. “You are asking me now for legal advice?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you have no intention of paying me?”

  “I couldn’t possibly afford you.”

  “I’ll take that for a yes. So, you are here asking for free advice?”

  “If you want to look at it that way.”

  “What other way is there to look at it?”

  “I thought it might interest you.”

  “Interest me?”

  “Yes. How often do you get a letter like this in the mail?”

  “Someone sent you this?”

  “Actually, no.”

  “I didn’t think so. You’re not the type to hang out in singles bars. So, this is not your letter?”

  “No.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “A client.”

  “Aha!” Richard said, in a voice that left no doubt that he had scored another telling point. “So you have a client?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is this one of my clients?”

  “No.”

  “This is your own client?”

  “Yes.”

  “This client is paying you money?”

  “What’s your point, Richard?”

  “You have a client who has hired you to do a job. Part of your job requires legal advice. Any other private detective would hire a lawyer and stick the client with the fee. But you, prince that you are, haven’t got the heart to do that. Instead, you decide to do the client a favor by presuming on our friendship to finagle free legal advice. Is that a fairly accurate assessment of the situati
on?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Oh, really? Where did I go wrong? Would you mind pointing it out to me?”

  “I’m not doing this for the client.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m not trying to protect the client. I’m trying to protect me. I think the client’s pulling a fast one on me and I’m not sure what to do.”

  “You’re telling me you need protection from your own client?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  Richard sighed, shook his head. “What a moron. All right, tell me about it.”

  I gave him the whole spiel, just the way Cranston Pritchert had given it to me. I must say, repeating it only pointed up how little sense it made.

  “So,” Richard said when I was finished, “this letter was apparently cut from this morning’s paper?”

  “To the best I can determine.”

  “But your client says it came in the morning mail?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Your contention is that to be in the morning mail a letter would have to have been mailed yesterday?”

  “Well, wouldn’t it?”

  “I’m not sure,” Richard said. “What time does the post office open?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Neither do I, but it’s something that could be checked.”

  “You’re saying his story could be true?”

  “No, but if you’re going to brand it false, you ought to be sure of your terms. Say the post office opens at eight o’clock—I don’t know that it does, but make that assumption—would it be possible to get the morning paper at seven, rig the extortion letter, go to the post office at eight, and drop it in the mail slot in time for it to be postmarked and go out with the morning delivery?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course you don’t. You haven’t looked into it. But say you did, and say you found out it was possible—would that corroborate your client’s story?”

  “I don’t know, Richard. Would it?”

  “I’m asking you.”

  I smiled. “Yes, but you’re doing it in the way lawyers do in order to make a point. Which means you already know the answer.”

  “If you know that, you must know the answer too.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I would assume it doesn’t corroborate a thing. The fact that it’s possible doesn’t make it likely. Unless you can come up with a reason why someone would do that, to assume it makes no sense.” I looked at Richard. “Am I close?”

  “You’re dead on. So, we should be able to dismiss that theory.

  “Which was yours to begin with.”

  Richard raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me. You think a lawyer shouldn’t raise points for fear they might turn out to be inconclusive?”

  I put up my hand. “Richard, let’s not go off on a tangent. The fact is, we’re in agreement. In all probability this letter did not arrive in the morning mail. Right?”

  “I think it’s a logical assumption.”

  “So, where did it come from?”

  Richard pursed his lips. “I would say there were two possibilities. One, someone prepared it and left it on your client’s desk. Most likely in an envelope—you’ll notice it’s folded to fit one. In that case, the envelope would not have gone through the mail. It might have had your client’s name on it, it might have been a plain envelope, and it might not have even been sealed.

  “The second possibility is that your client did it himself. In which case he folded it so he could claim it had come in the mail. In either case, that’s why he was so reluctant to produce the envelope, and eventually couldn’t do so.” Richard frowned. “This is all so simplistic, I can’t believe you haven’t already figured it out yourself.”

  “Actually, I have.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I told you. I want your advice.”

  “On what?”

  “What’s my legal responsibility here? This man has hired me to do a job. Now I find myself in a position where I can’t believe a single word he says.”

  “So?”

  “So, what’s my obligation here? What am I supposed to do?”

  “You’re supposed to carry out your client’s wishes.”

  “If my client’s lying to me, I don’t know what those wishes are.

  “True. In which case, there’s probably only one way to find out.

  “What’s that?”

  “Ask him.”

  11.

  THE RECEPTIONIST AT PHILIP GREENBERG Investments frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m Harold Bainbridge,” I repeated. “I’m here to see Cranston Pritchert.”

  “Do you have an appointment, Mr. Bainbridge?”

  “No, I don’t. But I’m sure he’ll see me.”

  The receptionist, an efficient-looking young woman with curly red hair, scooped up the phone and punched in a number. “Mr. Pritchert? There’s a Harold Bainbridge here to see you.” She listened a moment, then said, “And what is this in regard to, Mr. Bainbridge?”

  “An investment.”

  She relayed that message, and got another earful from Cranston Pritchert. “What kind of an investment, Mr. Bainbridge?”

  “I prefer to keep that confidential. If Mr. Pritchert can give me a moment of his time, I’d appreciate it. Otherwise, I suppose I could come back.”

  I figured that would work.

  It didn’t.

  “I’m sorry,” the receptionist said, after relaying the message, “but Mr. Pritchert would have to know what this is about before he’d be willing to grant you an appointment. Could you tell me generally what it is in which you’d like to invest?”

  “Singles bars.”

  Pritchert was out in fifteen seconds, white as a sheet. If the sight of me was any relief to him, you wouldn’t have known it. If anything, it only panicked him more.

  “Aha,” he said. “Aha. Mr. …?”

  “Bainbridge.”

  “Yes. Bainbridge. You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes, I did. Do you suppose we could talk about it in your office?”

  “Oh,” Pritchert said. He thought a moment, and added, “Oh.”

  I marched over to him, took his hand, and shook it. I said, “I really appreciate your giving me the time.”

  Now I had hold of him, I figured I’d just push him in the direction of his office. Before I could, two men came down the hall, one short and stocky, one tall and thin. At least, tall by ordinary standards—he was half a head shorter than Pritchert.

  “Hey, Cranston,” the tall one said. “You got a live one there?”

  “Nice talk,” the short, stocky one said. He was a solid man, with hard eyes and a little black mustache. He extended his hand. “I’m Kevin Dunbar. Mr. …?”

  “Bainbridge. Harold Bainbridge.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bainbridge. This is Marty Rothstein. If there’s anything our firm can do for you …”

  “That’s very nice of you,” I said, “but I just want to talk to Mr. Pritchert.”

  “About an investment?”

  “Of course.”

  Marty Rothstein smiled. “That’s fine, Mr. Bainbridge. But we want you to realize. When you deal with us, you’re not just hiring a broker. You’re in partnership with the whole firm. Anything we can do for you, you have only to ask.”

  “That’s nice to know,” I said.

  I grabbed Cranston Pritchert by the elbow, practically dragged him down the hall, where he recovered his wits enough to at least guide me into the proper office. He slammed the door, then wheeled around and towered over me.

  The color had returned to his cheeks. Now they were progressing toward red. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

  “Trying to help you.”

  “Help me? What, are you nuts? Help me?”

  “You hired me to do a job. I’m trying to do it.”

  “I hired yo
u to find the girl. That’s what you should be doing. I told you not to come here.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “And you came here anyway. Which was the last thing I wanted. And then you ran into them. Do you know who those guys were? Do you know who you were talking to?”

  “Sure. The other two vice-presidents. You told me all about them.”

  “Did I tell you we’re in a proxy fight and there’s an election coming up? Did I tell you that? Did I tell you I can’t bear a hint of scandal? And then you come walking in here and blow the whole thing.”

  “Give me a break. I didn’t blow anything. I’m just another investor. All you gotta do is play along.”

  “I told you I couldn’t do that.”

  “Yeah, well, you got no choice. It turned out I had to see you.”

  “Why?”

  “I found out who sent the letter.”

  “What?”

  “The extortion letter. I found out who sent it.”

  He stared at me. “What?”

  “I found out who sent the extortion letter.”

  He blinked. “How did you do that?”

  “Actually, it was rather easy.”

  “Oh yeah. So who sent it?”

  “You did.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know why you did, but you did. I don’t like being played for a patsy, and that’s why I’m here.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I agree. It’s totally ridiculous. If you want to pay me good money to find out why you sent yourself an extortion letter, well, that’s your business. But when the clues lead back to you, that’s mine. Now, you wanna keep playing games, or you wanna sit down and talk this over?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, sure. Well, there’s a parking ticket on your expense account.”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “The parking ticket I got while you were up here searching for the envelope that didn’t exist. Pretending someone dumped your wastebasket.”

  When I said that, his eyes flicked.

  I glanced in that direction, saw the wastebasket next to his desk. I took a step between him and it.