The Day Trader

by Stephen Frey

  Taylor licks his lips nervously but remains silent.

  I take another step forward, and now I’m right in front of his desk. This time he makes no move for the drawer. “You were worried Melanie might go to the police, and you were desperate for cash, so you hatched a different plan right there on the street while you argued. One that would end up getting you the same amount of money as long as you could hang the murder on me. A million dollars tax free. You knew she had demanded a divorce from me the night before. You knew the cops would latch on to that as the motive for the murder. That and the insurance money, because I was the primary beneficiary. It was perfect, wasn’t it? You couldn’t have scripted it better.”

  “You’re so far off. You’re desperate because you know the police are closing in on you.”

  He’s saying all the right things, but I can tell he’s rattled. I’ve figured everything out, and suddenly he understands that his perfect plan wasn’t so perfect after all. “You almost screwed up,” I continue. “You almost let your temper get the best of you. After I popped you at the Grand, you got your silver Mercedes and tried to run me down in the parking garage. You were drunk and pissed off and you wanted the money right away.”

  “I told you before, I don’t have a Mercedes!”

  I reach into my pocket and pull out the photograph of Melanie and him alongside the car. “You may not now, but you did.” The picture trembles with my fingers.

  Suddenly there’s a commotion in the hallway. The police have arrived quickly, as Taylor predicted they would. “I know everything, Frank,” I say quietly, aware that I have only a few moments of freedom remaining. But this is the way I want it. I’m not going to run from Reggie. I’m going to face him like a man. “I know what Melanie did for you, at the club and in private. I know how she performed. She used to do the same thing for me.” I hesitate, then point at him. “I’ll convince the Washington police that you are guilty of Melanie’s murder if it’s the last thing I do. I promise you that.”

  “It’ll be the last thing you try to do before they send a couple of thousand volts screaming through your body,” he says. “But you won’t convince them, because I didn’t do it. You did!”

  “Mr. Taylor!‘ comes a loud voice from the corridor.

  The police are right outside, probably with their guns drawn. I’m almost out of time.

  “Mr. Taylor, are you in there?”

  “Yes, help me!” he shouts suddenly. “He’s going to kill me!” He struggles to stand, holding one hand out in front of his face, clutching his ribs with the other. I watch in amazement as he tumbles backward over his chair just before uniformed policemen break down the door and spill into the room. His timing is impeccable. What a showman. Moments later my hands are cuffed tightly behind my back, and I’m being hustled down the corridor toward reception by five officers.

  CHAPTER 21

  Reggie is subdued as he sits on the opposite side of a scratched wooden table in this sweltering, sparsely furnished interrogation room. He’s slouched down, chin on his chest, hands thrust deeply into his pockets, and he seems to be contemplating the toes of his cordovan loafers while he thinks about how he wants to proceed. A few beads of sweat glisten on his forehead.

  “You must have known I’d find out about you going after Frank Taylor in his office this morning,” he says quietly.

  Standing behind Reggie is another man. It’s the same guy who accompanied Reggie to my house the night he stood on my stoop and informed me of Melanie’s murder. The guy stands in front of the door to the hall like a sentry, arms crossed defiantly, his sports coat off so I can see the handle of a 9-mm pistol protruding menacingly from his leather shoulder holster. As if I’d even think about trying to escape. This dimly lit room is buried in the bowels of the precinct, and I wouldn’t stand a chance of making it out of here, even if I could get past Reggie and the other guy.

  “Did you hear me, Augustus?”

  “I heard you.”

  “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  As near as I can tell, it’s been about three hours since the cops brought me to the precinct. Most of that time I’ve been confined to a cell down the hall with a couple of guys who looked like hardened criminals. Two uniformed officers brought me in here a few minutes ago to meet with Reggie. “I wanted to look Taylor in the eye.”

  “Why?”

  I shoot another quick glance in the direction of the man standing in front of the door. “You know why.”

  “Is Lewis bothering you?” Reggie asks.

  “He isn’t making me real comfortable with that gun sticking out of his holster,” I admit.

  “Take a cigarette break,” Reggie orders.

  “You sure?” Lewis asks. “This guy’s pretty big.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right outside if you need me,” Lewis says before closing the door. I see him peering at me through the door’s small window for a moment, then he disappears.

  “Now tell me why it was so all-fired important for you to be able to look Taylor in the eye,” Reggie says.

  “I wanted to make certain he was the one who murdered Melanie.”

  Reggie pulls a pack of cigarettes out and offers one to me, but I decline. “And?”

  “And now I’m certain he did it.”

  “Tell me why you’re so certain.” Reggie removes a cigarette from the pack and taps the filter end on the table several times, then places it in his mouth. But he doesn’t light it. He’s trying so hard to be good.

  I take a deep breath. “He had a clear motive.”

  “Which was?”

  “His law practice was failing, and he was broke. He needed the money from Melanie’s insurance policy to save himself financially.”

  “But Melanie’s mother was second on the policy. You told me that yourself.”

  “Somehow Taylor must have convinced Melanie to make him second. Maybe he asked her to marry him and that’s when she agreed to make the change.” I run my hands through my hair and realize that it’s gotten long over the last few weeks. “But I’m sure you already knew that.” He strokes his thin mustache and looks away. “Don’t play games with me, Reggie,” I say. “You’re much too thorough not to have already uncovered that piece of information.”

  “So you think Taylor was banking on the fact that we’d arrest you,” Reggie continues, “and that he would get the money from the insurance policy on account of the slayer statute.”

  “Yes.”

  Reggie puts the cigarette under his nose and takes a long whiff, then pulls out a pack of matches and drops them on the table. “Let’s not forget that you had a very compelling motive too. Melanie was demanding a divorce and she was having an affair with Taylor. You needed the money as well.” Reggie’s fingers crawl across the table toward the matches.

  “I’ve been with Melanie since we were in high school. I couldn’t have killed her. My God, she was my wife.”

  “Like no husband has ever killed his wife,” Reggie scoffs, rolling his eyes. “People kill out of revenge and passion much more often than they do for money. I can tell you that from experience. The odds aren’t in your favor on that one, Augustus. A capable prosecutor will easily convince a jury of that.” Reggie frowns. “And it would be very difficult for that same prosecutor to convince a jury that Taylor would kill a woman for insurance proceeds when he wasn’t the primary beneficiary on her policy. Prosecutors play the odds like anyone else, Augustus. After a while it becomes just a job for them. They indict the person they think they can convict. They lose sight of the human aspect. It’s too bad, but you can’t blame them.”

  Reggie is a hard man, but I’ve always felt that down deep he liked me. Despite all of that tough talk about being able to remain objective and never being surprised at what people are capable of.

  “What do you mean, you can’t blame them?”

  “I mean that prosecutors in this city are judged by their conviction rate. They get rais
es for putting people in prison, not for letting them back on the street. Prosecutors want cases they know they can win, not ones they think they have a good chance of losing.”

  “Frank Taylor is guilty,” I say firmly. “He had motive, he had opportunity, and he argued with Melanie the night of her murder. There was a witness.”

  Reggie looks up. “Who? What was her name?”

  “A woman named Erin who dances at a place here in D.C. called the Two O’Clock Club.” I hesitate. “I know you’ve been there. Erin said you showed up a couple of times asking questions, but that she was able to avoid you.” I pause again. “She and Melanie had a routine they did at the club. A bondage routine.” Reggie stares at me but says nothing. “That’s why you asked me if Melanie had ever performed for me when you came by Bedford that day. That’s why you tried to dig into our sex life. You already knew about Melanie and the club.”

  “Yes, I did,” Reggie agrees quietly.

  “How did you find out?”

  “I checked Melanie’s social security records. We always do that in a murder case just to see if there’s concealed income that could lead to another life that people close to the victim might not have known about. In this case, that’s exactly what we found. Even places like the Two O’Clock Club have to pay the women who work there a small per-hour amount. It’s required by law. Consequently they have to withhold taxes and social security. Like waiters and waitresses, the women make most of their money in cash tips, but they still get that tiny weekly paycheck, part of which has to go to the Social Security Administration. That’s how I found out.” He folds his arms across his chest. “Now, go on.”

  I take a deep breath. “Erin saw Melanie and Frank Taylor arguing outside the club on a couple of occasions,” I say, not wanting to think about Vincent. “She saw Taylor shouting at Melanie a few blocks from the club the night of Melanie’s murder.”

  “I’ll check into that,” Reggie promises, his fingers an inch from the matches.

  I lean forward and snatch the matches away just in the nick of time. “One more thing.”

  “What?” Reggie asks quickly, eyeing the matches longingly.

  I close my eyes tightly. “The night Melanie told me she wanted a divorce …”

  “Yes?”

  “The night before her murder.”

  “Yes?” he asks again impatiently.

  “Melanie had bruises on her wrists, as though she’d been tied up. I saw them right after she asked me for the divorce. The ones the coroner identified.”

  Reggie stares at me intently. “So?”

  “Taylor was the one tying her up. She probably even asked him to do it the first time,” I say, remembering a night long ago when she first suggested that I bind her wrists with my necktie and take what I wanted. “She liked it.” I’m thinking on the irony of how she partly satisfied her need for power over men by being restrained. “Taylor was enjoying it,” I continue. “He even did it at the club once. You can ask Erin. He thought he was the one who had the power in their relationship, but he was wrong. Ultimately it was the other way round. Melanie had all the power. Until he decided he couldn’t take it anymore.” I look away. “It all blew up on him that night she asked me for the divorce. He needed the money desperately, but when he asked, she wouldn’t help him kill me. So he killed her instead.”

  “Whoa, kill you?” Reggie asks incredulously. “What are you talking about?”

  “That was Taylor’s initial plan.”

  “Do you have proof of that?”

  “He was going to kill me,” I say adamantly, even though I know I don’t have anything at all that would stand up in court. “Then he was going to marry Melanie so he could get the money to save his practice. But ultimately she wouldn’t help him kill me so he killed her instead, betting that you would come after me as the murderer. Just as you have.”

  “You’re reaching, Augustus.”

  “His plan was ingenious, and you’re doing exactly as he knew you would. Frank Taylor is a monster, Reggie.

  Reggie’s eyes narrow. “It was your blood beneath Melanie’s fingernails, Augustus, not Frank Taylor’s. Our lab people confirmed that yesterday.”

  “That’s no surprise,” I reply calmly. “The night before her murder, the night she asked me for the divorce, she became violent, beating my chest over and over. I tried to restrain her without hurting her, but at one point she was able to wrench her hands free. It was then that she scratched my neck,” I say, pointing to the faint scars below my left ear. “That happened the night before her murder.”

  “Remember what I said about prosecutors,” Reggie reminds me. “About how they want to win. That kind of physical evidence makes their mouths water. Blood beneath the victim’s fingernails is the kind of thing that sticks in a jury’s mind.” He takes a deep breath. “That and the fact that you have a recent history of violence.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Today was the third time in the last few weeks that you’ve assaulted Frank Taylor. The third time you’ve tracked him down and beaten him silly. He logged in the other two assaults a couple of days ago and said he was going to get a restraining order against you. Said he had plenty of witnesses.” Reggie’s expression turns grim. “You just couldn’t leave him alone.”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, it’s another nail in your coffin. It proves you hated him. And it will prove to a jury that you thought he was having an affair with Melanie, and that you couldn’t handle it. It will make them believe that you are a man capable of cutting your wife’s throat. As will the fact that you assaulted a woman named Sasha in Vienna. There’s a witness on that one too.”

  I was about to explain to Reggie how Taylor had searched me out on the previous two occasions and that I hadn’t touched him today, but I’m momentarily stunned by the news that Sasha has filed a complaint against me for what happened on Saturday. I try to say something, but I can’t.

  Reggie watches me struggle. “You jacked her up against the wall of her place,” he says. “You choked her and she has a witness. A young man who swears you looked like you were going to kill her when he came down the steps. By herself, I don’t believe the woman would be convincing. She’s a psychic, for Christ’s sake. Even a cut-rate defense attorney could shred her on the stand. But with an additional witness, you’re as good as convicted, my man.”

  “The witness looks like a druggie.”

  “He might now, but when the DA’s office gets through with him, he’ll look like a choirboy. They’ll get him a haircut and buy him a suit, and before you know it, Augustus is a dead man.”

  I realize what Reggie’s saying is right. If I were a prosecutor I’d want me at the defense table too. I look up when I hear his chair scratch across the linoleum floor.

  “I’m sorry, Augustus, but you leave me no choice,” he says, standing up. “I’m going to book you on a charge of first-degree murder.” He tosses his unlit cigarette into a trash can by the door. “Lew will be in to read you your rights, and if you don’t know a good criminal lawyer, I can help.” He starts to turn the doorknob, then stops. “Augustus?”

  I was staring down at the floor again, wondering if this nightmare will ever end. “Yes?” I ask, my voice gravelly.

  “One of the first times we talked, I asked where you were the night of Melanie’s death.”

  “And I told you. I took a drive. I’d quit my job, and Melanie had demanded a divorce. I needed some time alone.”

  “Winchester, right?”

  “Yes,” I mumble, wondering why he’s asking. “I wanted to go to the mountains. I love the mountains.”

  “How did you come back to the city? What road did you take?”

  I think for a second. “Route 50. I took it out and back.”

  “Do you remember what time you started back from Winchester?”

  “Around ten, maybe even a little later than that.”

  “Okay,” he says, turning to go.

  “R
eggie?” I call as he’s about to walk out the doorway.

  “What is it?”

  “Did the Montgomery police ever find Mary Segal?”

  He shakes his head. “Not as of ten this morning.”

  “One more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Does Washington, D.C., have the death penalty?”

  CHAPTER 22

  A few moments after Reggie leaves the interrogation room, Lewis returns to read me my Miranda rights in a fast-forward monotone I can barely understand because he’s speaking so quickly. I’m not paying much attention either.

  During the entire time Lewis “processes” me into the penal system, I don’t sense that he cares one way or the other about me. It’s just his way of making a living, and I can tell he can’t wait until his shift is over. He isn’t passionate about his job, or life, the way Reggie is. He’ll never be the cop—or the man—Reggie is.

  It’s interesting the way Reggie markets himself as a cold, hard man, when down deep he’s really a good guy who’s just driven to do the right thing. To find the truth. It’s strange what you think about when you’re being fingerprinted for the first time in your life.

  When Lewis has a clear imprint of each of my fingertips, he hands me a roll of paper towels to wipe off the ink while he completes my paperwork. Then he leads me back down the hall to the holding cell where I sit for a few hours until they’re ready to transport me to the city jail with the rest of the hoodlums they’ve rounded up overnight. It’s a short ride and it isn’t pleasant. The whole time I feel like the other guys in the van are sizing me up. I can only imagine what for.

  A few hours after being locked in my cell, I’m sitting on the lower bunk, staring at a cold gray wall two feet away. A feeling of despair sinks in as someone down the hall calls lights-out. I thought I was lonely in the motel room, but last night was nothing compared to this. I almost wish there was somebody else in here just so I’d have someone to talk to. Even if he was a hard case with a violent record. Anything would be better than this.