12-Scam

by Parnell Hall

Which she did. Into a bikini bathing suit. Go figure. Ten times more revealing than dropping her pants in the first place.

  On the other hand, it made a great shot. The girl was a dish. In a skimpy bikini, she was a delectable dish. Except for the ugly, red, raw, surgical scars criss-crossing her left knee.

  Wow. Talk about your daily double. On one roll of film, I had a guy with his neck in traction, and a mutilated pinup model.

  Richard would come in his pants.

  I finished my photo session, thanked the young woman—whose scars would quickly fade and who would have a nice day at the beach on the money Richard was going to get her—and went out.

  I was tempted to spread my arms wide, show the guard in the lobby I hadn’t absconded with the family silver, but I stifled the impulse, contented myself with a superior smirk as I went by.

  Outside, I checked my watch. Even with the costume change, the whole assignment had only taken a half hour since I’d been beeped. I wondered if Miriam Pritchert and Marty Rothstein were still having lunch.

  They weren’t. One glance through the window showed the table was vacant.

  I wondered if they’d gone up to her place.

  Or up to his.

  Or if he’d simply gone back to work.

  Well, I knew how to check on that.

  I went to the pay phone, called his firm.

  The receptionist assured me he was still out to lunch.

  I dropped another quarter, called Miriam Pritchert. It rang four times and an answering machine came on.

  I hung up, dialed four one one, asked for a listing for Martin Rothstein.

  There were four. I called them all and none were home. Of course, he didn’t have to live in Manhattan. Or he could be listed as M. Rothstein. Or he could have an unlisted number.

  On the other hand, he could be on his way back to the office, rather than shacking up with his deceased colleague’s wife.

  Ah, well, enough idle speculation. I headed back to Miriam Pritchert’s apartment to pick up my car.

  When I got there, it occurred to me there was one other possibility to check out.

  I went in the lobby, asked the doorman for Miriam Pritchert.

  The guy gave me a look. “Weren’t you just up there?”

  “Yes, I was. Now I’m back.”

  He shook his head. “Lady’s had a tough time. Why don’t you leave her alone.”

  Evidently, the guy still took me for a cop. It occurred to me, if he did, I didn’t have to bother to explain a damn thing.

  “Yeah,” I said. “But you know how it is.”

  The guy did. He stepped to the house phone, buzzed upstairs. After a few moments he said, “Sorry, there’s no answer.”

  “Maybe she went out.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  I didn’t like the way he said that. I had the idea he’d seen her go in, knew she was there, and knew she wasn’t answering the phone.

  I wondered if he also knew she wasn’t alone.

  Assuming she wasn’t.

  My train of thought was interrupted by my beeper going off. That brought the doorman up short—he knew cops didn’t wear beepers. Which meant my welcome was worn out. The look he gave me told me, whoever I was, I had better call in, and I could damn well do it from somewhere else.

  I went to the pay phone to see what Mary Mason had for me. If she had another assignment half a block away, it was going to flip me out.

  Not quite.

  This time I was wanted by the cops.

  30.

  IT WAS A SMALL, TWO-STORY frame house on a block of similar structures in Forest Hills, Queens. There were cop cars all around the place. I pulled in to the curb and got out.

  A uniformed officer on the front steps tried to give me the heave-ho.

  “Belcher wants me,” I said.

  His eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

  “Stanley Hastings.”

  “Oh, yeah,” the cop said. The look he gave me was not kind. But he jerked his thumb and said, “Come on.”

  I followed him up the steps and in the front door. There was a living room to the left, and a kitchen straight ahead, but we weren’t heading there. Instead, the cop led me upstairs.

  The top floor apparently consisted of two bedrooms and a bath. The front bedroom was empty. The back bedroom was full of cops. I walked in the door, stopped, and stared.

  The bedroom had been set up as an office, with file cabinets, bookshelves, and a desk. The body of the talent agent was stretched out on the floor. I knew her name, but blanked on it the minute I saw her lying there. Which was not surprising—I’m bad on names to begin with, and the whole scene was surreal. I mean, I’d played this scene before at the woman’s Manhattan office. Been dragged in by the cops and expected to see her there. This time I’d been summoned by the cops and not told a thing. I had no idea whose house it was or why I was there. Then I walk into what I think is a bedroom, but, no, it’s an office. What’s more, it’s just like the office I was in before when I expected to find a dead body, and here’s the dead body I expected to find lying right where I thought it should be. Somehow, it was as if the whole thing were a stage set, mocked up especially for my benefit.

  And before I even have a chance to get my wits together, there’s Sergeant Belcher, malevolence itself, snapping questions at me, as if the whole thing was somehow my fault.

  “Is it her?” Belcher demanded.

  The question was so abrupt it startled me. “Her?”

  “Yes, her. The woman you told us about. Is it her?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You identify her?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Who do you identify her to be?”

  “The talent agent. I’m blanking her name.”

  “Shelly Daniels?”

  “That’s right.”

  “This is the woman you called on in her office?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “This is the woman you paid a hundred dollars to for information?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You claim she wouldn’t give you the address and phone number of the topless dancer who set up your client?”

  “I don’t claim anything. The fact is, she didn’t.”

  “You needn’t qualify your answers with me. You see a stenographer taking anything down?”

  “I like to be accurate.”

  “Well,” Belcher said. “What a commendable trait. How did you get here?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Are you deaf? How did you get here? Bus? Taxi? Helicopter?”

  “I drove.”

  “You came in your car?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How did you find the place?”

  “I had the address.”

  Belcher glowered at me. “I know that. I gave the girl the address to give you. How did you locate the address?”

  “I have a Hagstrom map.”

  “Oh?”

  “I use it in my work. I’m always getting beeped, sent to addresses like this. I look them up on the map.”

  “You’re telling me you looked this address up on your map?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “This address did not ring a bell?”

  “Not offhand.”

  “You’re saying you’ve never been here before?”

  “Not this exact address. I’ve been in the neighborhood.”

  “Why is that?”

  “For my job. This is Forest Hills. I know I’ve done cases in Forest Hills.”

  “Then why didn’t the address ring a bell?”

  “’Cause Mary didn’t say Forest Hills.”

  “Mary?”

  “Switchboard girl at Rosenberg and Stone. The one who beeped me and sent me here. She didn’t say Forest Hills, just gave me a street address in Queens. I didn’t know it was Forest Hills until I looked it up on the map.”

  “That’s your story?”

  I blinked. “Story? “What s
tory? I’m telling you exactly what happened.”

  “So you say. You drove here in your car?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “What kind of car you drive?”

  “Toyota Corolla.”

  “What year?”

  “ ‘84.”

  “Color?”

  “Tan.”

  “What’s the license number?”

  “Why?”

  “You wanna give me the license number?”

  I gave it to him. He wrote it in his notebook, glared at me, stalked out of the room and down the stairs.

  Leaving me alone with three cops and a medical examiner, none of whom had been told what to do with me. Which was kind of bizarre. After a moment, they ignored me and went about their business, while I just stood and watched.

  Shelly Daniels had apparently been shot. She was lying on her back, and bleeding from a chest wound in the approximate vicinity of her heart. Her head was lolled back and to the side. Her mouth was open but her eyes were closed. Her glasses had slid up on her forehead. In an incredibly grotesque touch, the medical examiner had hiked up her skirt, and appeared to be sexually molesting her. I realized he must be taking the body temperature. I wondered what it was. If it was at all significant. I figured probably not. Most likely the woman had been dead for days, and the body had completely cooled.

  That started another train of thought. Had she been killed the same night as Cranston Pritchert? Who had been killed first? And had they been shot with the same gun? There was no weapon on the scene that I could see. If there had been, it would have answered the first question—the killer had shot Pritchert, then shot Daniels and dropped the gun. Unless the crime-scene unit had already bagged the weapon, nothing that convenient had happened.

  I wondered what had.

  I heard a clomping on the stairs, and Sergeant Belcher came back into the room. He ignored me, spoke to the medical examiner. “You finished up here?”

  “More or less.”

  “Can we move her out?”

  “Sure thing. Just need the stretcher.”

  “They’re down there waiting for your say-so.” He took a step to the door. “All right. Let’s pack her up.”

  Two medics appeared with the stretcher, slipped Shelly Daniels into a body bag, and strapped her down. They were very efficient. Within minutes she was gone.

  And Belcher’s attention turned to me. “All right,” he said. “We have a situation here and I think you know what it is.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I would classify it as a homicide myself.”

  Belcher scowled. “Don’t be cute. You’ve been through this before, so you know the drill. The name of the game is find the topless dancer.” He jerked his thumb at the crime-scene cops. “As soon as these boys here are through, you’re on.” He turned to one of the cops, who was dusting the desk for fingerprints. “How much longer?”

  The guy shrugged. “Ten, fifteen minutes.”

  Belcher turned back to me. “Okay. Downstairs.”

  He led me downstairs, parked me in the living room. It was a modestly furnished affair, with a couch and coffee table that were either antiques or just old—my grasp on the distinction is vague. I sat on the couch and pondered my fate.

  When who should walk in but Darren “Sandy” Carter.

  So. Belcher wasn’t kidding. We were going through the whole routine again.

  The bartender did not look happy. Of course, you couldn’t expect him to, but even so. He saw me, said, “What’s going on?

  “You mean they didn’t tell you?”

  He shook his head. “Not a thing.”

  “It’s the talent agent’s house. She’s dead. They just took the body away.”

  “Hey, motor mouth!” Belcher snapped from the doorway. He stepped in, insinuated himself between us, glared at me. “I kind of wanted to be the one to tell him that, if you know what I mean.” He turned to Sandy. “Now look here, you. You ever see this agent before?”

  “I told you, no.”

  “People tell me lots of things, and some I believe. That don’t mean I won’t ask ’em again. You say you’ve never seen the agent before. Well, if you’ve never seen her, you don’t know what she looks like, so how would you know?”

  Sandy frowned. “What?”

  “Too tough a concept for you? If you don’t know who the woman is, don’t know what she looks like, it is possible you’ve seen her and did not know it was her. Can you follow that all right?”

  “I see what you’re saying, yeah.”

  “Good. Now, as your buddy here points out, the woman’s on her way to the morgue. Which means you’ll have to go there to take a look. But first we have other business to attend to.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s an office upstairs. Full of resume photos.”

  “You gotta be kidding.”

  “I assure you I’m not. You and your buddy gonna play find the bimbo. Just as soon as the crime-scene boys are done.” He jerked his thumb. “In fact, here they come now.”

  The crime-scene unit came lugging their cameras and equipment down the stairs and out the front door.

  “All done?” Belcher called to them.

  “It’s all yours.”

  “Okay, guys,” Belcher said. “You’re on.”

  I don’t know how long we were up there, but it seemed like forever. I sat at the desk and Sandy sat in a chair. Bagging the desk was a coup—I could have the pictures in front of me, turn ’em one at a time. Sandy had to balance his on his lap.

  The pictures were pretty much the same as they had been in her Manhattan office. With one exception. One file cabinet was filled with explicit, X-rated shots. Some were just women posing holding their vaginas and ass cheeks open. Others were couples engaging in every conceivable sexual act.

  None of the explicit pictures featured our topless dancer, Marla Melons, and from my conversation with her it seemed unlikely any of them would. Still, Sandy and I were in complete agreement that in the interests of justice we should take no chances and examine them anyway.

  It was nearly two hours later when Sergeant Belcher came stomping in.

  “Any luck?”

  We shook our heads.

  “You keep at it,” Belcher said, pointing at Sandy. He turned to me. “You come with me.”

  He led me into the other bedroom.

  And closed the door.

  Uh-oh.

  I’d been waiting for it to happen. Up till now, Sergeant Belcher had been perfectly civil. Gruff and brusk, sure. But not unnaturally so. Nothing to indicate he had a personal grudge. Then, suddenly for the first time I’m face to face with him all alone. No need for any pretense now. So what was the deal? Was the guy going to beat me up?

  He wasn’t.

  When he turned to me, Belcher’s manner was still formal and official. And I noticed he was holding a paper in his hand.

  “Stanley Hastings,” he said. “I have here a search warrant duly obtained on this day, empowering me to search both your person and your car. Do you intend to comply with this warrant?”

  My mouth fell open. “What?”

  “Don’t you understand the concept?” Belcher said. “You were the last person to see the Daniels woman alive. You are to all intents and purposes a suspect. Therefore to be searched. I have the warrant here. You can examine it if you like. May I have the keys to your car?”

  “You got a search warrant?”

  “Are you having trouble with the English language?” Belcher unfolded the paper, thrust it out at me.

  It was just exactly what he said it was. A judge Sidney Moncrieff, based on allegation and belief, had empowered Sergeant Timothy Belcher to search my person and my car.

  Belcher extended his hand. “May I have your car keys, please?”

  “I don’t believe this.”

  “Believe it or not, do you intend to comply?”

  It occurred to me, Belcher was hoping I wouldn’t. He was looking for an
ything to get me on. I dug my keys out of my pocket, passed them over.

  Belcher opened the door, called one of the cops, gave him the keys. He closed the door, turned back to me. “Now, you.”

  Oh, Jesus. This was it. How bad could he rough me up under the guise of a search? Pretty bad, I’ll bet.

  A shudder passed over me. Was he going to strip me to the skin?

  “Take off your jacket, pass it over,” Belcher said.

  I did, and he went through the pockets, placing the contents on the bed. From one inside pocket, my notebook and pen. From the other, my ID.

  Belcher jerked his thumb. “What’s with the camera?”

  With my jacket off, the camera was now exposed, hanging down at my side.

  “It’s for my job,” I said. “Negligence work. I take injury and accident photos.”

  “Is there film in there now?”

  Sure was. The broken neck and the ugly kneecap. Good god! If he were to expose the film …

  “What’s the matter?” Belcher said.

  “Huh?”

  “You went white. What is it about the film?”

  “Nothing. It’s just pictures I took for my job.”

  “Yeah, well, it sure upset you. Let’s have the camera.”

  “Sure,” I said. “If you expose that film …”

  “Expose it? Are you nuts? I’m gonna develop it, see what you’re so afraid of. Come on, let’s have it.”

  Reluctantly, I took the camera from around my neck, handed it to him. It was a relief when he merely laid it on the bed.

  “All right, empty your pants pockets,” Belcher said.

  Well, that was something. He hadn’t asked me to take off my pants. With a feeling of relief, I took out change, Chapstick, bills, wallet, and passed them over.

  Belcher went through the wallet, inspecting the various cards. He stopped on one.

  “Writers Guild of America East,” he said. “What’s that?”

  “Screenwriters union.”

  “You belong to that?”

  “I had a movie produced.”

  He looked at me. “And you still do this shit?”

  That whole sequence had seemed so natural that in that moment I had doubts. Maybe this guy didn’t know who I was. That I was a friend of MacAullif. The man he hated. The man against whom he had a personal grudge. Maybe he wasn’t out to get me, as I had thought. Maybe he was just another cop doing his job.