07-Shot

by Parnell Hall

  “No.”

  “Then we won’t. You take your business elsewhere.”

  “Like where?”

  He grimaced. “I gotta do all your thinking for you? The broad hired a lawyer, didn’t she?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So talk to him.”

  13.

  MELVIN C. POINDEXTER LOOKED LIKE a lawyer. At least my idea of a lawyer. He was middle-age, balding and wore a three-piece suit. The perfect picture of conservative respectability.

  But the image wasn’t quite right. Something about it bothered me. After a moment, I knew what it was. Poindexter looked like a corporation lawyer. The type of lawyer who would summon the relatives together for the reading of the will. But I couldn’t quite see him defending a murder case. Somehow, he did not exactly inspire me with confidence.

  I didn’t impress him much either. He looked me up and down and said, “Well?”

  “I’m Stanley Hastings. I’m here to talk about your client.”

  “As I understand it, you’re a witness for the prosecution.”

  “They intend to subpoena me.”

  “I’m sure they do. So you’re here to tell me how much harm I can expect you to do?”

  “Not at all. I’m here to help.”

  “You can help by getting hit by a truck. Then you won’t have to testify. The way things stand, you’ll do a fine job furnishing motivation.”

  “That’s hardly my fault. They only want me to corroborate what your client already told the police.”

  “Well, don’t blame me for that. She made the statement before she called me. Nothing I can do about it now.”

  “Well, whoever’s fault it is, the fact is she made it. So the fact I back it up doesn’t mean much.”

  “Don’t be silly. Clients confess all the time. That doesn’t make them guilty. And there’s ways of getting around it. Maybe I can find a way to suppress her statement. It isn’t that hard to do—maybe she wasn’t advised of her rights. Well, that’s fine, but the prosecution’s still got you.”

  “I see your problem.”

  “Do you? Good. Then you understand why I’m not jumping up and down at your offer of help.”

  “Fine. I understand it. Now can we get beyond it and discuss the case?”

  “Why? So you have some more information to spill to the cops?”

  “Give me a break. In the first place, I haven’t told the cops a thing. Now, they can subpoena me and make me talk about the work I did for your client, there’s not much I can do about that. But that’s another matter. That’s something I did. What you tell me is hearsay. I can’t testify to that.”

  “I’m not telling you anything.”

  “I know that. I’m here to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “I have information that may help your client. I may be able to get more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The surveillance I conducted. Aside from turning up the unfortunate relationship with Melony Tune, I found out enough things about David Melrose to feel he’s not entirely kosher and warrants further investigation.”

  He frowned. “What sort of things?”

  Damn. I knew he was gonna say that. The thing was, I had nothing specific. “Well,” I said. “There’s every indication the man was leading a double life and living above his means. How much could he make in the mail room, for Christ’s sake? And he’s dressing like a king and entertaining an attractive blonde on the side. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he was involved in drugs, gambling, what have you.”

  “You have no evidence of this?”

  “Not at the present time. Your client fired me before I could turn up anything.”

  “So that’s your tack. I must say, your argument is somewhat less than convincing.”

  “I don’t understand your attitude. If your client didn’t kill him, someone else did. It behooves you to look for the reason.”

  He nodded. “Of course. Raise an inference. Create reasonable doubt. I assure you I will do that.”

  “I’m not talking reasonable doubt. If we can find out who really killed him, the case would be dropped.”

  He looked at me for a moment, then smiled at me in a rather patronizing way. “Yes, yes, of course.”

  I studied his face. My eyes widened. “Son of a bitch.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You think she did it, don’t you? You’re going through the motions, but as far as you’re concerned, she did it. You don’t believe her story at all.”

  “I resent that.”

  “Did she tell you she did it?”

  “What I discuss with my client is none of your business.”

  “If she says she did it, I’ll walk out that door and never bother you again.”

  “That would be a blessing.”

  “Is that the case?”

  “No. Her story is exactly what she told the police.”

  “Fine. Well, what if it’s true?”

  “What if it is?”

  “I would think you would want to check it out.”

  He smiled. “I see. And you would like me to hire you to do that?”

  “Well, you should hire someone. I happen to have the inside track.”

  “My client fired you.”

  “She was upset. And that was before this all happened. I would imagine she feels differently now.”

  “I’ll ask her.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll ask her. Look, I don’t mean to be unreasonable. I’ve got my own problems. Right now I’m concerned with the matter of bail. If I can get a judge to grant it, she can afford to raise it. That’s my main concern at the moment. As for you, my client’s a grown woman, and she can think for herself. If she wants to hire you, that’s her business. I’ll tell her what you told me and she can decide. But I’m not hiring you. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a prosecution witness.”

  “When will you ask her?”

  “I’m seeing her this afternoon.”

  I took out one of Richard Rosenberg’s business cards and passed it over. “When you do, call this number. They can beep me and I’ll get back to you.”

  I can’t say he seemed thrilled by the prospect, but he took the card.

  I got out of there and went back to work. Which wasn’t as easy as it sounds, seeing as how the cops had picked me up and left my car in Brooklyn. By the time I took the Eighth Avenue IND out to the Pitkin Street stop, it was getting on towards three o’clock, rather late in the day to be starting a new assignment. Not that I had one to start. Wendy/Janet hadn’t assigned me anything, seeing as how the cops wanted me and all. And even my solemn assurances that the police were finished with me and I was free to work cut no ice with her. When I called in before hopping on the subway, Wendy/Janet told me she’d have to check with Richard and beep me back.

  So when my beeper went off as I walked up the street toward my car, I assumed she’d gotten his O.K. and was giving me a case.

  Not so. The message was to call Mr. Poindexter.

  Well. That was something. I’d hardly expected him to call me at all, and certainly not this fast. Something must be up.

  It was. Poindexter had had me beeped to report that he had conferred with his client and she had asked him to tell me in no uncertain terms that I was fired, that I could stay fired and that she would be perfectly happy if she never saw my face again.

  It was not exactly what I needed to hear at the end of a long, depressing day on a bleak, deserted street corner in Brooklyn, standing under a street sign that said Euclid Avenue.

  14.

  IT WAS INFURIATING. MELISSA FORD wouldn’t have anything to do with me. Me. The one person who might have helped her. The one person who was on her side. The one person who thought she was innocent.

  Everyone else in the world thought she was guilty. Sergeant Thurman. Sergeant MacAullif. Even her own lawyer.

  Even Alice.

  “Don’t be a damn fool,” A
lice said. “Of course she did it.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t want to think so. Because then you think it’s your fault. That’s stupid, but that’s the way you are.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “It’s not your fault. You were just doing your job.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “I know, but it’s the truth. The way you have to look at it is, even if you hadn’t, if she’s this type of woman, eventually she would have found out and she’d have killed him anyway.”

  “I don’t think she killed him.”

  “Right. Then what you did doesn’t matter, and you don’t have to feel guilty at all. Of course you want to think that. That’s understandable. But it’s not logical. You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment.

  “Maybe I am, but the fact remains, at this point I’m the only one who can help her.”

  “She doesn’t want your help.”

  “I know, but people don’t always know what’s best for them.”

  “Funny you should say that.”

  I took a breath. “Alice, I have to live with myself. The way I see it, no one believes this woman, and no one is going to help her. If I do nothing and she goes to jail for murder, how do you think I’m gonna feel?”

  “You’re telling me you’re going to work on this for no money?”

  “What else can I do?”

  “I don’t know.” She thought a moment. “I assume you mean work on this in your spare time for no money. I mean, you’re not going to call Rosenberg and Stone and ask for time off, are you?”

  The thought had crossed my mind. I hadn’t decided to do it, but I hadn’t decided not to do it either.

  I decided now. “No, I know we need the money. I’ll do it in my spare time.”

  Alice looked at me in weary resignation. “But you are going to do it?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  15.

  ONE OF MY FAILINGS AS A private detective is to be a little too credulous, to believe what people tell me. I’ve tried to break myself of the habit, to be a little more skeptical and not to take things at face value. I have to keep telling myself that when someone tells me something, whether it’s a witness or a suspect or a friend or even my own client, it doesn’t necessarily have to be true.

  Melissa Ford had told me David Melrose sometimes made late night pickups for the art department.

  Winston Peel, the art director for the Breelstein Agency, was a middle-aged man with curly white hair, chubby cheeks and steel-rimmed glasses with such thick lenses one wondered if the man could see any art at all. He was an amiable sort, however, and was perfectly agreeable and cooperative when I showed up at his office the next morning. He just wasn’t quite sure why I was there.

  “What’s this all about, officer?” he asked.

  I was in fact impersonating a police officer, though in a strictly legal way, or at least one no one could nail me for. The method consisted of flashing my I.D. and using the pronoun “we.” The only nonkosher thing I was doing was not correcting his use of the word officer, but, hell, nobody’s perfect.

  “It’s about David Melrose,” I said.

  He frowned. “Yes, I assumed it was.” He shook his head. “Terrible thing. But what has this to do with me?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” I assured him. “We’re just checking into the background. I understand David Melrose worked for you.”

  “Well, not for me directly. For the company. He worked in the mail room.”

  “Yes, but I understand he made pickups for you. Sometimes after work.”

  He frowned. “You’d have to check with the mail room on that. I certainly never asked him to.”

  “No, I’m not saying you did. But isn’t it true he sometimes showed up first thing in the morning and put copy on your desk? Work you’d asked for the previous afternoon?”

  Peel nodded. “That’s true. Sometimes he did.”

  “And you thanked him for the extra effort?”

  He frowned. “Yes, I can recall that happening once or twice. Why?”

  I ignored the question. “Now, yesterday, in the morning, naturally that didn’t happen because David Melrose was dead. But I’m wondering if you were expecting anything from him?”

  “No, I wasn’t. Why?”

  “We’re trying to trace his movements the night he died. We know he left here at five o’clock. I was wondering if there was any art or copy that was due to be turned in that he might have gone to pick up?”

  “I see. Well, no. Not that I know of.”

  “And as art director, if there had been you’d have known it?”

  “Yes, I suppose I would.”

  “And there was nothing that you know of. But you do know that David Melrose was in the habit of picking up art copy from time to time.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “Who would he pick it up from?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Who were the artists? Where would he go?”

  He frowned. “I really fail to see what this has to do with anything.”

  “You say as far as you know, David wasn’t picking anything up that night. Well, that’s fine as far as you know. But we have to check from the other end.”

  He nodded his head. “Well, I guess you know your business. We get art from a Donald Phelps, a Julius Blackburn and a Charles Olsen.”

  “But you say David hadn’t made an early morning delivery in some time?”

  He shook his head. “Not that I can recall.”

  “Now, the day before. Monday. His last day of work. Did he deliver any art copy to you that morning?”

  “As I said, no.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. I told you. He hadn’t done anything like that in some time.”

  “There was no art work that you were expecting that morning? No rush job, something you needed to see?”

  “No, there wasn’t. And what difference could it possibly make?”

  “We’re trying to establish a pattern of movement. So, as far as you know, David Melrose would have had no reason to make a pickup from any of these names you’ve given me over the weekend? Nothing to be picked up Friday night and turned in Monday, for instance?”

  He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “Not as far as I know. You can check with the mail room if you like.”

  I did check with the mail room and verified the fact that David Melrose had been assigned no after hours pickups in the last few weeks.

  Then I got the hell out of there and beat it down to MacAullif’s.

  He looked about as thrilled to see me as you would expect. He told me I was a schmuck and a fool and a moron and a pain in the ass and other things too numerous to mention. I stood it all patiently and, when he was finished, told him what it was I wanted, at which point he proceeded to run down the whole list of my attributes again, even finding new ones. What saved the day was my firm resolve not to leave coupled with the fact that my request was actually a very simple one. MacAullif hated to give in, but he wanted me out of his office. Only he did not give in gracefully, and you would not believe the sarcasm with which he finally made the call.

  The call back five minutes later changed his tune. Donald Phelps and Julius Blackburn had no record at all, but according to his rap sheet, Charles Olsen had a number of priors, including the possession and sale of narcotics.

  16.

  SERGEANT THURMAN SCRUNCHED UP his face. “Drug paraphernalia?”

  “Yeah. Was there any drug paraphernalia in the apartment? Gram scale. Straws. Any drugs, for that matter.”

  Sergeant Thurman squinted at me. “You workin’ for the woman’s lawyer?”

  “No.”

  “You workin’ for her?”

  “No.”

  “Then what the hell you doin’?”

  “A man is dead. I don’t like thinkin’ it was because of me.”

  “That’s dumb. A broad plugs her b
oyfriend, it’s not your fault.”

  “Maybe not. What about the drugs?”

  “You sure you’re not workin’ for her lawyer?”

  “No. Why?”

  “It’s just the sort of stuff he’d use. Paint the guy as a dope fiend. Make the jury think it was a public service to kill him.”

  “That’s not the idea at all.”

  “The hell it isn’t. Well, it’s no go. No drugs. No equipment. Nothin’. The guy was clean. The only mistake the guy made was havin’ a little blonde number on the side. Big deal. You think a jury’s gonna feel that gives a mousy little twerp like her the right to shoot the guy for puttin’ the pork to something better?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Me neither. They take one look at her and, bye, bye, baby. Well, anyway, there you are. No drugs. Nice idea, hotshot, but it’s no go. Guess that shoots that theory of yours right out of the water, huh?”

  “Not at all.”

  17.

  I STAKED OUT CHARLES OLSEN’S apartment at five that evening. I’d have done it earlier, but I got beeped and sent to Harlem and beeped again and sent to Queens. I have to tell you, it sure was a pain in the ass having to work for a living and do the Melissa Ford investigation on the side. Particularly for a stupid bitch who’d fired me. Still, my guilt was great and my resolve was firm.

  And, I had a genuine bona fide lead. In spite of what Melissa Ford had said, David Melrose had not picked up anything for the art department from Charles Olsen Friday night. And Charles Olsen had a history of drugs. Now, I could have written that off, said big deal, so David Melrose picked up a gram of coke to party with his girlfriend, the Melony-tits broad. But David Melrose had no drugs or drug paraphernalia in his apartment. And you would think a guy who was into recreational drugs would. The way I saw it, David Melrose was a sharpy and a hustler, probably working a lot of different scams. So what if the packet Charles Olsen slipped David Melrose that night wasn’t dope? What if it was money to buy dope? What if David Melrose wasn’t making pickups from Charles Olsen, he was making deliveries to him?