by Parnell Hall
“So?”
“So, the guy had to be there. I’d just talked to my office. They said the guy had just called and was there now waiting for me. He had to be there.”
“But he wasn’t.”
“No.”
“So you tried to get into the apartment.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“I thought you said you did.”
“No. I said I opened the door.”
“Right. And would you please answer the question we keep coming back to: why did you open the door? Particularly as you now claim you weren’t trying to get into the apartment?”
“The guy had a bad leg. At least, that’s what they told me. For all I knew he was laid up in bed and couldn’t get to the door. And that’s why he couldn’t hear me. Or why I couldn’t hear him. That’s why I wanted to open the door. Not to get into the apartment. To call out and see if anybody was there.”
He was looking at me very skeptically now. “You say you had no intention of entering the apartment?”
“That’s right.”
“Then why did you?”
“I opened the door and looked in. The apartment was a wreck. Obviously something had happened.”
“And what did you think had happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you went in?”
“Yes. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes. But I’m a cop. That’s my job. Why did you go in?”
“To see if the guy was all right.”
“What made you think he might not be all right?”
“Apartments don’t wreck themselves.”
“They certainly don’t.”
“And the guy wasn’t answering the door.”
“So you suspected foul play?”
Despite myself, I smiled.
He frowned. “What’s so funny?”
“I’m sorry. I just can’t believe you really use those words.”
“What?”
“Next you’re going to ask me if I thought there was a perpetrator.”
His face flushed. “Now look here—” he began. He caught himself up short, probably remembering the presence of the stenographer. “All right. Could you please answer the question?”
“Did I suspect foul play? Yes, I did. I figured someone had been there and wrecked the apartment, and might have done harm to Mr. Jackson. That’s why I went in.”
“So you thought someone had been in the apartment?”
“That’s right.”
“I mean an intruder?”
“Yes.”
“And it would have had to have been very recent, right? I mean, you knew that, because Darryl Jackson had just called your office.”
“That’s right.”
“So the intruder might have still been there.”
“Maybe, but I didn’t think so. I’d been banging on the door for some time. And, of course, I’d been listening for any sounds from the apartment. And I hadn’t heard anything. So I figured he’d gone.”
“But you didn’t know that?”
“I couldn’t be sure.”
“The guy might have still been there?”
“It’s possible.”
“But you went in?”
“Yes.”
“Do you carry a gun?”
“You know I don’t. You frisked me, didn’t you?”
“This is for the record. Do you carry a gun?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Didn’t that make you a little nervous, going into that apartment without a gun?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Why did you do it?”
“I told you. To see if the guy was all right.”
“Weren’t you scared?”
“Sure I was scared.” I shook my head, held up my hand. “Look. Let me tell you something. About this job of mine. The clients I go see, for the most part, are not particularly wealthy. I have to go into some pretty undesirable neighborhoods. The truth is, I’m scared most of the time. But I have to do it. It’s my job. Now I’ll tell you. When I got that door open and saw what had happened, I was scared to death. I didn’t want to go in there. But I felt I had to do it. So I did it. And that’s all there is to it.”
He sat there looking at me for a few moments. “All right. Let me see if I understand this correctly. You work for this law firm, this Rosen-something—”
“That’s right. Rosenberg and Stone.”
“They advertise on TV. People call in and ask to see an investigator. The office beeps you and sends you out. Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“In this case, you were told to go to this address, the guy was there waiting for you. You went up, knocked on the door and got no answer.”
“That’s right.”
“So you did everything you could to get into the apartment.”
“I wouldn’t say I did everything I could. I knocked on the door. I tried the knob.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why? We’ve been all over this.”
“Yes, we’ve been all over this, but we haven’t gotten an answer. Not one that makes sense. I mean, you seem to be an incredibly dedicated employee. I mean, if the guy wasn’t home, big deal. No skin off your nose. It’s not your fault. You just report to the office the guy wasn’t there, and you come back some time when he is there.”
I shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Well, isn’t that right?”
“I suppose so.”
“Well, why not?”
I looked down at the table. Sighed. Then, very reluctantly, said, “All right. Look. You gotta understand the way I work.” I looked up at him. “I don’t get paid for an eight-hour day.”
He looked at me. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“I only get paid when I’m on a case.”
“So what?”
“When I turn in my paysheets, I can’t just say I was working. Every hour I charge for has to be attributed to a particular case.”
“So?”
“Well, my boss is cheap. He won’t pay me for work in progress. He only pays me when a case is done.”
He looked at me ironically. “Gee, that’s tough. What’s the point?”
“Well, this guy, Darryl Jackson. If he’s home, I talk to him, I sign him up, I put in two hours on my paysheet, and I get paid. If he’s not home, I don’t get two hours, I get one hour, the hour I spent getting there. And I don’t put it on my paysheet. I put it on a separate paysheet marked “pend,” and it sits in my briefcase until I finally get to see the guy. Since I get paid bi-weekly, if I miss this week’s paysheet, it’ll be close to three weeks before I can turn it in. One way it’s two hours on my paysheet, and the other it’s one hour in my briefcase, and I need all the hours I can get.”
He looked at me contemptuously. “So that’s what the guy meant to you? Two hours on your paysheet?”
I shrugged. “Aw hey, come on.”
I looked down at the table and tried to look a bit sheepish, but inside I was jumping up and down. Holy shit. I did it. Home free. I was sure of it. Daniels had been skeptical at first, but now he was sold. Self-interest is always an acceptable motivation. It’s universal. Show a little greed, and anyone will buy it.
And I’d played it right, too. If I’d sprung it on him at the start, he’d have been skeptical. But by making him drag it out of me, I’d sold him on it. Hell, he’d sold himself. The way I figured it, it was over.
It was too. Daniels turned to the stenographer. “O.K. Type it up and have him sign it.”
“Then I’m free to go?”
“I’m afraid not. We’ll have to check this out, of course. And the Sergeant wants to see you. In the meantime, we’d like to take your fingerprints.”
Jesus Christ. Just when I thought I’d got away with it. “My fingerprints? What, are you booking me?”
“Certainly not,” he said, I thought, somewhat
suavely. “But you touched things in that apartment. We’re taking fingerprints up there, of course, and we’re gonna need to know which ones are yours.”
I couldn’t argue with that. It was also quite a relief. I told him I’d be happy to cooperate.
He muttered something that sounded like thanks, and left.
A few minutes later a uniform cop came in and took me off to be fingerprinted. He took me down to a large room on the main floor that was filled with cops and various other people, whom I assumed were suspects, seeing as how a number of them were being fingerprinted and booked. I waited my turn and was fingerprinted too. Of course, I wasn’t being booked, and any resemblance between me and a common criminal was entirely coincidental and not to be inferred. Still, I was glad I didn’t see anyone there I knew, as I doubt if they’d have been able to tell the difference.
There was a difference, however, and the difference was, while they took my fingerprints, they didn’t take my picture, as they did with everybody else I saw being fingerprinted. So, officially, I was not being booked. I was glad. Being booked for murder would have kind of put a damper on my day.
When I was finished, the cop took me back upstairs to the interrogation room and left me to my own devices. My first device was to look out the door after him. I discovered that he had stationed himself right outside in the hall, just in case there was any misunderstanding on my part about their desire to have me stick around.
I went back, sat down, and took stock of the situation. All in all, things didn’t look that bad. I’d gotten through the interrogation with flying colors. I’d sold Daniels on my story. Hell, I’d even gotten in that zinger about the perpetrator. That may not seem like much to you, but for me that was cocky as hell. At any rate, things were working out. So far, so good. I was over the first hurdle.
The second would be the Sergeant, and I wasn’t really looking forward to that. He had recognized me—I was sure of it—and that was bound to make him suspicious as hell. But when I thought about it, I realized there wasn’t much he could do about it. O.K., so I’d brought in a bullet once, which made me involved in two murder cases, which, of course, was suspicious. But that was it. In this case, I’d covered myself so well, there was really nothing he could do. He’d check with Rosenberg and Stone, and my story would check out. Of course, if I’d just called Wendy/Cheryl and told her to cover for me, I’d have been in trouble—they’d have broken her in thirty seconds. But I hadn’t done that. Thanks to Leroy, I was totally safe. The Sergeant could question Wendy/Cheryl till he was blue in the face, and she couldn’t blow it for me, because there was nothing to blow. As far as she knew it was all true.
I was feeling cocky enough by the time Daniels got back with my statement to give him a little grief.
“Hey,” I said. “How long do I have to stick around?”
“I told you. The Sergeant wants to see you. And we have to check your statement.”
“Yeah, well you should have checked it out by now. I wanna go home.”
He shrugged. “Sorry.”
“Look, if you’re not charging me, you got no right to hold me.”
“This is true.”
“Well, are you charging me?”
He shrugged. “Not at the present time.”
I didn’t like that, and he knew I didn’t like that, and he knew I knew that was why he said it, and I liked that even less. “You’re telling me you’re not charging me, but you’re not going to let me leave?”
He shrugged again, which I was beginning to find an annoying habit. “I’m just telling you to stick around, that’s all. I’m sure you don’t want to force the issue.”
That sounded like a threat. It was also true. I’m a big coward, and forcing issues is not one of my strong suits. Still, I didn’t like being pushed around. “All right,” I said. “But whether you’re charging me or not, I’d like to call my lawyer.”
He thought that over. “I would certainly never stand in the way of a person trying to contact his attorney,” he said.
“God bless Miranda,” I said.
He led me down the hall to a pay phone, and withdrew to a discreet distance. I dropped in a quarter and called Rosenberg and Stone.
Wendy/Cheryl seemed more flustered that usual when she answered the phone. She also seemed surprised to hear from me. She put me on hold, however, and seconds later Richard’s high-pitched nasal twang filtered through the wire.
“Hello?”
“Richard, Stanley. Look, I’m—”
“You’re at the police station?”
“Yes. They’re holding me without a charge, and—”
“I know all about it. The police are here now. You say they haven’t charged you?”
“No, but—”
“Fine. Just sit tight. I’m sure everything will be all right.”
The phone clicked dead.
I hung up. As I did so, Daniels was right at my elbow, guiding me back into the room. I needed guidance. My head was spinning. This wasn’t like Richard. Richard thrived on confrontations and loved bopping cops around. By rights he should have been ranting and raving and storming the police station demanding my release and raising merry hell.
Before I had any time to think about it the door opened and the Sergeant himself came in, accompanied by the stenographer, who went and took up his position at the end of the table. The Sergeant was holding some papers which I assumed was my signed statement. He turned to me.
“Mr. Hastings?” he said.
“Yes.”
“I’m Sergeant MacAullif, homicide. I’m in charge of this investigation. I’ve been going over your signed statement, and I’d just like to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course,” I said.
Something was wrong. I mean aside from the obvious fact that I’d found a dead body and was mixed up in a murder investigation, something was very wrong. Because the Sergeant knew me, I was sure of it, and yet he wasn’t letting on. He wasn’t jumping down my throat, saying, “You again!” He was being polite and crisp and efficient, and treating the whole thing as just routine. And that just wasn’t right.
I had no time to think about it before the questions started coming, and then, of course, I had to concentrate on them.
And I knew the first question he was going to ask me. He was going to ask me about the door.
He didn’t.
“Now, then, Mr. Hastings. I just want to get this straight. You work for the law firm of Rosenberg and Stone. They beeped you, you called in, and they told you you had an appointment to go see a client. They gave you Darryl Jackson’s name and address and you copied it into your notebook, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Could I see your notebook, please?”
I took it out and handed it to him. He opened it and turned to the page.
“Ah, yes. Here it is. Darryl Jackson, 307 West 127th Street, Apartment 4R. And the phone number. I see this is the last entry in your notebook.”
“Of course. It’s my last assignment. I just got it.”
“Now, the entry just above it: Sherry Webber, 150 West 141st Street. What is that?”
“That’s the client I called on before I called on Darryl Jackson. I’d just finished that assignment when they beeped me. That’s why I got the Darryl Jackson case. I was in Harlem already.”
He nodded. “That makes sense. Now, I notice you first wrote 105 West 141st Street, then crossed it off and changed it to 150.”
“That’s right.”
“Why.”
“I had the address wrong. So I checked the address and changed it.”
“How’d you check it?”
“I called Sherry Webber.”
“And then you went there?”
“Absolutely. You can check the signed retainers in my briefcase. Or call Sherry Webber. She won’t remember my name, but she’ll verify I was there.”
“And the time you left?”
Ah, so that was it. I’d been trying
to figure out what the hell he was getting at, and it had been making me a little nervous that I couldn’t. But this was it. The time element.
“I’m not sure she’ll know the exact time I left. But my appointment was originally for between 11:00 and 12:00, and I had to drop off some pictures, so when I called her I pushed it back to between 12:00 and 1:00. I’m sure she’ll remember that.”
“What time did you actually get to her apartment?”
“About 12:30.”
“And when did you leave?”
“I’m not sure. A little after 1:00.”
“And when were you beeped? While you were still at Sherry Webber’s?”
“No. I’d left. I was driving home and my beeper went off.”
“So you stopped the car and called in?”
“Yes.”
He pulled a notebook out of his jacket pocket and referred to it. “And you talked to a Miss Wendy Millington?”
“I talked to one of the secretaries at Rosenberg and Stone. Frankly, I can’t tell ’em apart on the phone.”
“And Miss Millington gave you Darryl Jackson’s name and address. You copied it into your notebook, went to that address, banged on the door, got no answer, found the door unlocked, walked in, and found the body?”
“That’s right.”
The Sergeant sighed and shook his head. “That’s the problem.”
I automatically tensed. “What is?”
“We checked with Wendy Millington, of course. And she confirms your story. A Darryl Jackson called in, asked for an appointment, she beeped you, gave you the name and address, and sent you right over. We checked the assignment log, and sure enough, she wrote down that Agent 005, which we have confirmed is you, was assigned to be at Darryl Jackson’s apartment between the hours of 1:00 and 2:00.”
“So?”
The Sergeant shrugged, and I realized where Daniels had got it from. “The only thing is, Wendy Millington had Darryl Jackson’s address listed as 309 West 127th Street.” He smiled, but his eyes bored into mine. “Now, would you mind telling me how it happens that you had Darryl Jackson’s address right, when Wendy Millington gave it to you, and she had it wrong?
10.
IN THE COURSE of my less than illustrious career as an actor/writer, I have been many things and held many jobs. And in all the positions in which I have found myself, one thing has proved to be universally true: no matter how promising any job, or situation, or opportunity might seem to be, eventually it would come to naught. The school I was teaching at would fold, the company I was working for would go union and I would not be allowed to join, the magazine editor who had seemed so happy with my article would publish someone else’s instead. And I would be fucked.
