12-Scam
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“I beg your pardon?”
“You say this is your theory. I’m wondering who you’ve told.”
“And now I’m wondering why you’re wondering. I know you’ve gotten rid of your gun, but you just might have another. Just as a point of information, were you thinking of killing me or bribing me?”
She stared at me. “God, you’re weird.”
“Thank you. I’ll consider the source.”
“Huh?”
“But as I was saying, I don’t know how much this company is worth. And I don’t know how much it’s worth to you to remain the chairman of the board.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You mean for keeping quiet about the proxies?”
“That’s the only way you’re going to remain chairman.”
She looked at me a moment, then said, “Wait a minute. Who you trying to kid? There’s not just money involved. You shut up about the proxies, maybe, but, what, you’re gonna shut up about the gun? You’d take money to take the fall? You can’t have one without the other. You either shut up or you talk.”
“You’re telling me we have no deal?”
“Deal? How could we have a deal? Look, could you give me a moment? I gotta think this over.”
“I would very much prefer it if you didn’t leave this room.”
“Huh?”
“You might come back with a gun.”
“Oh, sure. I’m gonna shoot you in my living room.”
“Actually, it would be your safest move. And having killed three people, the fourth couldn’t be that hard. Plus, this one you could acknowledge. It would be a piece of cake. After all, I’m the murder suspect. I barged into your house and you had to shoot me dead. It wasn’t murder, it was self-defense. You were in fear for your life. Hell, if you play your cards right, you’ll wind up a hero.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I’m tired of not knowing which end’s up. I figure if you’re gonna shoot me, you’re gonna shoot me. I also figure if you got a gun, it’s in the other room. If you go to get it, I’m out that door. Even if you should catch me, it’s hard to claim self-defense when you shoot someone who’s running away.”
I spread my arms. “So, we seem to have a bit of a stalemate here. I suggest we work something out.”
“What do you propose?”
“Believe it or not, I’d like to get off the hook for murder. The problem is, how to do that without getting you on it.”
“You have any ideas on that?”
“Actually, I don’t. You’re like Rome. Every solution leads to you.”
“How about whoever tipped you off?”
“What do you mean?”
“You come in here and you know all this—about the bonuses and drugging the drink. So, whoever it was, they’re involved, and that’s someone we could frame.”
“Frame?”
“Or someone you could claim framed you. Come on. That’s the basic question. If you didn’t do it and I didn’t do it, who did?”
“If I tell you who, do you promise not to kill him?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“That’s not stupid. All the other principals are dead. If I tell you this, frame him, fine, kill him, no. Do I have your word?”
“Give me a break.”
“I’m giving you a big break by talking to you instead of the cops. Considering what you did to me, that’s a hell of a concession. Now, my patience is wearing thin. You start talking turkey, or I’m out the door.”
“Fine, for Christ’s sake. I won’t hurt him. Jesus Christ, just show me a way out of this mess.”
There came a pounding at the door, and a loud voice. “Open up! Police!”
Amy Greenberg turned on me. “You son of a bitch!”
“Hey, I didn’t call ’em. You’ve been with me all the time.”
“Hey! Open up in there!”
“I think you better open the door.”
She waggled a finger at me. “If you tell them anything.”
“It’ll be my word against yours. I know. Right now, you’d better open the door.”
She did, and Sergeant Belcher came through it like a linebacker on a blitz. He pushed by Amy Greenberg, grabbed me by the arm, and spun me around. I felt the metal dig into my wrist, heard the click of the handcuffs snapping shut.
“All right, you son of a bitch,” he said. “Let’s see you make bail now.”
“What the hell,” I said.
I barely got the words out of my mouth.
I caught a glimpse of Amy Greenberg’s face as Sergeant Belcher jerked me sideways.
The last thing I saw was my microcassette recorder lying on Amy Greenberg’s coffee table as Belcher dragged me out the door.
53.
THERE WERE TV CREWS EVERYWHERE. Sergeant Belcher could hardly get a parking space. He pulled up behind one of the mobile units, jerked me out of the car.
The news crews descended on us. In the forefront, holding a Channel 2 microphone, was Chris Harris—the husband of Alice’s friend.
“Sergeant Belcher,” he said. “Chris Harris, Channel 2 News. Could I have a statement?”
Belcher was baffled. “Statement? What statement? What’s going on here?”
“We just got the word. There’s been a break in the Cranston Pritchert case.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“High-ranking sources. Word is the police have a suspect in custody.” He pointed to me. “Is that him?”
I could see Belcher’s mind going. He hadn’t been prepared for any publicity at this juncture. On the other hand, if any one was taking credit for my arrest, it might as well be him.
“This is Stanley Hastings. A suspect in the crimes. I’ve placed him under arrest.”
“Hasn’t he already been charged with the crimes?”
“He has. He’s currently out on bail.”
“Then why have you arrested him again?”
“Because new evidence has come to light which will probably result in revoking bail.”
The TV reporters all began shouting questions at once.
“Evidence?”
“What new evidence?”
“Did he confess?”
“What have you got?”
Belcher raised his hand. “All I can say is he had the murder weapon, and his fingerprints have been found at all three murder sites, two of which he claims he was never at.”
“That’s old news, sergeant,” Chris Harris said. “The word is there’s been a break in the case.”
“There has. The suspect has been apprehended in an attempt to influence witnesses in the case through bribes and intimidation.”
The reporters again began shouting at once, and once again my buddy cut through.
“Bribing and intimidating who, sergeant? What’s the story here?”
Belcher took a breath. “He’s been attempting to influence the testimony of members of Cranston Pritchert’s firm. Just now, he was arrested in an alleged attempt to intimidate Amy Greenberg, granddaughter of the late Philip Greenberg and newly elected chairman of the board. He was in the process of doing so when I made the arrest.”
“So, Sergeant Belcher,” Chris Harris said. “You claim you have the defendant dead to rights on three murder counts?”
“Yes, I do.”
He shoved the microphone at me. “Mr. Hastings. Do you have any comment at this time?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m innocent. This cop doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Belcher’s eyes blazed, but he wasn’t about to hit me on camera.
At that moment, a car screeched to a stop. Sergeant MacAullif got out and pulled Amy Greenberg from the back seat.
“There’s Ms. Greenberg now,” I said. “Why don’t you ask her?”
As the reporters turned to look, Sergeant MacAullif pushed Amy Greenberg through the crowd to where Sergeant Belcher and I were standing.
Once again, Chris Harris took charge. “Ms. Greenbe
rg,” he said. “Chris Harris, Channel 2 News. Are you pressing charges against the suspect Stanley Hastings? We understand he attempted to threaten and bribe you. Is that true?”
“Not exactly,” MacAullif said.
“And who are you?”
“Sergeant MacAullif. NYPD. I have a suspect under arrest for the murders of Cranston Pritchert, Shelly Daniels, and Laura Martin.”
“I beg your pardon, sergeant, but I believe it’s Sergeant Belcher who has the suspect under arrest.”
“Who, him?” MacAullif smiled. “Well, yes, he does, but he has the wrong man. Stanley Hastings didn’t kill anyone.” He raised Amy Greenberg’s arms to show the handcuffs on her wrists. “I have Amy Greenberg under arrest.”
“Amy Greenberg?”
“That’s right. Only in her case, I happen to have a full confession.” MacAullif reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a microcassette. “I have it on tape. A conversation between her and Mr. Hastings. He pretended to record it with a pocket dictaphone. She didn’t say much until after she found it and switched it off. Then she said a whole bunch. Only that dictaphone was really a radio mike, it broadcast the whole conversation, and I recorded it outside in my car. I have it right here. Fascinating stuff, like how she killed three people, then planted the gun on him.” MacAullif shrugged. “Which is the only reason he was ever a suspect to begin with. That, and some rather embarrassingly bad police work, both from the crime-scene units and the evidence room. Mishandling of evidence. Mislabeling of evidence.” He turned to me. “All of which resulted in Mr. Hastings’s arrest.”
My buddy, Chris Harris from Channel 2, shoved the microphone back in front of Belcher. “Sergeant Belcher,” he said. “What do you have to say to that? How is it you happened to arrest the wrong man?”
Sergeant Belcher looked totally baffled. He stood there, gawking at the television cameras. His eyes were wide, his mouth was open.
He said, “Huh?”
I loved it.
54.
IT WAS ON EVERY EVENING newscast. Every single channel. We called a bunch of friends, got ’em to tape the broadcasts for us, so I know.
And every channel had it. The news deals in sound bites. And by far the best sound bite going was Sergeant Belcher saying, “Huh?”
The rest of the story they handled differently. Some led with me and Belcher, then had MacAullif bring Amy Greenberg in. Some of them started off with her—”Greenberg Arrested”—then ran it back from there.
It all added up to the same thing. Sergeant MacAullif had the right killer, Sergeant Belcher had the wrong one, and Sergeant Belcher looked like a schmuck.
And, boy, did that feel good. He deserved to look like a schmuck. True, he wasn’t a snake—that is to say, he didn’t frame me with the gun, Amy Greenberg did that—but he sure looked like a snake. And he sure acted like a snake, messing with the fingerprint evidence, so it sure was nice to nail him on TV.
And in terms of revenge, that was enough. Since he hadn’t framed me like I thought. He’d planted evidence against me, sure. But, you see, he thought I was guilty. He thought that it was my gun, he thought I’d done it all along. These little assists with the evidence weren’t to frame an innocent man, merely to nail a guilty one.
Am I excusing him? No, no. Please. The man is a nasty, rotten son of a bitch, a bad cop, I hope he burns in hell. I mean, Jesus Christ, if it weren’t for the fact he did such a good job looking like a snake, the case would have been a whole lot easier to figure out. Because, aside from him, who could have planted the gun?
Well, Sandy the bartender could have, but he didn’t. He did have the opportunity, as Alice pointed out, but he didn’t really have the motive. I mean, when you examine what people got, Sandy got a hundred dollars cash, and Amy Greenberg got control of a corporation. In terms of motivation, she stood out like a sore thumb. So, subtract Sergeant Belcher, and I solve the case like that. The moment the gun’s in my car, her ass is grass.
But it’s never that simple. There’s always some schmuck stirring things up. At least, I always find it to be the case. I’m sure other PI’s solve their murders just like that—they always seem to on television.
Speaking of television.
Boy, did we stick it to Belcher. I know I’ve already said this, but you’ll pardon me if I say it again. If you’ve never been, arraigned on a triple homicide, you probably can’t know how I feel. But, boy, was that a beautiful thing. Sticking it to Belcher, and MacAullif holding the knife.
Yeah, that was a nice touch too. He was out to get me because of MacAullif, so it was only fair MacAullif get him.
I asked MacAullif, by the way, before it went down, whether he would mind. Nailing Belcher on TV, giving him a reason to hate his guts. MacAullif couldn’t have cared less. His opinion was, Belcher already hated him and was out to get him for no good reason, what difference would it make if he actually had one?
I suppose that’s true. Still, I told MacAullif to watch his back. And he looked at me as if to say, “Gee, what a bright idea, I never would have thought of it,” which was about par for the course.
As for Amy Greenberg, it’s just like I said. I sympathized with her to a point. As a young woman, dismissed and abused by the men in the company, I could root for her to win. But the minute she starts killing people, I don’t care how politically correct her cause, she happens to have lost my support. If that sounds overly sarcastic, it’s only because there are people who wouldn’t agree, indeed, who would be angry at me for exposing the killer and damaging her cause. Just as I would have damaged someone’s cause had the killer been black or gay.
Sorry, gang. Call it as you see it, play it as it lays.
Anyway, that’s the wrap-up for Amy Greenberg. She was all, “I didn’t do it,” and MacAullif was all, “Oh, yes, you did.” And with what he has on tape, there’s no way she isn’t going down.
As for Sergeant Belcher, he’s already gone. In a manner of speaking. Last I heard, he’d been transferred off homicide, pending investigation by Internal Affairs.
And his buddy, Martinez, has been transferred out of the evidence room. There’s something for you. I more or less made that happen, and the fact is, I never met the man. Don’t even know what he looks like. I could bump into him on the street tomorrow and I wouldn’t have a clue. A somewhat unsettling thought, considering how he must feel about me. Unless I want to spend the rest of my life flinching every time I see a Hispanic man with a limp, perhaps I’d better ask MacAullif if he has a photo on file.
Aside from that, I’m feeling fine. And getting off the hook for murder is just part of it. I also might get paid. Richard Rosenberg says I do indeed have a claim against the widow Pritchert for the money her husband owed me, and has offered to facilitate my collecting it, just for the fun of bopping her attorneys around.
As for Miriam Pritchert, last I heard she and Marty Rothstein had become an item. So maybe it always was more than just stock.
Speaking of stock, there’s another stockholders meeting coming up. I know because I got a proxy in the mail. I can’t decide if I should send it in, or show up in person to vote my one share. Hell, maybe I could swing the meeting, wind up chairman of the board.
Yeah, I’m in a pretty good mood.
But the main thing I’m happy about is Sergeant Belcher. TV star extraordinaire. Ask any asshole, indeed. Boy, how he fell for the bait. All it took was one phone call from Chris Harris from Channel 2 News. And what yeoman work Chris did. Aside from the phone call, he was responsible for all the TV crews being there. Which was pretty damn nice of him, giving up the exclusive in order to give us bigger play. Anyway, he was the one who made the anonymous phone call, tipping the cops off that I was bribing and intimidating witnesses and was out at Amy Greenberg’s house.
And Belcher did the rest. Nice bit of irony there. Because that’s why Cranston Pritchert came to me in the first place. He thought he was the victim of a scam. Only he wasn’t. As it turned out, no one pulled
a scam on him at all. No, the only scam in the case was the one I pulled on Belcher.
And he never suspected. Never had a clue. Poor guy. Should have been a bit more like Cranston Pritchert. Just a little more suspicious.
But he never stopped to consider.
Never once did the thought occur to him.
I’m being set up.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18