Sleight of Hand: A Novel of Suspense (Dana Cutler)

by Margolin, Phillip

  “Another factor that Judge Gardner said weighed heavily in his decision was the possibility that Mr. Blair might be a flight risk. Mr. Blair’s business takes him to all parts of the world, including countries without extradition treaties with the United States. Assistant Commonwealth Attorney Rick Hamada produced evidence that Mr. Blair had homes in many foreign countries and assets overseas that would enable him to live a life of luxury as a fugitive.

  “Charles Benedict, Mr. Blair’s attorney, said that he planned an immediate appeal of the court’s decision.”

  Dana was a little surprised that the judge had denied bail to a person as powerful as Horace Blair, but Gardner, who had a reputation for being arrogant and self-important, also had a reputation for integrity.

  Andy Zipay worked on the third floor of an older building with a respectable address. Dana was expected and Zipay’s secretary sent her into Zipay’s office as soon as she arrived. The investigator was seated behind a large oak desk in a small office cramped by metal filing cabinets and secondhand bookshelves. He was a few inches over six feet tall and had a pasty complexion. A narrow mustache separated a hook nose from a pair of thin lips, and his black, slicked-down hair was showing some gray.

  “Long time no see,” Zipay said with a smile.

  “Too long, and I apologize for asking a favor the first time we’re getting together.”

  “You stood by me when everybody else treated me like shit, so I’m always gonna owe you. What’s up?”

  “Have you heard of a lawyer named Charles Benedict?”

  “Sure.”

  “What have you heard about him?”

  “Nothing good. When I was in vice and narcotics his name would pop up on occasion, mostly in connection with the Orlansky mob. But the guy is smooth and no one ever got anything on him. Why do you want to know?”

  “His name has come up in a case. I tried doing background on him and I’ve run into a stone wall.”

  “How so?”

  “There’s plenty about him from college on, but I haven’t been able to find anything on him before then. I thought you might have a bright idea.”

  “You looked for a birth certificate, high school records?”

  “I got nada. It’s like he was born on his first day of school.”

  Zipay spaced out and Dana sat back and let him think. Suddenly, Zipay smiled.

  “Maybe you’re looking under the wrong name.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Dana decided to talk to Barry Lester’s girlfriend before attempting to talk to his lawyer. Guilty or innocent, Arthur Jefferson, a member of the bar, would refuse to divulge attorney-client communications, or anything that could harm his client. Tiffany Starr’s only connection to bars was the time she’d spent behind them or danced in them.

  Dana used false names and disguises on occasion because she had gotten a lot of publicity from the stories about her cases that had run in Exposed. Before leaving home, Dana put on glasses and a blond wig. Tiffany Starr might spot the wig, but Dana guessed that a stripper would wear one from time to time and wouldn’t think anything of it.

  Dana parked on a litter-strewn street in one of D.C.’s seamier neighborhoods. Starr lived on the third floor of a five-story brick apartment house decorated with gang graffiti. The elevator was broken and the odor of garbage and bad cooking permeated the stairwell. Dana held her breath until she was in front of Starr’s apartment.

  A rail-thin woman with straight blond hair opened the door an inch and peered at Dana over the security chain. Cigarette smoke curled up from somewhere behind the door.

  “Tiffany Starr?” Dana asked.

  “Who wants to know?” the woman asked. There were dark circles under her eyes and her skin had a sickly pallor. Dana thought that Starr might have been attractive once upon a time, before drugs and hard living blunted any appeal she may have had.

  “My name is Loren Parkhurst and I’d like to talk to you about Barry Lester’s case.”

  “Why should I talk to you?” Starr asked.

  “I’d prefer to tell you inside, where the neighbors can’t hear, if you know what I mean.”

  Starr hesitated. Then she slipped off the chain and opened the door. She wore a T-shirt that stretched across breasts Dana was certain had once been smaller. The tight T-shirt and tighter jeans were knockoffs of high-priced brands. The tip of a tattoo peeked above the top of the T-shirt but Dana couldn’t make out what it was.

  The apartment’s tiny front room was surprisingly tidy. The furniture was cheap but Monet and Picasso prints hung from walls with peeling paint. The pictures hinted at a past far different from the stripper’s present. Dana also noticed editions of People and several screen magazines stacked on an end table along with a Danielle Steel novel. That gave her an idea.

  “You have a nice place here,” Dana said to break the ice when she was inside with the door closed.

  “What’s this about Barry?” Starr asked, ignoring Dana’s attempt at small talk.

  “Do you read Exposed?”

  “Yeah, once in a while.”

  Dana handed Starr a business card that identified Dana as a reporter for Exposed named Loren Parkhurst.

  “I’m working on a story we plan on printing.”

  “About Barry?”

  “And you.”

  “Me?” Starr said. Dana could see the woman’s eyes widen at the idea that she might become a celebrity.

  “Would you mind if we sent a photographer up here to take some shots?”

  “Uh, that would be okay, I guess,” Starr answered, trying to stay cool even though Dana could tell that she was thrilled by the attention she thought she’d receive from a national publication.

  “Great. When is a good time? I know you’re probably busy.”

  “I work nights, so I’m home most of the day.”

  “Oh, where do you work?”

  “A club. I’m a dancer. That’s how I met Barry.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll have Oscar call to set up the shoot.”

  “So, what’s this story about?”

  “Do you mind if we sit down?” Dana asked.

  “Take the sofa,” Starr said. A recliner faced the TV. Starr sat on it and looked expectantly at Dana, who sighed and suddenly looked very serious.

  “I don’t want to alarm you, Tiffany, but you could be in trouble.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Barry told the police that Horace Blair confessed to him that he killed his wife, then told him where Carrie Blair was buried.”

  “So?”

  “We find it hard to believe.”

  “That’s Barry’s business.”

  “That may be true, but you can see that it’s important that we get your side of the story to set the record straight.”

  “There is no ‘side.’ Barry got himself in this mess. I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Don’t you?” Dana asked.

  “What would I know?”

  “There are two possibilities here, Tiffany. One is that a prominent and powerful businessman with degrees from Harvard and Princeton confessed to a man he barely knew that he murdered his wife. That, to put it mildly, is highly unlikely.”

  “Barry’s very persuasive. You can’t believe how good he is at conning people.”

  “Horace Blair deals with the top executives in corporations and heads of state. I find it hard to believe Barry could convince Blair to spill his guts in the space of a few hours. But Barry would know where Carrie’s grave was hidden if someone told him where she was buried. You and his attorney are the only people who visited him at the jail.”

  Starr took a drag on her cigarette. Dana could almost see the wheels turning.

  “Horace Blair has powerful connections, Tiffany. If the authorities find out that Barry set him up, it will go hard on Barry, and anyone who helped him. If that someone is you, you can save yourself by coming clean.”

  “I have nothing to say because I didn’
t do anything,” the woman insisted, but Dana didn’t believe her.

  “Did Charles Benedict ask you to talk to Barry?”

  As soon as Dana asked the question she knew she’d made a mistake. Starr’s already pale complexion lost any color it had and she jumped to her feet.

  “I want you to go. Now.”

  Dana rose, too, and looked Starr in the eye. “My number is on my card. Think about your situation and call me if you want to talk. It will be easier talking to me than the FBI.”

  Dana was halfway out the door when Starr asked, “Is that photographer still coming?”

  “From what you’ve told me, there’s no story. If you change your mind, you know where to reach me.”

  The door closed behind Dana, and Starr put her eye to the peephole. When Cutler started down the stairs, Tiffany started pacing. She hadn’t signed on for this, she told herself. All she was supposed to do was tell some stuff to Barry that was going to help him get out of jail. Nothing was supposed to happen to her. Reporters weren’t supposed to be coming around. Parkhurst had mentioned the FBI, for Christ’s sake. No one had said the FBI was going to be involved.

  Starr lit up a cigarette and wished she had some blow in the apartment. Fucking rehab! She really wanted to get away from that shit, but a little powder would calm her down, and she needed to be calm to think this through.

  Starr flopped onto the recliner. She stared at the ceiling as if she believed an answer might appear there. She took a deep drag on her smoke and thought about the FBI. She definitely did not want anything to do with the FBI. Someone was going to have to fix this because she was definitely going to look out for number one if the F-fucking-B-fucking-I came to call. And there was only one person who could fix this, the person who had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

  Starr levered herself out of her chair and grabbed her phone.

  “We have a problem,” she said as soon as Charles Benedict answered. “I just got a visit from a reporter for Exposed. She knows I talked to Barry at the jail.”

  “I don’t think it’s wise to discuss this matter over the phone, do you?”

  “What I don’t think is wise is for me to go down for Barry’s shit.”

  “Let’s meet someplace and talk about this calmly.”

  “I’ll meet, but you better be prepared to sweeten the pot, because the reporter was talking about the FBI, and she mentioned your name.”

  “She mentioned me?”

  “Yeah, Charlie. She wanted to know if you told me to talk to Barry.”

  “I’m sorry if the reporter bothered you, but you have nothing to worry about. I’ll take care of you. I have meetings all afternoon, but we can meet tonight. That will give me time to go to the bank.”

  Starr hung up. The possibility of getting some cash got her worked up. She was almost sorry Barry would be getting out, too. All Barry had brought her was trouble. She danced her ass off at the club and brought home peanuts, which that son of a bitch always managed to sweet-talk her into giving him. And there were his big schemes, the sure things, get-rich-quick plans that never panned out.

  Tiffany was sick of being broke, and she knew Barry screwed anyone who’d let him. Fucking Barry. He was the root of all of her problems. Maybe she should rat him out. If she made a deal with the feds they could put her in witness protection. She’d be able to get out of this shithole. Maybe they’d send her someplace nice, like Hawaii or Las Vegas. She really liked Las Vegas.

  Tiffany made a decision. She’d meet with Benedict and see what he had to offer. If it wasn’t enough, she’d call the reporter, rat out Barry, and get the fuck out of Dodge.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Nikolai Orlansky put up Gregor Karpinski’s bail as a reward for beating up Barry Lester. A few nights after getting out of jail, Gregor showered, shaved, and dressed in his flashiest clothes. Then he headed for The Scene in College Park, Maryland, a nightclub owned by Orlansky that catered to the students at the University of Maryland. Orlansky used it to launder money, and Gregor worked as a bouncer at the club on the weekends. During the week, he tried his luck with the college girls who frequented the bar. Nikolai gave Gregor permission to screw these girls as long as the sex was consensual. Nikolai did not want the club getting any bad publicity, so rape and roofies were a no-no. Gregor followed Orlansky’s rules scrupulously, ever since he had been forced to watch Nikolai use a scalpel, pliers, and a power drill on a colleague who had raped a coed he had picked up at the club. The girl had been paid off, the incident had been hushed up, and the fish off the coast had been treated to a multi-course meal.

  When Gregor got to the club he headed for a booth on a platform elevated above the main floor that was reserved for members of Orlansky’s crew. The booth gave its occupants a good view of the dance floor and bar so they could spot trouble before it went too far. It was also a good place to scope out pussy. Gregor started up the stairs to join his friends when his cell phone vibrated.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Meet me in the parking lot. I’m in the back row by the fence.”

  Gregor wondered what Charlie Benedict wanted from him, but he had made out okay whenever Nikolai told him to do something for the lawyer.

  Gregor looked for Benedict’s Mercedes in the back of the lot, but he didn’t see it. Then the headlights on a dull-brown Ford came on, blinked twice, then went dead. Gregor walked to the driver’s side. The window was rolled down and Benedict was sitting behind the wheel, wearing a hooded sweatshirt. He grinned.

  “Good to see you’re out, Gregor. Hop in.”

  Benedict reached across and opened the passenger door. Gregor walked around the car and sat down beside the lawyer. He was curious about the car and the way Benedict was dressed, but he knew better than to ask questions.

  “You did great with Lester,” Benedict said. “I told Nikolai that.”

  Gregor wasn’t big on idle chatter so he held his tongue. The lawyer would tell him what he wanted when he was ready. Sure enough, Benedict cut to the chase.

  “I’ve got a job for you. Are you interested in some easy money?”

  “I must hear what you want me to do.”

  “I need you to talk to someone, a woman. She’s been asking questions about Barry Lester. I want you to convince her to stop.”

  “Nikolai is okay with this?” Gregor asked. Nikolai had made it very clear that members of his crew did not freelance unless they had his permission.

  “Of course,” Benedict lied. After his meeting with Tiffany Starr he realized that he would have to act quickly, and there had not been enough time to clear with Orlansky what he wanted done.

  “How bad you want the woman hurt?”

  “Rough her up enough to scare her. Get sexual. You know, cop a feel, put your hand between her legs and rub a little. Do enough so she gets the idea. Wear a ski mask, black. I want her to fear you. I want you to tell her you’ll come back if she doesn’t back off. Get it?”

  “Yes, I see what you want.”

  Benedict handed Gregor an envelope stuffed with cash. Gregor noticed that the lawyer was wearing gloves. It was dark but he thought he saw specks of blood on the leather between the thumb and forefinger.

  “So, we’re good?” Benedict asked when Gregor was done counting the money.

  “Yes, we are good.”

  “Okay, the woman’s name and phone number are in the envelope. You make sure she keeps her nose out of the Blair case.”

  “How fast do you want me to do this?”

  “I need it yesterday, Gregor. She’s already forced me to do something I didn’t want to do.”

  Gregor nodded and got out of the car. He looked at his watch and sighed. If he did this tonight he would not have time to get laid, but Benedict said it couldn’t wait. Gregor went to his car, where he would have some privacy. He turned on an untraceable cell phone he used when he was making drug deals for Nikolai and dialed the number Loren Parkhurst had given to Tiffany Starr.

&n
bsp; Chapter Forty

  Dana headed home after leaving Tiffany Starr’s apartment. She was pulling into her driveway when her phone rang. Dana parked and fished the phone out of her pocket.

  “You owe me a dinner, Cutler,” Andy Zipay said.

  “I thought this was a freebie.”

  “Yeah, the work is. You’re paying for the honor of being in the presence of pure genius.”

  “Okay, you get dinner . . . if your info is good.”

  “Good? It’s great! I have a contact from the old days who works at an intelligence agency which shall remain nameless. He did an in-depth search using some software from outer space. You couldn’t find out anything about Benedict before he went to college because Charles Benedict didn’t exist until two years before he registered at Dickinson. His admission application to college shows that he never graduated from high school. He has a GED under Benedict.”

  “Dickinson is a pretty decent college. How did he get in with a GED?”

  “Well, that is interesting. My buddy got into his college file. Benedict had close to perfect scores on his SAT exams. But that wasn’t the most interesting thing my buddy discovered. The year before he got the GED he changed his name legally to Benedict from Richard Molinari, and Richard Molinari’s name came up in a newspaper story about a double murder in Kansas City.”

  Dana ate a hasty dinner, then went on her computer and read the story to which Zipay had alluded. Twenty-five years ago, two drug dealers had been tortured and murdered in Kansas City. Their bodies had been found in an abandoned barn in the countryside. The police theorized that they had been killed for the money they were going to pay for cocaine. Richard Molinari had been arrested shortly after the murders but he had been released.

  Dana found a few more references to the case but learned nothing new. She was about to try a different approach when the cell phone with the “Loren Parkhurst” number rang.

  “Barry Lester is lying,” a man said.