12-Scam

by Parnell Hall

  21.

  THE COP DIDN’T KNOW ME from Adam. Which was a bit of a surprise. I’ve been involved in enough homicide investigations by now that I’ve got to know a few cops. But he wasn’t one of them.

  His name was Belcher. Sergeant Timothy Belcher. One might imagine a kid by the name of Belcher would take a lot of ribbing and become tough as nails. It would certainly have accounted for the expression on the guy’s face.

  Sergeant Belcher was medium height, medium build, but looked solid as a rock. The image started with his jaw, which appeared permanently set. I swear it didn’t move when he talked.

  The eyes didn’t either. They bored right through you. And the single expression on the deadpan face, or so it seemed to me, was, You lying sack of shit, I don’t believe a single word you say.

  “All right,” Belcher said. “Let’s go over it again.”

  I had already told him everything. Belcher had advised me that I had the right to remain silent, but had managed to convey the impression that if I chose to exercise that right, I would be the unhappiest private detective that ever lived.

  He needn’t have bothered. With my client dead, I had no one left to protect. Except me. And I didn’t happen to be guilty, so I had nothing to worry about. I mean, that’s the way the system works, isn’t it?

  At any rate, I had already talked, and Belcher had liked it so much he wanted to hear it again. In fact, he must have really liked it, because this time he had a stenographer brought in to take it down so he could go over it to his heart’s content.

  “Okay,” I said. “I came up here tonight to look for my client.”

  “The client is Cranston Pritchert?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The dead man?”

  “Yes. The dead man.”

  “You’ve seen the dead man and you identify him as Cranston Pritchert, your client, the man who employed you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “When did he employ you, and when did the two of you first meet?”

  “He came to my office Monday morning.”

  “This past Monday morning?”

  “That’s right.”

  “At what time?”

  “Around nine o’clock.”

  “And what happened then?”

  I went through it all again. The whole shmear. Just as I told it to MacAullif, and just as I’d already told it to him. Everything I’d done up to and including finding the body and calling the cops.

  “So,” Belcher said, when I was done. “This extortion letter you refer to—the one you say your client rigged himself—do you still have that?”

  “Actually, no, I don’t.”

  “And why is that?”

  “After he admitted making it, it wasn’t important anymore.”

  “So, what did you do with it?”

  “I think I left it on his desk.”

  “You think?”

  “Like I say, it wasn’t important. I brought it to his office, confronted him with it. When he admitted it was his, it didn’t matter anymore. I remember sticking it in front of his face. To the best of my recollection, I left it on his desk.”

  “It’s not there now.”

  “No, I would assume he threw it out.”

  “And the paper you say he cut this out from—that was in his wastebasket?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Is it there now?”

  “I didn’t look, but I would assume that it’s been dumped.”

  “Why would you assume that?”

  “Because it was yesterday. I would assume the offices are cleaned.”

  “Every day?”

  “As to that, I have no idea. Maybe it’s there, maybe it’s gone. But this is silly.” I jerked my thumb. “The office is right next door. We could take a look.”

  “We can and will take a look,” Belcher said. “But I assure you this is not silly. The questions matter, and your answers matter. Your opinion is what’s important here.”

  Oh, boy.

  I said nothing. Sat. Waited.

  “At any rate,” Belcher said, “it is your statement that Cranston Pritchert admitted to you that he, himself, had fashioned the extortion letter out of headlines cut from the newspaper?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And what exactly did the letter say?”

  “I saw you in the singles bar.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Was the letter signed?”

  “It was not.”

  “And the reason your client gave you for fabricating this letter?”

  “He wanted me to find this girl. He thought I wasn’t taking it seriously enough. He wanted to give me added incentive.”

  “Those were his exact words?”

  “That’s the gist of it, yes.”

  “And when you say that’s the gist of it …?”

  “That is an entirely accurate assessment of his stated intent.”

  “Uh-huh. Now then. You did as your client asked and tracked down this girl?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You communicated this to him?”

  “That’s right.”

  “At the same time you informed him that you had located the girl’s agent, and that she was the only one who had had contact with the man who hired her?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And he instructed you to ignore this agent?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “But you called on her anyway?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  I frowned. “That’s a tough question. The thing is, I’d been working on this for days. And I finally got a lead. A good, solid lead. More than a lead. A break. I not only found the girl, I found someone who actually met the guy who hired the girl. Which had to be the payoff. I mean, how can you not follow that up?”

  “I see,” Belcher said. “You found that frustrating?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It was frustrating that your client didn’t want to follow up the lead?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “So much so that you followed it up on your own initiative?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And then when you follow it up, you find out the girl was employed by a man who looks exactly like your client.”

  “That’s a generalization.”

  “But an accurate one. The man was described as looking like your client.”

  “It was a very general description.”

  “Granted. But in your own mind, when you heard that description, who was the first person you thought it might be?”

  “My client.”

  “Isn’t that the reason you came here tonight? Isn’t that what you said? To ask your client if he was the man who went to the talent agency to hire the girl?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You had reason to be very angry with your client, didn’t you?”

  “Not angry enough to shoot him.”

  “Shoot him? Are you making a confession here?”

  “I just said I didn’t shoot him.”

  “I heard what you said. That’s a self-serving declaration, and means very little, but your denial is now on record. You claim you did not shoot your client, Cranston Pritchert?”

  “I did not.”

  “You were angry with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “You came here tonight to confront him?”

  “In a way.

  “Did you come here to confront him?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You were angry with him, and you came here to confront him?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t kill him?”

  What a sorry state of affairs.

  22.

  THE COP IN THE LOBBY never stood a chance. MacAullif steamrolled him as if he wasn’t even there. He never even broke stride. He whipped his shield out as he came in the front door, leveled his
finger at the cop, and said, “Don’t give me any shit, I happen to be a sergeant, you’re supposed to guard this suspect, fine, you guard him from the front door, you do a good job and you keep people away from me, got it?”

  The cop who’d been assigned to ride herd over me was young, impressionable, and overwhelmed. He got it. “Yes, sir,” he said. I swear he almost saluted. He turned and marched to the front door of the lobby, probably hoping someone would come in it so he could hassle them.

  MacAullif wheeled on me, leveled a finger. “All right, fuckface, you’re on.”

  I put up my hands. “Hey, don’t blame me.”

  “Don’t blame you?” MacAullif said. “That’s a good one. Don’t blame you? I’m drivin’ home over the Manhattan Bridge at the end of an absolutely fabulous day. Spoke to the wife, and she’s got steaks ready to throw on the fire, and I can’t wait ’cause I’m starving ’cause I got hung up in the office listening to some asshole tell me a fairy tale.”

  “Everything I said was true.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it was. With a few minor omissions.”

  “MacAullif—”

  “So, what happens? I’m cruisin’ over the bridge, when what should come over the police band but a homicide: male, Caucasian, six-six, tentative ID one Cranston Pritchert.”

  “MacAullif—”

  “And if that wasn’t enough to ruin my dinner, they got a suspect in custody, apprehended at the scene, ID’d as one private detective by the name of Stanley Hastings.”

  “I wasn’t apprehended.”

  “Right, right. And you’re not in custody, you and that cop were just havin’ a little chat.”

  “Bullshit, MacAullif. I’m the one called it in, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Of course you are. What a schmuck. You think I’m upset about the suspect bit? Big fuckin’ deal. Everyone’s a suspect. I’m a little perturbed by the fact you phoned it in.”

  “I should have just left things as they were and skipped out?”

  “Don’t get cute. Is the ME up there now?”

  “I think so.”

  “You think so?”

  “I think the guy who came up when I was going down is the medical examiner. They hustled me into the elevator, so I can’t be sure.”

  “Yeah, well, I’d be very interested in the time of death.”

  “So would I.”

  MacAullif shook his head, waved his hands. “No, no. You’re not reading me, schmuck. I’d be interested to know if this guy was dead when you were in my office telling me the fairy story.”

  “He probably was.”

  “Oh, is that right?”

  “Like I said, I tried to call and got no answer before I came to you.”

  “And when you got no answer, you went up to the office, looked to see what was going on, and found your client dead.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did. That’s how you called it in.”

  “Right. But after I talked to you.”

  “And that was the first time you’d been up there?”

  “I was up there yesterday.”

  “I mean tonight.”

  “MacAullif—”

  “The timing’s bad. Real bad. You come to my office, tell me everything about your client’s case. Including the fact you don’t trust him. Which is a little out of the ordinary.”

  “I had cause.”

  “If your client was dead, you had real cause.”

  “I didn’t know he was dead.”

  “The timing stinks. Look what you’ve done.” MacAullif pointed to himself, spread his hands. “I’m a fucking witness. They make a case against you, you gotta call me to the stand. I’m a witness twice over. I’m an alibi witness for the time you were in my office. Plus you’ll try to bring out what you told me about the case. You know how that would endear me to an ADA?”

  “Give me a break. You said yourself no one really thinks I did it.”

  “Did it, no. Knew about it, that’s something else entirely.”

  “I didn’t know about it.”

  “So you say. But what else could you say? If you found the body, didn’t dare call the cops till you laid the foundation. Rushed down to my office, fed me the bullshit line. Rushed back up here and called the cops. Well, guess what—we’d be right where we are now, wouldn’t we?”

  “That’s not what happened.”

  “When you were in my office you had no idea this guy was dead?”

  “None at all.”

  “It was just coincidence?”

  “It was just bad luck.”

  “Oh, no. You don’t know from back luck. But you’re gonna know from bad luck, ’cause your bad luck is just starting. Your first bit of bad luck is the fact I’m here talkin’ to you instead of sitting home in Bay Ridge eating a fucking steak. Your second bit of bad luck is the fact I’m now on the hook to talk to the cops and tell ’em what I know. Not that I want to do that, but I happen to be a cop, and it happens to be my fuckin’ duty. And if I didn’t do that, they would have my fuckin’ shield. So I gotta tell everything you told me. Which, aside from being a royal pain in the ass, if it doesn’t jibe with everything you told them—and why should it?—like I’m taking notes on your fucking story, like it might be important, like I actually give a damn—well, then, there’s gonna be hell to pay. Now, who do you think is gonna be payin’ it, you or me?”

  “I know it’s a mess. You don’t have to rub it in.”

  “Oh, right. Like I’m to blame. Like I’m the one makin’ your life miserable.”

  “You wanna stop using me for a punching bag and take a look at the evidence here?”

  “What evidence? You got a six foot six stiff, what else you got?”

  “He was shot.”

  “So I hear.”

  “Once.”

  “Once is enough.”

  “In the heart.”

  “Figures. Probably couldn’t reach his head. You got anything else useful?”

  “He wasn’t shot in his own office. He was shot in some other guy’s.”

  “What other guy?”

  “One of the other vice-presidents.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Oh.”

  “You know his name or don’t you?”

  “Give me a break. I’m bad with names.”

  “No shit.”

  “You shoot the questions at me that fast, of course I’m gonna blank. One of them’s Kevin Dunbar, and it wasn’t him. So it’s the other one. Whose name is …”

  “Christ.”

  “It’s not Greenberg, he’s the deceased chairman of the board.”

  “If I shot you now, it would be justifiable homicide.”

  “Oh yeah. Marty Rothstein. That’s the other vice-president. It was in his office.”

  “Ah. Major clue. This case is almost cracked.”

  “Hey, there’s a lot of leads. On account of the work I did.”

  “Give yourself a gold star. In everything you told me, there’s only one thing’s really key.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If it’s true, of course. If you didn’t find the body before and make the whole thing up.”

  “So help me. What did I say that’s key?”

  “You called his wife. Isn’t that what you said? You called him at home and his wife said he was working late.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Where’s home?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know.”

  “No, I don’t know. I have his phone number and his business address. I don’t have his home address. I mean, it’s not like I have a form that clients fill out. I don’t send out monthly statements.”

  “You don’t keep files?”

  “Most of my work is for Rosenberg and Stone. This wasn’t.”

  “So you don’t keep a file?”

  “Hey, MacAullif, screw the file. What’s so fucking important?”

  “The fact you called his
wife. A guy gets killed, the wife is usually suspect number one. The ME puts the time of death around the time you made that call, the call becomes important as hell.”

  “Right.”

  “Depending on where the guy lives. Turns out he lives next door, she could have run over and killed him just fine.”

  “It’s a two one two number.”

  “Narrows it down. A lot more, now the Bronx is seven one eight. Still, Manhattan’s a pretty big place.”

  That was a relief. Not that Cranston Pritchert’s wife might be out of it—I never met the woman, someone killed him, and it might as well have been her. No, it was a relief MacAullif was talking about it. Discussing the crime like a crime, instead of a personal affront against him. If I could keep him focused in that direction, on an analytical examination of the evidence, I might just luck out. I might be able to get out of this thing with our friendship, such as it was, virtually intact.

  It was not my day. Because at that moment the elevator doors opened, and out walked Sergeant Belcher.

  Actually, I had my back to the elevator, so I didn’t see him.

  MacAullif did.

  His mouth fell open, his eyes narrowed, his face darkened.

  Under his breath he murmured, “Oh, shit.”

  23.

  “HOW BAD IS IT?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  I wasn’t, either. It was much later that evening and I’d just gotten home.

  First, I’d been held in the office building lobby for what seemed like hours. Then I’d been dragged downtown. The good news was I hadn’t been booked. The bad news was I’d been fingerprinted. That, I was told, was just so the cops could tell which fingerprints at the crime scene happened to be mine. The implication was so they could eliminate them, not so they could prove me guilty.

  Whatever the reason, the fingerprinting was unnecessary, because if the cops had checked they would have found they had my fingerprints on file from my previous encounters with the law. That didn’t seem like a great thing to mention, somehow, so I kept quiet and let them print me again.

  After that, I was held for interrogation. I pointed out that I had already given a signed statement, but no one was listening to me. The end result was I was held downtown for no reason whatsoever, and didn’t get home till close to midnight.

  I had managed a phone call to Alice, so she wasn’t hysterical, merely concerned.