by Parnell Hall
Jesus. If this was a prank, it was too good not to bite.
“Miss Benton, I’d better see you right away. Where are you now?”
“In my apartment. Do you want me to come to your office?”
Steve instinctively glanced at the cluttered room. He smiled slightly. “No. Don’t come to my office. I want to see the scene of the crime anyway. I’ll come there.”
“All right It’s 193 West 89th Street, 2B.”
He almost said, “Or not to be,” but controlled himself. Instead he said, “Be right there.”
He hung up the phone and shook his head. Holy shit. Was it possible? A client.
He stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the light and splashed water on his face. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror.
Though he was thirty-five, he looked younger. Part of the reason was his shoulder-length dark hair, which made him look like a hippie from the sixties. The hair framed a lean, expressive, sensitive face. Damn. An artist’s face, not a lawyer’s.
Steve pulled off the t-shirt and undershorts he had been sleeping in, and jumped into the shower. He washed quickly, got out and toweled himself dry.
Now what to do? His hair. Jesus, his hair. He had kept it long since his acting days out of force of habit—you could always cut it for a part, but you couldn’t grow it overnight. Well, no time for a haircut now. He left it wet, combed it back, plastered it to the back of his neck. There. He could tuck it into his shirt collar.
If he had a clean shirt. Shit. He groped through the closet. Yes. A white shirt. Could use an ironing, but not bad. He grabbed it off the hanger, put it on, tucking the hair under the collar. He buttoned it to the neck, to hold the hair in place.
He went and looked in the mirror. Not bad.
Of course, pants would help.
He went back, jerked open a drawer of the bureau, found a pair of jockey shorts, pulled them on.
Great. Now the suit.
Steve rummaged through the whole closet before he remembered. Shit. He’d lent the suit to Arthur for that wedding last year, and he’d never gotten it back. And Arthur’d moved to California.
Jesus, what to do? Improvise. Pants, jacket, tie—throw it together, get it done. If you’re going to do it at all. If not, call her back and tell her to forget it. What are you, nuts? The first client in a year. Come on Winslow, you big schmuck, this can’t be that hard.
He continued to rummage through the closet and dresser drawers.
10.
SHEILA BENTON OPENED THE FRONT door and stared.
Standing in the doorway was a young man with his hair slicked back from his head, wearing blue jeans, a tan corduroy jacket and a green tie.
Sheila blinked. “Yes?”
“Sheila Benton?”
“Yes.”
“Steve Winslow.”
Sheila blinked again.
Steve wasn’t going to take the chance of having the door slammed in his face, not by a potential client, and not in a murder case. He pushed right by her and into the apartment.
Sheila, as if in a daze, closed the door and locked it. She turned to find the young man standing looking down at the chalk outline on the floor.
“This is where you found him, eh?” Steve said.
“Yes.”
“How was he killed?”
“With a knife.”
“In the front or the back?”
“The back.”
He frowned. “Hmm. That probably rules out self-defense. So he was lying on his stomach?”
“Yes.”
“Where’d the knife come from?”
“It was mine. From that set on the wall.”
Sheila pointed to the kitchen alcove.
“Uh huh.” He crossed to the alcove. He pantomimed taking a knife out of the rack, turning and stabbing the man. He followed the man’s fall down to the chalk line.
As he bent down, some of the hair tucked under his collar came loose and swung down.
Steve stood up. The hair hung down the left side of his face, giving him a lopsided look.
“Well, that’s a break,” he said.
“What?” Sheila said. She had only half heard him. She was staring, hypnotized, at the dangling hair.
“The position of the knife rack to the body,” he said. “The circumstantial evidence would indicate that the murderer grabbed the knife from the rack, turned and stabbed the victim.”
“So?”
“If worse comes to worst, that would probably rule out premeditation.” He glanced around the room, then back at her. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s get the facts. Tell me exactly what happened.”
Sheila blinked again, seemed unable to speak. “Well,” he said. “What’s the matter?”
Sheila shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s just that ... I don’t know. You’re just not my idea of a lawyer.”
He looked at her, smiled. “Well,” he said. “You’re not my idea of a murder suspect, either.”
It was a weak comeback, and it wasn’t working. The girl just kept staring at him.
He noticed the dangling hair. He pushed it back. He gave up, sighed. All right, so much for bluffing it through.
“All right, look,” he said. “I’m not what you expected. You think of a lawyer as someone in a three-piece suit with a haircut and a manicure and probably about sixty years old. Well, I’m not. But I didn’t call you, you called me. That doesn’t mean you have to hire me, and if you want to tell me to get lost, you certainly have that right. But the thing is, you can tell me to get lost at any time. So since you got me over here, why don’t you tell me what this is all about, and we’ll see if there is anything we can do about it. And then you can tell me to get lost, and you can go out and find some guy who dresses right and looks constipated, which I’m sure is your idea of what a lawyer ought to be.”
She smiled, and he knew the battle was half over.
11.
DISTRICT ATTORNEY HARRY DIRKSON WAS worried. He was worried because of what had happened and because of what hadn’t happened. What had happened was Sheila Benton, niece of Maxwell Baxter, had gotten involved in a murder. What hadn’t happened was Maxwell Baxter’s attorneys hadn’t called him and/or the commissioner, raising merry hell and demanding that the situation be cleared up as quickly and quietly as possible, keeping Sheila Benton’s name out of it.
If that happened—and Dirkson was sure that it would—then he would be in a no-win situation. If he kept Sheila Benton out of it, which would be a pretty impossible job, and it got out, as it surely would, the press would crucify him. By the time the media got finished with him, his chances for re-election would be virtually nil.
On the other hand, if, god forbid, he should end up having to prosecute the girl, it was even worse. He would have Maxwell Baxter, the commissioner, and maybe even the mayor on his back. No one would condone his actions. He would be the fall guy, pushed out front with no room to maneuver, and no expectations except to take grief from all sides until his head was finally, mercifully, chopped off.
Dirkson sat and stewed.
There were only two ways out, he figured. The first was the best. Clean it up. Exonerate the girl. Find conclusive proof that she wasn’t involved. In short, find the murderer.
The second was terrible. Nail the girl. Prove she did it. Prosecute her and prove her guilty in a court of law.
It was a frightening proposition, but, Dirkson realized, it was something he just might have to do. It would be messy. He would take a lot of grief over it from all sides. But if she were guilty, really guilty, and he proved it, he just might survive. More than just surviving, he might emerge a hero, a fearless, crusading DA, who forged ahead regardless of political pressure and personal interest, believing in equal justice for all.
Dirkson thought of that image a while, and he liked it. It scared the hell out of him, but he liked it. Prove the girl guilty. Done right, it could be quite a coup.
But too risky. Dirkson came back to reality.
Jesus. Too damn risky. A last resort, and nothing more. You don’t proceed against the girl unless it’s an ironclad case. A sure thing.
You don’t proceed against the girl unless you have no choice.
Having made that decision, Dirkson immediately felt better. Yeah, that was the ticket. The burden of proof was on the police department. They had to come up with it all. And it had to be airtight. Motive, means, opportunity. It all had to be there.
Well, the means was already there. The knife. It was presumably from the rack on the wall, which made it the girl’s knife. Not good, but not bad. The knife was there at hand. Anyone could have used it.
Opportunity? That would depend on the autopsy report and the testimony of that damn cab driver, if the cops ever found him.
Shit, why the hell hadn’t they found him yet? How the hell long could it take the damn cops to run a simple procedure like that? Dirkson realized it probably didn’t matter. The preliminary report indicated that the victim had been killed not long before the police arrived on the scene. So, unless something spectacular and unforeseen showed up in the autopsy report, there was no reason why she couldn’t have come home, stabbed him and run out and called the cops.
Dirkson was starting to feel slightly queasy. Shit. Means and opportunity were falling into place just fine.
Which left motive.
There, on his desk, sat the blackmail note. That’s what it was, Dirkson conceded. Despite what some clever defense attorney might argue, despite its vagueness, despite the lack of any hint of violence or any demand for money, this was a blackmail note.
If it should tie up to the dead man.
The dead man. Another sore point. Who the hell was he? Why hadn’t he been carrying any identification? Why hadn’t the police been able to track him down yet?
If there should be anything to tie him to the girl ...
Dirkson chuckled, in spite of himself. That was kind of funny. Tie him to the girl, indeed. He was found in her living room with the key to her apartment in his pocket, but, if there was anything else to tie him to the girl.
To Sheila Benton.
Maxwell Baxter’s niece.
Shit.
Dirkson grabbed up the phone, pushed the intercom button and buzzed his law clerk
“Sir?”
“Reese, who are Maxwell Baxter’s attorneys?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Find out.”
“Yes sir.”
Dirkson hung up the phone, frowned, looked at the clock.
Damn. It was getting late. Something should have happened by now. Either the police or Baxter’s lawyers or—
Shit! Late. This was the afternoon he was scheduled to play golf. Two of the guys in the foursome were heavy campaign contributors. And the main reason they were was because they liked the prestige of being able to hobnob with the bigwigs, to be able to say in passing, “Oh, not tomorrow, I’m playing golf in D.A. Dirkson’s foursome.” Jesus Christ, he was due to tee off in fifteen minutes. And this was an election year.
Dirkson lunged for the phone.
“Reese.”
“Yes, sir, I’m working on it.”
“Never mind that. Get me Dunwoody Golf Course.”
“Sir?”
“Now.”
Dirkson slammed down the phone.
Hell. What should he do now? Wait for the phone call? Or hop in a cab and leave it to Reese to explain? How the hell long would it take to get up to Yonkers, anyway? A lot more than fifteen minutes. Can’t let Reese explain, he’s an idiot. Gotta wait for the call, explain the emergency, meet ’em for cocktails at the nineteenth hole and—
The phone rang.
Dirkson lunged for it “Reese. You got the golf course?”
“No, sir. The police lab. Kramer.”
“Shit.” Dirkson pushed the button. “Yeah, Kramer, what you got?”
“I’ve got good news and bad news.”
Dirkson sighed. Shit. Everyone was a fucking comedian. “Yeah. Let’s have it.”
“I classified the victim’s fingerprints and ran them through the computer. There’s no record on him.”
“Great What’s the good news?”
“The girl’s prints are on the knife.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Dirkson hung up. He put his elbows on the desk, put his head in his hands and rubbed his forehead. He seemed to be getting a terrible headache.
Yeah, sure, he told himself.
Good news.
12.
“IT STINKS.”
Sheila Benton frowned. “What?”
Steve Winslow shook his head. “Your story stinks.”
That bothered her. Sheila had spent the whole time she was waiting for him working on her story, and she thought she’d done a pretty good job. She’d told him everything. That is, she’d told him more than she’d told the cops. She hadn’t told him about the cocaine—she couldn’t bring herself to do that. He was a lawyer and all, and he was supposed to be on her side, and everything she told him was a confidential communication, and all that, but still.
But she’d told him everything else. In particular, she told him the times everything had happened, times she actually knew, but had felt she shouldn’t tell the cops. Somehow the times things happened had seemed incriminating to her.
And for good reason. Because it included the time she had taken out of her schedule to buy cocaine.
Sheila was seated on the couch. Steve was standing. He had been pacing back and forth in front of her as she told her story. He hadn’t been looking at her though, aside from an occasional glance. For the most part he was thinking, just staring off into space. That bothered her. She was accustomed to being looked at.
For his part, Steve was distracted, but not so much that he hadn’t heard her story. And not so much that he couldn’t tell that it was a story with significant gaps. But still.
Maxwell Baxter, that was what was distracting him. Jesus Christ. This girl was Baxter’s niece, for Christ’s sake. It was like saying she was a Rockefeller. Which meant this was not just a murder case, this was a sensational murder case. For someone who’d been out of work just hours before, it was a lot to take in.
Glamour. Publicity. And a whopping retainer. Twenty-five thousand at least. It was wrong to be thinking that now, Winslow knew, but he was only human, and what human being could hear what he had just heard and help thinking that?
“What’s wrong with my story?” Sheila asked.
That brought him back to earth. The job was only his if he earned it, and that was very much in doubt. Stop fantasizing and get down to brass tacks. Show her how her story won’t stand up.
He looked at her then, and she immediately wished he hadn’t. Because somehow the look in this strange man’s eyes frightened her, more than the policeman’s had, or even the district attorney.
It was as if he knew she was lying. As if he could see right through her.
And of course he jumped right on the time element.
“You left your uncle’s at eleven forty-five. You didn’t get home until almost one-thirty.”
“I was window-shopping.”
“For an hour and forty-five minutes? That’s a long time to be window-shopping.”
Sheila smiled at him. She raised her eyebrow ironically. “Mr. Winslow, take a look at this apartment. I am not a rich girl. I can’t afford nice things. But I happen to like nice things. So I window-shop.”
“They’ll trace the cab you took back here. They’ll find out when it picked you up, where it picked you up, and what time you got back here.”
“So?”
“So if the time the cabbie says he dropped you off here is much earlier than the time you called the cops, nothing I can do is going to save you.”
“But if the times check, I’m in the clear?”
“No. He could have been waiting for you when you returned. You could have killed him, then dashed out to call the police.”
“Bu
t what if the doctor can prove he’d been dead longer than that?”
Steve thought a moment. “If he was killed before noon you’re all right. You couldn’t have gotten back from your uncle’s before then. If he was killed after noon and before one-thirty, they’ll claim you killed him, then rushed out to Fifth Avenue by bus or subway so that you could build up an alibi by taking a taxicab back.”
Sheila frowned. “You talk as if I were going to be arrested.”
“Of course you’re going to be arrested. Your story stinks. You were being blackmailed. The man who is presumably the blackmailer is found in your apartment, stabbed with your knife. If you were a cop, who would you arrest?”
“When will they arrest me?”
“Probably as soon as they identify the body. They may wait till they find out what he had on you, but I doubt it.”
“He had nothing on me.”
Steve shrugged. “Yeah. Sure. He probably just wanted to sell you insurance, or something.”
Sheila looked at him. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“I told you, your story stinks. It’ll never stand up under cross-examination.”
“Why not?”
Steve turned his back on her, paced away then turned back.
Sheila suddenly realized what was coming.
A cross-examination.
“All right,” he said. “You say you were window-shopping?”
“Yes.”
“On Fifth Avenue?”
“Yes.”
“Which stores?”
“Well, Bloomingdale’s.”
“That’s Lexington, but I’ll take it. That’s one store. Did you spend an hour and a half at that one store?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, what about Saks Fifth Avenue? How did you manage to miss that?”
“I didn’t miss that.”
“You window-shopped it?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Fine. Now tell me one item you saw in the window at Saks Fifth Avenue.”
Sheila tossed her head and gave him her most endearing smile. “Aw, come on.”
He bored right in. “No. You come on. You tell me window-shopping is important to you, you love rich things, it’s a big deal in your life, so this is not a casual thing and you’re going to pay attention to what you see. So tell me one thing you saw in the window at Saks Fifth Avenue.”
