The Best Defense

by A. W. Gray

  This is ridiculous, Sharon thought. She dropped the remote on the sofa, left Sheila and the girls riveted to the television reports, and stalked into her bedroom. Enough of this. Sharon was going to get the story straight from the horse’s mouth.

  She found her purse on the dresser and rummaged inside for Darla’s number, the private line at the house in Malibu or Pacific Palisades or wherever it was that the fantasy couple lived. Sharon sat on the edge of the bed to punch in the number. After three rings a click sounded. With tape static in the background, David Spencer said, “You’ve reached 555-3030. Leave a message after the tone.” There were two more clicks, followed by a beep.

  Sharon licked her lips. This was really weird, listening to a dead man’s voice from a half continent away. She nearly hung up, then realized that with the hoopla brewing on television, Darla wouldn’t have answered even if she’d been at home. Sharon inhaled a breath, then said softly, “It’s Sharon Hays, Darla. I’ve been watching the news, and I’m worried to death about you. Call me, huh?” She dictated her own number, then replaced the receiver in its cradle and drummed her fingers.

  Melanie called out from the living room, “It’s you, Mom.”

  Sharon watched the phone. She raised her voice. “I’m in the bedroom waiting for a call back, Melanie. What’s me?”

  “On television. It’s you.”

  And Sheila added, “And me, too, Sharon. Better have a look.”

  Sharon left the bedroom and stood in the corridor leading to the den. Visible over the top of Sheila’s head, the TV picture showed yesterday’s scene in front of Planet Hollywood. The voice-over announced that this footage was “exclusive to Channel 5.” There were crystal-clear pictures of Darla wrestling with David Spencer near the restaurant entry, of Sharon as she pushed the actor down and his head slammed onto the step, of Sharon gaping dumbly at the man in the Crocodile Dundee outfit as Spencer writhed on the ground and, finally, of Darla and Sharon as they fled the scene.

  The announcer said, “The woman shoving David Spencer and then entering the car with Darla Cowan is local criminal attorney Sharon Hays, who, sources say, is a longtime friend of Miss Cowan’s dating back to the time when both were stage actresses in New York City. Miss Hays’s former lover is Minions of Justice star Rob Stanley—”

  Oh God, Sharon thought, please don’t say it.

  “—Who is the father of Hays’s child.”

  Sharon’s heart skipped a beat as she looked at Melanie. Her relationship with Rob had been pretty much general knowledge since Rob had hit the big time and spouted off to the media that he had a daughter in Dallas, but, God. Kicking that dead horse on a newscast, that was…

  Melanie turned to her mother, as did Trish. Melanie said, “He’s talking about me, isn’t he?”

  Sharon lowered her lashes and absorbed a sharp look from Sheila. “Yes, sweetheart, he is,” Sharon said.

  “It’s okay, Mom,” Melanie said. “It’s cool.” She turned back to the screen.

  But it wasn’t cool, and Sharon damn well knew it. That Melanie was born out of wedlock, and that everyone in creation knew it, that would never be cool, never in a million—

  The bedroom telephone rang.

  Sharon went in to take the call with her heart sink­ ing into her stomach. Melanie had known the story of her birth since she’d been old enough to understand anything, and accepted the situation for what it was, but that didn’t make public broadcasts on the subject any easier to take. Damn the mighty media all to hell.

  The phone rang a second time. Sharon reached the bed, picked up the receiver, and said, “Darla?”

  It wasn’t Darla. A man said in a cracking basso, “Sharon?”

  Sharon didn’t recognize the voice, and at once assumed a businesslike tone. “Yes? This is Sharon Hays.” Could be a prospective client, anything.

  “It’s Stan, Sharon.”

  “Green?” Sharon felt a surge of irritation; just talking to her one-time lover churned her emotions into an uproar.

  “Yep,” he said. “Just old Stan the Man.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Darla Cowan is a friend of yours?”

  Sharon gritted her teeth. “I guess you’d say that.”

  “Well, listen, you been watching television?”

  “Yes.” Sharon’s tone was cool an impersonal. “We’re up to our fannies in alligators on this one,

  Shar.”

  “Sharon, Stan. Sharon Hays.”

  “Yeah, sure. We’ve known each other, right?” Green laughed.

  Sharon moved the receiver from one ear to the other. “What do you want?”

  “Hey, I know it’s Saturday and all.”

  “That it is.”

  “But, well, you know, the mail must go through.” “Sure. Rain, sleet, and snow.”

  There were four beats of silence, accompanied by crackling static. Green said, “The thing is, we need to talk to you.”

  “Who’s ‘we?’ “

  “Me. Milt Breyer. Kathleen, couple of other people.”

  Oh, great, Sharon thought. Mr. Ex-Lover-Mistake­of-My-Life Green, and Mr. Sexual-Harassment-Grab­Your-Boob-for-You Breyer, along with Ms. Lay­Your-Superior of the D.A.’s staff Kathleen Fratemo. What a lovely weekend this has turned out to be. “What about?” Sharon said.

  “Just a couple of things, about you and the actress. Look, we could come by, won’t take long.”

  Sharon forced herself to think rationally. No matter her personal feelings, Green had a point; in any murder investigation timing was a very big deal. “I’ll talk to you,” Sharon said. “But I’d as soon none of this went on in my home.”

  8

  Sharon watched the television monitor until Darla Cowan’s limo pulled away from Planet Hollywood.

  So there we go again, she thought. She listened to a series of metallic clicks as the technician reset the VCR and the screen went blank. She propped one knee against the edge of the conference table. “I don’t remember anything other than what I’ve told you. And I’ve already seen that tape, earlier today on my TV at home.” The shot of her shoving David Spencer had been a whole lot clearer than Sharon would have liked. The camera had lingered forever on her dumbstruck pose as she’d gaped into the crowd, her gaze resting on a man in a buckskin jacket and wide­brimmed hat. The poor guy had stared back at her, of course, and the TV picture made them look like old friends instead of ships passing in the night. The man’s hands-up shrug had seemed a gesture of communication, but Sharon now decided that the guy had been saying to himself, What’s with this crazy female? She pictured him now as he explained to his wife or friends that he’d been an innocent bystander, and that he’d never seen the insane Hays woman before in his life. She turned her attention to the group around the conference table.

  Across from Sharon sat an FBI agent named Leamon, a pipe smoker who burned a sweet-smelling tobacco. He was thin-faced and wore the standard government 1-don’t-believe-a-word-you’re-saying expression. He held the pipe by its bowl, waving the stem around. “And you’re certain Miss Cowan made no threats to Mr. Spencer?”

  “Darla was only trying to get away,” Sharon said.

  “I took my eyes off her for a few seconds while I was shoving the guy, but I don’t think Darla was shooting Spencer the bird over my shoulder or anything. Believe me, she was too frightened to be making threats.”

  “We?” Leamon remained deadpan. “You said, ‘We watched her every movement.’”

  “Right. Sheila Winston and I. Sheila’s a psychiatrist, listed in the phone book if you want to talk to her.”

  Milton Breyer cut in. “You should add that Sheila Winston is your close friend, shouldn’t you?”

  Sharon set her jaw. “I don’t know why I should add that, Milton. Sheila wouldn’t lie to protect her own mother, and you know it.”

 
; She was the center of attention inside the FBI’s grill-’em-and-drill-’em room. The Dallas fibbies officed in a refurbished warehouse building overlooking the West End district. Seven stories below, the Saturday night crowd milled around outside Dick’s Last Resort, the Gator Cafe, and Planet Hollywood. It was gathering dusk; the streetlights cast greenish sodium glows through the conference-room windows. Huddled around the ten-seat table were Milton Breyer and Kathleen Fratemo from the Dallas County D.A.’s staff, homicide detective Stan Green, and a herd of federal people. Leamon, the man with the pipe-droll little mouth drawn up in a bow, a right jolly old elf and all that, Sharon thought-was doing most of the talking. The guy on his left, with close-cropped kinky hair, was the special agent in charge of the region, and the chubby-cheeked woman seated beside the AIC had flown in this afternoon from Washington. Big Potatoes with a capital P. Sharon now had a feel for what was going on; the FBI, sensing the publicity, had homed in on the local investigation, all of which was S.O.P. when one dealt with the feds. Sharon was so angry she was practically quivering. What Stan Green had said was a fact finding session had already turned into an evidence gathering ordeal, with the emphasis clearly on Darla Cowan. It didn’t surprise her that Darla was a suspect, given the circumstances, but that the investigation team had already ruled out all other possibilities was a bit of a shock.

  Leamon wore glasses in wire frames and had a mole on his cheek. His occasional eye twitch said that he didn’t like having his superiors looking over his shoulder. With the big dogs in the room Leamon was pretty much sticking to the manual, and for that Sharon was glad. Unsupervised, the FBI could be an unbelievable pain in the ass. Leamon said, “And what about Miss Cowan’s attitude?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re asking,” Sharon said.

  “Did she seem to harbor resentment toward Mr. Spencer?”

  “You’d have to ask her. Look, the guy was abusive, and there would be something wrong with her if she wasn’t resentful of that. But that’s my own observation, nothing Darla told me.”

  “Seems odd that you ladies would spend the evening together and the subject wouldn’t come up.” Leamon looked at the AIC, then at the lady from Washington.

  Sharon twisted in her chair and crossed one denim­ clad leg over the other. “Oh, it came up, mainly in the context of Darla’s plan to leave the guy. I never specifically asked her if she resented David Spencer, and don’t recall her saying one way or the other. If you want my opinion, you’re barking up the wrong tree listing Darla as a suspect.”

  Leamon said, “She was totally passive in the relationship?”

  “Those are. your words, Agent. But Darla was never an aggressive person when I knew her well, and I didn’t see that her personality had changed much during the brief time we spent together. It’s been thirteen years since we were really close.”

  “Let’s talk about last night. The two of you went to dinner—”

  “In Fort Worth, yes.”

  “—and then Miss Cowan drove you home around eleven. That’s your story?”

  “Right as rain,” Sharon said.

  “And until this evening you weren’t even aware of the incident at the Mansion?”

  “Of the killing?”

  Leamon nodded. The pipe bobbed up and down. The sign which had greeted Sharon outside the office stated that this was a no-smoking facility. If Leamon’s bosses didn’t object, Sharon wasn’t about to.

  “Early this afternoon, actually,” Sharon said, “when the bulletin cut in on the football game. We watched the news reports most of the day. When I saw myself on television and then received the phone call from Mr. Green, I agreed to meet with the Dallas County people.”

  “So you came in voluntarily,” Leamon said.

  The agent’s tone sent Sharon into orbit. She detested Stan Green and Milton Breyer—not necessarily in that order—and had a coolish relationship with Kathleen Fraterno, but at least she could be up-front with the locals. The feds burned her fanny no end with their openly suspicious attitudes. These people wouldn’t believe Christ on the cross, Sharon thought, so why am I wasting my time? She showed Leamon her most impersonal smile. “Come in voluntarily before what, Agent? Before you surrounded my home and rolled out the bazookas?”

  Leamon clenched his pipe lightly between his teeth. “Before we came to you.”

  “This may surprise you,” Sharon said, “but everybody in the world isn’t hiding something. I learned of the killing after I received the phone call, I felt that I had useful information. I have law enforcement training and know that the sooner such information is presented, the better. I expected to give this information to Detective Green. Frankly, if I’d known I’d end up in a summit meeting on Saturday night, I might’ve waited until Monday.”

  “Good that you came in when you did,” Leamon said.

  Sharon testily drummed her fingers. “You mean, it makes me less of a suspect?”

  Leamon didn’t bat an eye. He had a receding hair line and a narrow forehead. Reels turned inside a tape recorder next to his elbow. “I’ve got to say, you don’t seem particularly frightened. Killer running around and all.”

  Oh, for God’s sake, Sharon thought. She blinked. “How does one go about sounding frightened, Agent? Go, eek? I live with my thirteen-year-old daughter, no man around the house, but I haven’t seen anything which places us in danger. But, eek, if it makes me more convincing.”

  The feds watched her. Just what they want, Sharon thought, someone flying off the handle, and she was damned if she’d give them one more ounce of satisfaction. She fought for composure.

  Leamon looked questioningly around at his cohorts.

  The lady from Washington spoke up. “Just what did you discuss over dinner with Miss Cowan?”

  “Old times. Acting classes. A few plays in which we appeared.” Sharon measured her words, careful to tell the truth but at the same time revealing as little as possible. She’d stopped communicating voluntarily with federal people shortly after leaving the District Attorney’s staff, when the Equal Opportunity folks had pressured her to file sexual-harassment charges against Milton Breyer. She’d made the mstake of responding to a couple of OEO requests, then had spent the better part of a year in getting rid of the freaking pests.

  “I don’t know as we’d agree,” Leamon said, “that she isn’t a viable suspect. She was on the scene at the proper time, and there is ample evidence of conflict between Miss Cowan and the victim. As a matter of record, we’re not investigating a murder here. That’s their”—he indicated Breyer, Kathleen Fraterno, and Stan Green—”function. We don’t interfere in local affairs if we can help it.”

  Yeah, Sharon thought. And tomorrow pigs will fly. “Okay, I’ll bite,” she said. “Exactly why are the feds involved?”

  The lady from Washington spoke up in a husky voice reminiscent of Faye Dunaway. “Miss Hays, I’m Mariah Davis. Let me outline our role for you. We’re attached to the violent-crimes unit. Our interest is, has someone crossed interstate boundaries to avoid prosecution or to aid in commission of a crime?” Mariah Davis was a large woman, wearing an oversized dress with padded shoulders.

  Sharon nodded. “You folks move quickly, Ms. Davis.” She had it now, picturing FBI Washington tuning in on the newscasts and then dispatching Mariah Davis to discover if there was anything afoot to allow the fibbies to cash in on the publicity. Likely the feds would throw their weight around for a few days, making certain that the newspapers were aware that the FBI was on the case, and then retreat into the sunset. In the meantime, Breyer, Green, and Fraterno wouldn’t be able to do anything productive with the fibbies in their faces, with the result that the investigation was tucked beyond repair. Sharon watched Mariah Davis with feigned interest. “If anyone crossed state lines to commit a murder, it wasn’t Darla Cowan.”

  “What makes you so certain?” Davis said. “Our experience is
with these artistic types, actors and what­not, they’re pretty tightly wound.” She poured herself a glass of water. Sharon noted that Ms. Davis’s tone of voice had reflected a low opinion of actors in general, which was pretty much the view from Pompey’s head. Brad Pitt? Julia Roberts? Oh, the envy. Sharon Hays (or anyone else, for that matter, whose view of showbiz came mainly from a subway train)? Wasted lives. Sharon would love to have a dollar for every time someone had asked her during her New York stint, When are you going to stop this nonsense and do something productive? Gets in your blood, ladies and gents, Sharon thought, and the itch is with you for life. She was certain that if she hadn’t become pregnant with Melanie, she’d be riding subways to auditions and existing on bologna sandwiches to this very day. Mariah Davis had a sip of water and went on.

  “Miss Cowan’s face was swollen as if she’d been in a fight when she left the hotel. Her clothes were torn, and witnesses tell us she was very distraught. If you have information that might dispel our suspicions, Miss Hays, we’d like to hear it.”

  Sharon opened, then closed her mouth. She wanted to help Darla all she could, but had to admit that Davis had a point. A thought came to her, and she said, “You have the murder weapons? The television report says Spencer was both shot and stabbed. Show me Darla’s prints on a gun or knife, and I might feel differently;”

  Mariah Davis and the other feds exchanged. a look which told Sharon she’d struck a nerve. They had no gun, no knife as yet, so score one for Darla’s defense. An almost venomous glance from Davis in Milton Breyer’s direction told Sharon even more in mouthing off to the press, old Milt had told more about the crime than the feds would like to have out over the wires. Only the killer could know that Spencer was shot and stabbed, and keeping that a secret from the public should have been priority number one at this point, but, thanks to Milt it was all general knowledge. Sharon said, “Sheila would say that Darla wasn’t in a frame of mind to kill the guy.”