Inherit the Shoes

by E. J. Copperman

  ‘Him? You think I’m dating Patrick McNabb?’ It had finally dawned on me what the technician meant. ‘Oh, you don’t understand.’

  ‘Sure I do,’ the woman answered. ‘I can always tell. The ones who force their way onto the ambulance are always the ones who care the most. I’ll bet you guys last a long, long time.’

  ‘I’m not … we don’t … no, no, no.’ Suddenly, there was a sharp intake of breath and a moan from Patrick’s direction, and, startled by the sound, I stopped protesting. And all the while, my brain kept shouting, Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die, don’t die …

  ‘He’s such a drama queen,’ I said, sprawled on the couch in my newly neatened apartment, and talking into my wireless phone. ‘A little scratch on the arm, and you’d think he was dying. All that carrying on. It was barely visible. They let him out of the hospital with six stitches and some cream to put on it. Honestly.’ So I’m a hypocrite.

  Angie’s voice on the other end was far less casual. ‘I can’t believe he got shot right next to you, Sand! I mean, you probably saved his life!’

  ‘Oh, give me a break. It barely bled … I was scared for a minute before I knew where he’d been hit, but …’

  ‘For crissakes, Sandy, somebody was shooting at him. That’s the second time in two days, and you were with him! What does that say to you?’

  I thought hard and long, and my voice was much less forceful when I said, ‘It says maybe they were shooting at me.’

  FOURTEEN

  The news of the shooting was a media event that eclipsed the news of the murder, which had eclipsed the news of a public official’s dalliance with an office worker, which had eclipsed … well, you get the idea.

  After only two weeks in Los Angeles, I had to have my landline changed to an unlisted number. It was the price of fame, which I reminded myself I’d never sought. It had come barreling after me like a locomotive.

  Patrick, who’d driven himself home from the hospital (after having ‘a car sent round’), seemed to enjoy the attention, and was actually back on the set of Legality later that afternoon. He did hire himself a security team to follow him around, including a very large, very intimidating bodyguard named Rex, who snarled at anyone who came close to Patrick, and who probably bared his teeth if that didn’t work. Rex, surprisingly, was not a Doberman Pinscher, but a human. Sort of.

  Lt Trench did not arrive personally, but sent one of his detectives, Sergeant Roberts, to question Patrick and me at the hospital. We told him what we knew, and he looked skeptical and left.

  The Legality producers, apparently, did not much mind having an accused murderer in their midst, so long as he did the proper publicity and ratings spiked to see how his character would get through the travails plotted for him by the same producers, almost all of whom were on the writing staff.

  They did, however, plan a special announcement to run before the Sunday night episode, and had to cut forty-five seconds from the show in order to accommodate it. An extra, who had one line of dialogue (and therefore would have received her Screen Actors Guild card until the cut was made), was not amused. Patrick promised to specially request her the very next time an extra would get a speaking line. I’m sure he crinkled his eyes at her, too, and she left smiling.

  I went to my office, where the usual throng of reporters was gathering, and did my best to read over the paperwork in Patrick’s case again, trying to determine exactly how I could disprove the guilt of a man who had sex with a woman and, then, less than an hour later, was found standing over her body, trying desperately to pull an arrow from her chest.

  Still, what ate at me was the swiftness of the police department’s assumption that Patrick was the killer. Circumstantial evidence was persuasive, but it wasn’t such a slam-dunk that the investigation should have been concluded within three hours of the murder.

  They had to have something else, something I didn’t know about.

  I hadn’t been considering the matter long when the phone rang and Garrigan was on the other end. At the home of Patsy DeNunzio’s sister, he had ‘a question for the defense attorney.’ That, I reminded myself, was me.

  ‘Can a witness be given immunity by the defense?’ Garrigan wanted to know. Clearly, he was putting on a show for the sister, because any ex-cop would know the answer to this one and wouldn’t bother calling the attorney for clarification.

  ‘No, we can’t offer anything,’ I explained patiently. ‘Only the prosecution can offer immunity for testimony.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Garrigan said. He paused, obviously turning to Patsy’s sister. ‘Yeah, if your information’s good, we can strike a deal,’ he told her.

  ‘WHAT?’ I shouted.

  I could hear Garrigan put his hand over the phone. After a moment, his voice returned, this time much quieter. ‘I think you’d better get over here,’ he said. ‘She’s willing to talk, but she wants assurances.’

  ‘Assurances?’ I said. ‘I can’t give assurances.’

  ‘Sure you can. I’ll see you soon.’ And he gave me an address in Long Beach.

  Calculating the cost of a taxi ride to Long Beach (and assuming it would set me back about a month’s rent), I started for the elevator when Holiday Wentworth stopped me in the hallway.

  ‘Sandy, I’m glad I caught you. One of the secretaries said there was a delivery for you at the front desk.’ Holiday dashed off so quickly I couldn’t thank her for the information.

  At the desk, I asked for any messages. The secretary, a woman named Felicity (honestly!), whose paper-thinness indicated she had indeed stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine, said nothing, but handed me an envelope. I opened it, and found a set of car keys attached to a remote device. I looked back at Felicity and asked, ‘Who left this for me?’

  ‘A very big guy who’s been working out a lot came by and said Patrick McNabb wanted you to have it,’ Felicity said in the least interested voice I’d ever heard. ‘Something about making up for your car. I don’t know.’

  ‘How am I supposed to figure out which car it’s for?’

  ‘Go down to the parking level, push the button, and see what happens.’ Felicity went back to looking gorgeous, her full-time job.

  In the elevator on the way down, it occurred to me that there had been two attempts on my life in the past two days. Inasmuch as I considered this a bad thing, I decided to take steps to make sure a third attack did not take place. I pulled out my cell phone and called the number Patrick had given me.

  I got Rex. ‘Did Mr McNabb leave something for me at my office?’ I asked.

  ‘Wait. I’ll get him.’

  ‘You could just answer the …’ But Rex was gone.

  Patrick picked up a few moments later. ‘Sandy! I told Rex he should get me if you called. I hope you’re all right after what happened yesterday.’

  He hoped I was all right? He was the one who got shot! ‘I’m fine, Patrick,’ I said. ‘I’m just checking. There was an envelope waiting for me at the office.’

  ‘Yes. It contains a set of car keys. I had a car sent round for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you didn’t have one,’ he said, with a tone that made it clear I must be insane. ‘I felt responsible, what with the bullet holes and all.’

  ‘You’re not responsible. The people with the guns are responsible.’ The elevator doors opened, and I walked out into the parking level. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to be sure. You know, with all that’s been happening, I wanted to be certain the keys came from you.’

  ‘Were you afraid the car would blow up?’

  ‘Something like that.’ I knew I sounded foolish.

  ‘Well, it won’t. It’s a red …’

  But I had already pushed the button and seen the headlights flash. ‘… A red Ferrari,’ I said with wonder. ‘A new one.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sure. Happens every day.

  ‘Patrick, that’s a two hundred thousand dollar car.’

  ‘Have you priced one? Actual
ly, to be accurate, the two hundred thousand would be for one without any of the extras. With the moon-roof and the custom audio system, it’s …’

  ‘Don’t tell me.’ I started walking toward the car, which, luckily, had not blown up. ‘I don’t want to know. Patrick, why didn’t you just send me a Honda or something?’

  ‘Don’t you like Ferraris?’ he asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never even seen one up close before. We don’t have a great many Ferraris driving around in New Jersey.’

  I reached the car and opened the door. Even the remote entry key was a novelty for me. My lamented Hyundai had the old fuddy-duddy keys you had to actually insert into the door locks.

  ‘Well, you’ll love it,’ he said.

  ‘It’ll scare me. This car probably costs more than any house I’ve ever lived in.’ But the leather seats were soft, weren’t they?

  ‘Don’t worry about it. You deserve it.’ Patrick sounded so chipper. I figured it must be the painkillers.

  ‘Well, it’s only for a few days until my car is back.’ I started the Ferrari, wincing that it might explode on ignition, but it started so quietly I wondered if it was even running.

  ‘Oh, no. That’s for you to keep, Sandy. For your trouble.’

  He’s kidding. Surely he’s kidding. TELL me he’s kidding!

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘I’m not. And that settles it. The car is yours. By the way, where are you going?’

  Oops. ‘Going? Where am I going?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was just wondering if you’d have a drive on the freeway to test out the car.’

  OK. Don’t tell him. If you don’t tell him, you can’t get in trouble.

  So of course, I told him. ‘I’m meeting Garrigan to talk to a witness. He asked me to come and offer legal advice.’ After all, Patrick was on the set of his show; he couldn’t just up and leave whenever he wanted to.

  ‘I’ll come meet you!’ he said.

  It was then that I began to feel disappointed that the car had, indeed, not blown up.

  FIFTEEN

  ‘I helped Patrick steal the shoes,’ said Melanie DeNunzio, a short, slim, slightly mousy version of her late younger sister. ‘I talked to one of the cops while Patrick went inside and took out the shoes.’

  The house was a small clapboard Cape Cod near the beach. With five rooms, it seemed comfortable, but hardly luxurious. A six-year-old blue Acura sat in the driveway. Not what you’d expect from someone so closely related to a woman who’d been making millions for more than a decade.

  ‘Why?’ Garrigan asked. Patrick hadn’t arrived at the house yet, so Garrigan and I were trying to get as much done as possible before he could walk in and … be Patrick. And yes, Garrigan had almost caused me physical pain with the look he had given me when I mentioned Patrick was on his way. And frankly, I wasn’t sure why I’d told Patrick where I’d be – no doubt some misplaced sympathy for the shooting victim, and maybe a little guilty appreciation for the guy who had given – lent! – me a Ferrari.

  Melanie looked at the floor, with its relatively cheap wall-to-wall carpet, and blushed a little. ‘I’d do pretty much anything for Patrick,’ she said. ‘I’m …’

  ‘You’re in love with him,’ I said, and Melanie nodded, a little embarrassed.

  ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘You know, not like I want to marry him or something. But you have to admit, he’s awful cute, you know, and well, having him around all the time when they were married, I just got … attracted to him. You know.’

  No, I don’t know! I’m not attracted to Patrick McNabb! I’m not!

  ‘So he asked you to distract the cop while he went in to get Cagney’s shoes? Is that it?’ Garrigan didn’t seem to care who was attracted to whom. He just wanted some answers before the doorbell rang.

  Melanie shook her head. ‘He didn’t ask,’ she said. ‘He just … he said he was going over to check some things out, to see if they’d found anything that would make it clear he didn’t kill Patsy. But I knew he wanted Jimmy’s shoes. That was the only thing in the whole house he really cared about, and he’d mentioned them at least six times that day.’

  ‘You distracted the cop at the door.’

  ‘Yeah. You know, sometimes I can look nice. And if I put some effort into it, guys can notice me. Not like Patsy, but they do. You know.’ Melanie clearly thought everybody knew everything, except her.

  She never looked anyone in the face. She spent most of her time looking at the carpet, as if the answers were scribbled there. But I guessed Melanie was a woman who’d been overshadowed all her life, and wasn’t comfortable with people who looked at her rather than past her.

  Unlike me, Garrigan wasn’t worried about the pathos on display. Apparently, he merely wanted a trail to follow. ‘What was so important about those shoes?’ he asked. It was an interesting question from a man who had practically fainted at the sight of Cary Grant’s Oxford.

  But we didn’t have time to hear an answer, because Patrick McNabb let himself in through the front door, which Melanie had left unlocked. ‘Hello, all!’ he shouted as Garrigan gave me the kind of look strychnine would give you if it had eyes.

  ‘What have I missed?’ Patrick’s tone was so happy, it seemed to me he might be taking some kind of prescription drugs that ‘doctors’ let celebrities have for ‘exhaustion.’

  Garrigan turned to him. ‘Melanie was telling us how she helped you steal Cagney’s shoes out of Patsy’s house.’ The investigator clearly preferred the full frontal assault, trying to catch Patrick off guard.

  But I was learning that off guard was not a position Patrick knew well. ‘No she didn’t,’ he said. ‘I went in to get some shirts I brought with me that night. I’d stopped at Bergdorf’s on the way, and forgot to take them with me when I left.’ He gave Garrigan a pointed look. ‘I didn’t think they qualified as evidence,’ he said.

  ‘Shirts,’ Garrigan said.

  ‘Yes. A blue and a white. Would you like to see them?’

  ‘Patrick,’ I said, hoping the two men might not mark their territory in the house. ‘How do you explain the fact that the shoes disappeared from the house at just about the same time you were there?’

  ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I checked on them, and they were in their case when I went to pick up the shirts. I didn’t touch them.’

  Garrigan looked at Melanie. ‘Did you see the package when he brought it out?’

  She looked at Patrick, then at Garrigan, as if deciding. ‘He had a bag that said “Bergdorf Goodman” on it,’ she said. ‘I thought Jimmy’s shoes were in the bag. They were all he ever talked about.’

  ‘Sorry, darling,’ Patrick said to her in a soft voice. ‘I never did take those shoes out of the house. If they’re missing now, someone else has them.’

  Melanie looked at him with the most pitiable expression I’d ever seen, one that spoke of absolute trust, admiration, and devotion for a man who’d forget she existed the minute he walked out the door. And the sad part was that Melanie knew it, and still felt that way.

  ‘I’m sorry, Patrick,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to place any more suspicion on you.’

  ‘Not to worry, my dear,’ he replied. ‘You did what you thought was right.’

  What I thought would be right at this moment was to throw up, but I managed not to do it. I couldn’t possibly have had more contempt for Patrick McNabb than I felt right now – the man was clearly stringing along a poor damaged woman for reasons that fed only his ego. Could you withdraw as counsel because your client continually pissed you off?

  Patrick turned to me, a wide grin on his face. ‘So,’ he said to the gathered group, ‘who shall we go visit now?’

  There was little else to do. Melanie clearly wouldn’t say anything Patrick didn’t want to hear while he was in the room, and even if she did, he’d be able to twist it into any pretzel he wanted as effortlessly as the rest of us respirate. So we bade Melanie a good day and walked out into the
unrelenting sunshine to head for our cars.

  ‘I’ve just been dropped off,’ Patrick said to me, a glint of mischief in his eyes. ‘Do you mind giving me a lift back?’

  I’d rather give you a kick in the …

  ‘Not at all,’ I said, amazed anything was audible through my clenched teeth. ‘It’s your car.’

  ‘No, the car’s all yours. Your name is on the title.’

  I just didn’t have the energy to argue. To test the range of the car’s ‘unlock’ button, I pushed it while standing at the front door of Melanie’s house.

  This time, the car blew up.

  SIXTEEN

  Lieutenant K.C. Trench of the Los Angeles Police Department was a very dapper, distinguished-looking man in his mid-fifties, silver hair very nicely cut and combed, suit well pressed, shoes shiny. But he didn’t give the impression of someone who fussed over each detail – it was more as if the clothes he wore and the body on which he wore them were too intimidated to even consider defying his will.

  Sitting across a desk from Trench in his office, I briefly considered defying his will, but that was as far as I got. Actually refusing to answer Trench would require more courage than I could muster.

  ‘Explain to me why you were driving a two hundred thousand dollar Ferrari in the first place,’ Trench said with a hint of superiority in his voice. He knew the answer, his tone was saying. He just needed me to say it out loud for the record. I thought I should observe his technique closely and take notes for when I had to cross-examine witnesses at trial.

  Through the window in Trench’s office, I glanced at Patrick, sitting across the hall, being questioned by another detective. Patrick was smiling and appeared to be having a fine time. I felt like I was being placed in an enormous pasta-making machine. Some people have the capacity to relax in any situation, and then there are the other ninety-nine percent of us.

  ‘It was a … loaner,’ I answered.

  ‘A loaner.’ Trench raised one eyebrow, and it had as much effect as if another man had hit me across the jaw with a closed fist. If he raised both eyebrows, I’d probably confess to the Kennedy assassination. Both of them. And I wasn’t even born then.