12-Scam

by Parnell Hall

  I blinked. “What?”

  “’Cause that was the deal. She did the job, she got paid. But then, if anyone came poking around asking questions—well, if she told them the right story, she got a bonus.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute. What she told me was a story?”

  “Of course.”

  “How is it a story? All she told me was she had drinks with the guy in the bar.”

  “Right.”

  “What do you mean, right? That’s exactly what she did. How is that a story?”

  “Oh,” he said. “ ’Cause that isn’t all she did. The story was to tell you that’s all that happened.”

  “But it wasn’t.”

  “No.”

  “What else happened?”

  “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

  “We’ve been through all that. What happened?”

  He hesitated. Looked around the room. On one wall was a poster of Marlon Brando on his motorcycle from The Wild One. He stared at it a moment, as if trying to get inspiration. He must have got it, because he turned back to me.

  “She put something in his drink.”

  “What?”

  He nodded. “That was the deal. That’s what she got paid for. To drug his drink.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Hey, this is what you asked for. Now you’re not gonna believe me?”

  “No. I believe you. It’s just ...well, what was the idea?”

  “That I don’t know. All she was told was to drug the drink and get him out of there.”

  “Get him out of there?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Get him out of the bar?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “And she did?”

  “Of course. Didn’t anyone see them go?”

  I sighed. “Actually, the bartender did. But the first I heard of it was yesterday. And even he wasn’t entirely sure.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what happened. She brought him out to her.”

  To her?”

  “Yeah. To her agent.”

  “Her agent? Her agent was there?”

  “Yes, of course. But you don’t know that. That’s part of what she wasn’t supposed to tell.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute. What did her agent do?”

  “Took the keys.”

  “What?”

  “She took the guy’s keys, went off with them. Came back a half hour later.”

  “She took Cranston Pritchert’s keys?”

  “Right. And then she brought them back.”

  “And what was …” I groped for the name so I wouldn’t have to say the girl. “What was Laura doing then?”

  “Staying with the guy. On the doorstep. You know, the front steps of a brownstone. Like the guy had had too much to drink, and she was helpin’ him out. Or like they were sweethearts, or something. Anything at all, so a cop wouldn’t see ’em.”

  “What happened then?”

  “The agent came back with the keys, put ’em back in his pocket, and they took off.”

  “And that’s it?”

  He looked at me. “That’s not enough? You want more?”

  “No. I mean, that’s everything that happened. She drugged him and got him out of the bar so the agent could take his keys for half an hour and then put ’em back?”

  “That’s it.”

  “And the story she was supposed to tell me to get a bonus was simply that she was hired to have drinks in a bar with a guy for two hours, and that was it?”

  “Yeah. That’s right.”

  “Why was it so important that she tell me that?”

  “So she wouldn’t tell you what I just did.”

  I exhaled. Exactly. That had to be exactly right. So I wouldn’t know about them taking Cranston Pritchert’s keys. “Okay,” I said. “So why did they take the keys?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Did Laura know?”

  “No. She only did what she was told.”

  “By her agent.”

  “Right.”

  “And her agent never told her why?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Or who it was that hired her?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  Damn.

  48.

  MACAULLIF MADE A FACE. “Why do you bring me this?”

  “Are you kidding? This could crack the case.”

  “This could crack my nuts. You know what you got here? You got two witnesses withholding evidence from the cops. You come here to make me a party to that, well, thanks a lot.”

  “Who’s withholding evidence from the cops? You’re a cop, I brought it to you.”

  “Don’t be a dickhead. I got a very short fuse on this one, and you know why. Belcher would love to nail me if he could, and you just came up with all the ammunition he’d need. If he could prove I knew what I know now and I didn’t tell him, it’s my ass. Good Christ, you couldn’t do a better job of fuckin’ me up if you were workin’ for the guy.”

  “Hey, MacAullif, you wanna calm down and look at what we got?”

  “I see what we got. Withholding evidence, obstruction of justice, tampering with a witness, and conspiring to conceal a crime.”

  “Conceal a crime?”

  “Sure. The bartender lied in his signed statement. We know it, we’re coverin’ it up.”

  “Sorry to piss you off, MacAullif, but I happen to be facing three murder counts. This obstruction of justice shit is just chicken feed.”

  “Yeah, but it’s true,” MacAullif said. “You didn’t kill any one. You didn’t commit the murders. But obstruction of justice, you’re doing just fine. And you can go to jail for that, in case you didn’t know.”

  “You mean if Belcher found out?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then let’s not tell him.”

  MacAullif scowled. “What a wiseass. God save me from a wiseass.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “Any time you’re ready.”

  “Huh?”

  “Any time you’d like to stop beating me up and look at what we got.”

  “You got jack shit.”

  “Come on. I know the girl wanted me to find her. And I know she drugged the guy’s drink to steal his keys.”

  “You just think you know that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you never gonna think like a cop? Just ’cause someone tells you something don’t make it true. This bartender, whom we know has lied once already, now tells a different story. You buy it as gospel, but does it have to be true? Not necessarily. I know this is a hard concept for you to handle, but people who tell lies don’t always tell the truth.”

  “The part about the boyfriend was true.”

  “Huh?”

  “This Jamie Pollack. Her boyfriend. That was true.”

  “Right,” MacAullif said. “And that’s where you make your big mistake. He told you there was a boyfriend. There was a boyfriend. You figure that confirms his story. All it confirms is that there was a boyfriend. The rest of what he told you could be total bullshit.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t know. I mean, what do you know about this bartender, anyway? How well did he know Cranston Pritchert? How well did he know this girl? Did he know the talent agent? I mean, for all you know, this guy was mixed up in it right up to his eyebrows.”

  I put up my hand. “Okay,” I said. “I’m not letting him off the hook. I just happen to have spent the morning with him looking at resume photos and he seemed sincere to me. I concede my judgment is not perfect and I should not wash him out. Now could we move on to something else?”

  “I’d love to move on to something else. I happen to have two homicides of my own pending.”

  “I know, MacAullif. But first you have to clear yourself of this obstruction of justice charge.”

  That stopped him dead. MacAullif couldn’t quite believe I’d said that. I could see his brain g
oing, trying to come up with the ultimate rejoinder. Before he did, I said, “Sorry. I’ll get out of your office. I was just hoping you could put a spin on these new facts. The fact she wanted to be found, and the fact she took the keys.”

  “We know why she wanted to be found,” MacAullif said. “She got a bonus for tellin’ her story.”

  “Yeah, but why?”

  “So you wouldn’t know about the keys.”

  “Why is that so important?”

  “Because if you knew about the keys, you could figure it out. “

  “But I can’t figure it out.”

  “Sure, but you’re a moron. The person who set this up was concerned with a bright person stumbling on the facts.”

  “Fine. If you’re so smart, tell me what the keys mean.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Then how do you get off slamming me for not knowing?”

  “Oh, you want fair? I’ll come find you in your office, make you guilty of conspiring to conceal a crime.”

  “Come on, MacAullif. What’s the dope on the keys?”

  “You know as much as I do.”

  “Yeah, but what’s it mean?”

  MacAullif took out a cigar, drummed it on the desk. “A person wants a key to unlock a door. In your client’s case, it could be the keys to the office, it could be the keys to his home. The first consideration is the keys to his home.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s him. All these guys had keys to the office, right? But he’s the only one’s got keys to his home. If the target was the office key, then it’s random—I mean, the fact that it’s him. If it’s his apartment key, then it’s specific. It’s him and him alone. In that case, you got one suspect loomin’ larger than the rest. The guy from the company makin’ a play for the wife.”

  “How does that make sense? He and she were thick as thieves.”

  “So they appeared. It doesn’t make it true. What did you actually see? As I recall, the guy called on her, took her out to lunch. She, in return, voted her stock for him. But it doesn’t necessarily mean they were in it together, or even that they were having an affair.”

  MacAullif leveled the cigar. “There’s another thing. All this happened before your client was dead. Obviously. Suppose this guy—the one hitting on his wife—what’s his name?”

  “Marty Rothstein.”

  “Right. Suppose this Marty Rothstein is your man. Suppose it’s him all along. He wants the keys to your client’s apartment. Why? To get in there and get something on him. He does that, but it backfires in his face, because your client calls him on it, and he has to kill him.”

  I frowned. “How the hell does that make any sense?”

  “I don’t know. I’m coming up with theories from brand new facts. Assuming they’re facts. Assuming they’re not a bunch of lies you’ve been fed. Taken at face value, we’re speculating who stole the keys and why. The most obvious answer is this Marty Rothstein, to get into your client’s apartment. I know you don’t like that, because your storybook mentality says the most obvious answer can’t be true. The thing you lose sight of is, every once in a while it is.”

  “Fine, MacAullif,” I said. “Can I point out a flaw?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “If Marty Rothstein stole Cranston Pritchert’s keys to get into his apartment, it seems to me the most likely scenario is he does that, Cranston Pritchert comes home unexpectedly and surprises him, and he shoots Cranston Pritchert dead. But Cranston Pritchert wasn’t killed in his own apartment, he was killed at work.”

  “Not a big flaw,” MacAullif said. “How’s about this? Your client comes home, finds someone’s been through his study. Perhaps something’s missing. I don’t know what, maybe a list of friendly stockholders. But whatever it is, the guy goes batshit. He rushes up to the office, and who does he find but what’s-his-name, this Rothstein, going over whatever it is he just filched. Say it was a list of stockholders, and Rothstein’s now on the phone calling everyone on the list. Your client goes ballistic, and Rothstein has to shoot him.”

  “What about the others?”

  “What others?”

  “The talent agent and the girl—why does he kill them?”

  “Because he killed him. These murders were never intentional. Not from the beginning. But once he kills your client, he has to cover up. Who can link him to the crime? The talent agent and the girl. So they gotta go.”

  “Wait a minute. How do you mean, the crimes weren’t intentional?”

  “I mean from the beginning. That’s obvious. If the story you got was true. Because the girl and the talent agent were paid off to tell phony stories. That’s the way they’re being hushed up. And if your client isn’t murdered, that’s enough. But once he’s dead, they can link the killer, not to the scam, but to the murder. Which is a brand-new ball game. They can convict him of murder on the one hand, or blackmail the shit out of him on the other. Either way, they gotta go.”

  “And what was the original scam?”

  “We still don’t know. If the story’s true, there was no scam. The guy was not being set up, he was essentially bein’ mugged. Ripped off for his keys. Only thing is, you don’t know if this is a story someone paid the bartender and the boyfriend to tell.”

  “Oh, come on, MacAullif.”

  “That’s so far-fetched? That’s no worse than what I’ve just heard. In fact, it’s better, because if it’s bullshit, maybe the obstruction of justice goes away. I’m not a lawyer. Is it a crime to willfully withhold false information from the police?”

  “I think it would depend on whether you knew at the time it was false.”

  MacAullif made a face. “Count on the dickhead to come up with a definition that dorks him.” He exhaled. “Look, you wanted a spin on the facts and that’s it. I don’t think there’s anything more I could tell you.”

  “What about an autopsy report?”

  “What about it?”

  “You happen to get the time of death?”

  “Yeah, not that it’s gonna do you any good. She’d been dead for too long. Hard to be accurate. She was killed in the neighborhood of when your client got killed. But the parameters are loose enough she could have been killed before, or she could have been killed after. It makes no sense she was killed before, but it’s medically possible. For my money, you can wash it out.”

  “Yeah. Except …”

  “Except what?”

  “What if it’s the other way around? What if someone’s closing up the pipeline, starting from the end? Goes from the girl to the agent to the guy.”

  MacAullif groaned. “Oh, please. What is that, James Bond? Closing up the pipeline? We got enough problems without you going off the deep end.”

  “I wouldn’t reject it out of hand.”

  “Fine, but come up with a theory that makes sense. The one you got there doesn’t fit with these people were bribed to tell a story.”

  “Yeah, well, you said that didn’t have to be true.”

  “Granted. But something has to be true. You throw out everything and start from scratch, well, where do you start? See?”

  “Yeah, I see. So what should I do about these two witnesses?”

  “Are you kidding me? If you have knowledge of any material witnesses in a murder case, you should give the information to the officer in charge. And that’s my official advice on the subject.”

  MacAullif pointed with his cigar. “In the event you should choose not to do that, you should get the fuck out of my office before someone sees you not doing it.”

  49.

  I RODE UPTOWN WITH MY head spinning. I was straphanging on the Broadway Number One. That’s a local train making all local stops. And I do mean all. The ride seemed to last forever. Meanwhile, my mind was turning cartwheels.

  Talking to MacAullif had been frustrating. Talking to MacAullif usually was. The guy was so sharp on the one hand, yet so stubborn on the other, that he could be thoroughly exasperating. It seemed
like time and again he would take some stupid concept that I knew couldn’t be true, and try to ram it down my throat.

  Like the bartender bit. I knew Sandy wasn’t lying now. What I had was the straight goods. Sandy had lied before, sure, but he had a reason to. That reason made perfect sense. So did the fact he was telling the truth now. It was all perfectly logical, perfectly straightforward. Why the hell did MacAullif have to suggest it wasn’t so?

  Same thing for the boyfriend—was his story false? It sure struck me as the real McCoy. I mean, why should he lie? Unless he was the killer. But why would he be?

  Unless …

  Unless the whole thing was the other way around. Like I said to MacAullif, with the shutting down the pipeline bit.

  Well, never mind the pipeline, but what if the other part was true? The medical report couldn’t tell who died first. So what if it was her? What if the boyfriend killed her, and it was because of that the others had to die?

  In that case, how did I get the gun?

  Wait a minute. Maybe that works. He kills the girl. To cover up, he has to kill Pritchert. Then he has to knock off the agent. She’s the last to die, and he leaves the gun there. For Belcher to find and frame me. Hey, that works just fine.

  Small problem with motivation. Well, you can’t have everything.

  But then, MacAullif always tells me you kill the one you love. Husband-wife thing, girlfriend-boyfriend, it’s always the other one that did it. There you are. Maybe the guy just goes bonkers that she’s dancing in a topless bar. Surely men have snapped for less.

  Damn.

  Maybe I should turn around, take the subway back down to MacAullif. Maybe I got this figured out.

  It suddenly hit me, good god, I must be desperate if I’m grasping at straws like that.

  My beeper went off, filled the car. I switched it off as all heads turned toward me.

  Good. Just what I need. A nice assignment from Richard to get my mind off the case. A bit of busy work, routine, easy, something I could handle on automatic pilot. A gentleman with a broken leg who would be thrilled to see me. I’d pick up my car from the municipal lot, drive out to wherever it was, sign the guy up, and that would be that. Probably just what I needed to clear my head. Sometimes things work out.