The Baxter Trust sw-1

by Parnell Hall

  “It was none of your business,” she said defiantly.

  “It was all of my business,” he said. “It’s the last link the police need to convict you of murder. Greely was a blackmailer. You have a trust fund that you lose if your name is connected to any scandal. Being named a correspondent in a divorce case would just fill the bill.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t think of it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “All right, damn it,” Sheila said. “I’m not stupid. What you just said-about losing my trust fund-you think I didn’t know that? About being named correspondent. I know. It’s the motive. It’s all the cops need.” Sheila shrugged helplessly. “I thought if the case looked too black, you wouldn’t take it.”

  “I’m a lawyer,” Steve said. “It’s not my job to judge you. It’s my job to take the facts and present them to the jury in the best possible light. But I have to know what they are first.”

  “Then you won’t quit on me?”

  “Of course I won’t quit on you.”

  “That’s good, because, well, there’s something else I have to tell you.”

  “What is it?”

  “I was lying about the window-shopping.”

  “So, what else is new? What were you really doing?”

  “Buying cocaine.”

  Steve looked at her. “What?”

  “I was buying cocaine.”

  He just stared at her for a moment. Then he began laughing. He shook his head and laughed, mirthlessly.

  Sheila, who had been working herself up to this particular confession, and who had thought she had girded her defenses against any sort of reaction, was totally unprepared for this. She stared at him in irritation.

  “What’s so damn funny?” she said.

  Steve waved apologetically, but continued to laugh. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just my luck, somehow. I mean, how bad can things get? Now I’ve got a cokehead for a client in a hopeless murder case. You’ve made my day.”

  “What do you mean, hopeless murder case?”

  “Well, I said if the cops found any grounds for blackmail you’d be sunk. Wait’ll they find out about the coke.”

  “They won’t.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “So, what if they do? They already have a motive for blackmail. What difference does it make if they have two.”

  “Wake up,” Steve said. “I don’t know if you’re aware of it or not, but there’s been a tremendous backlash against drugs lately, and particularly against cocaine, what with crack and all. Not only will this give the prosecution a motive for blackmail, it’ll turn the whole jury against you.”

  “So?”

  “So that changes our whole strategy. Before, we could stall around, buy some time, get a few postponements and continuances. Now I gotta rush this thing to trial before anyone figures out you’re a junkie.”

  “I’m not a junkie!”

  “Sorry. Cokehead.”

  “Fine. I see that. But you’re missing the point. The point is, I have a perfectly good witness for the time of the murder, but there’s no way in the world he’s going to come forward and testify.”

  “It doesn’t matter. They fix the time of death between twelve-thirty and one-thirty. So you could have killed him after you got home.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. So that’s the way it is. Now, before we go any further, do you have any more little surprises for me?”

  “Well, sort of.”

  Steve sighed. “Okay. Let’s have it.”

  “When I found the body I had a gram of coke on me. I was afraid I’d be arrested and searched, so I put it in an envelope and mailed it to myself. The mail hadn’t come before the cops picked me up, but it must have come by now.”

  “So?”

  “I keep an extra key to my apartment on the ledge over my door. There’s a key to the mailbox in the drawer of my night table.” She paused and then went on, ironically mimicking his earlier speech to her. “Now, I’m not advising you to get that letter before the police get it. That would be compounding a felony and conspiring to conceal a crime. So I’m not advising you to get that letter.”

  Steve looked at her. Some girl, he thought. She was stickin’ it to him good. Despite her predicament, she was still scrapping. He had to admire her spunk, though he wasn’t going to let her know that.

  He frowned and rubbed his forehead. “What a nice little playmate you are,” he said. “I haven’t been working for you twenty-four hours, and you’ve got me running dope.”

  22

  “Steve. I’ve been trying to reach you. The cops picked up Sheila Benton.”

  “Yesterday’s news, Mark. I’m calling from the lockup.”

  “You see your client?”

  “Yeah. I saw her.”

  “What’s her story?”

  “She’s innocent, what did you think it was?”

  “No, I mean-”

  “Forget it. You got anything for me?”

  “Not from the police end. They got something and it’s hot, but I can’t get a line on it. But I’ve got something hot they don’t have. At least I think they don’t.”

  “Great. What?”

  “All right. Now, this is just a tip, and the source will not be quoted, but about a month ago Greely was putting the squeeze on a guy named Louie Carboni.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I thought Greely had no record as a blackmailer.”

  “With the police, he doesn’t.”

  “So how’d you get this?”

  “I told you, the source will not be quoted.”

  “Just between you and me.”

  “I got an operative who’s friends with a snitch. Ever since the murder, the snitch is going out of his mind ’cause he’s got this bit of hot info on Greely that the cops would love to get their hands on, but he’s scared to give it to ’em.”

  “Why?”

  “Carboni’s connected.”

  “No shit!”

  “Yeah. So the snitch is scared shitless to talk to the cops for fear it might get back to the mob. So when my man promised him fifty bucks and he’d keep him out of it, the guy fell all over himself trying to cooperate.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Isn’t it. And the best part is, unless we blow it, there’s no way this info is going to get to the cops.”

  “Terrific. You made a pass at Carboni yet?”

  “No. I thought you’d want to handle it.”

  “I sure do. You got the address?”

  “Sure.”

  Taylor gave it to him. An apartment on East 90th Street. Steve copied down the address and hung up the phone.

  He was so pumped up by the prospect of getting a lead, that he stepped out into the street and started to hail a cab before he realized what he was doing. He was way the hell downtown. A cab ride to East 90th Street could just about break him.

  Steve walked down to the Chambers Street station and caught the number six uptown. As he rumbled along, he couldn’t help smiling. He wondered how many other lawyers on their way to interview a material witness in a murder case had ever taken the subway.

  It was right after the train pulled out of the Grand Central stop that he remembered-tonight was the night he had that early dinner date with Judy Meyers. Damn. He’d have to call and cancel. Even if this lead on Carboni didn’t take long, he still had to get back over to the West Side and get that letter out of Sheila’s mailbox. And besides, Steve realized he just wasn’t in the mood. There was just no way he could sit still for dinner.

  Yeah, he’d have to call and cancel, Judy’d be pissed, but he couldn’t help that now.

  He got off the subway at 86th and Lex, and walked uptown to Carboni’s address.

  It was a third-floor walkup on East 90th Street in one of those buildings that someday someone would renovate and make a ki
lling on, but which presently were dives.

  Steve pushed the outer door open and went in. There were no buzzers or bells, so he figured the inner door would be unlocked too. It was. He pushed it open and went up the stairs.

  Carboni lived in 3C. At least the number was on the door. In some places like this, the numbers weren’t.

  Steve banged on the door. There came the sound of footsteps, then the sound of the plate sliding away from the peephole and then back over it, and then the click of the bolt unlocking.

  The door opened fast, so fast Steve had no time to react before the fist came crashing into his stomach. As he doubled over in pain, hands grabbed him and wrenched him around. He caught another hard fist in the stomach.

  The last thing he felt was another, square in the face.

  23

  Steve Winslow felt vague sensations. Hands. Lots of hands. Gripping him under the shoulders. Supporting him. Holding him up. Two pairs of hands. Two men, one on each side, raising him up, holding him between them. And stairs. Lots of stairs. Bumping down them between the two men, feet dragging on the steps.

  Then light. Sunlight. Outside. In broad daylight, for Christ’s sake, dragging across the sidewalk to the street and…

  A car. The back seat of a car. Someone beside him, holding him up. Or just holding him. Holding him away from the door. Why? Because the car was not moving, stopped at a light. Now moving, and the hand on his arm relaxing somewhat. Moving, driving. How long? Stop and go. Then cruising, moving right along. Then slowing, twisting, turning. Then different sounds, different rhythms. Tires on gravel, not pavement. A driveway. Stopping.

  Hands again. An open car door. Hands through the door, pulling, dragging, grabbing, supporting. On either side now, bumping up some short steps and through a door.

  Plush carpet. Falling backwards. Onto the carpet? No. Something in his back. Soft. Comfortable. A chair.

  And at last, a dim voice in the fog: “Freshen him up.”

  Movement around him. Footsteps. The clink of glass.

  Then something cold on his forehead. Cold and wet. Water dripping down his face.

  Then something thrust into his hand, and a voice, “Here. Drink this.”

  Hands raising the glass to his lips. The sudden smell. Brandy. Then the taste. Trickling down his throat. Warming him.

  Steve’s eyes blinked, cleared, focused.

  It was a large living room. Richly furnished, as richly as Maxwell Baxter’s. But with a difference. Maxwell Baxter’s living room was rich but tasteful. This living room was just rich. It was gaudy, flashy. Aggressively rich.

  A man sat in a chair opposite him. A large man, powerful. In his mid-fifties, perhaps. The man belonged in the room. He wore a huge gold watch and gold rings.

  A woman sat on the arm of his chair. Mid-twenties. Voluptuous. She also matched the room. A prop. A showpiece. An expensive ornament.

  The man held a brandy snifter identical to the one Steve held. He raised it in a gesture. Polite and gracious, the perfect host.

  “Nice of you to drop in on us, Mr. Winslow,” he said.

  Steve straightened himself with an effort, and glanced around at the two men who stood on either side of his chair. He looked back at his host.

  “Thanks for the invitation,” he said.

  The man smiled. “Don’t mention it. You like the brandy?”

  “Very good.”

  “My private stock. An excellent vintage.”

  Steve’s head was beginning to clear enough to want to try to make some sense out of the situation. “You seem to know me,” he said, “but I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Ah, excuse me,” said the man. “I am Tony Zambelli.”

  He said it in the manner of one making a pronouncement, and Steve knew he should be impressed, but actually he had never heard the name before. But he knew enough to know that if he were a real, practicing lawyer, he would know the name. He also knew that the name itself did not matter-he knew who Zambelli was.

  “My pleasure,” he said.

  Zambelli smiled. “My wife, Rita,” he said, indicating the girl.

  Steve nodded. Rita looked bored.

  “The boys I believe you know,” Zambelli said.

  “We met. All right, what’s the pitch?”

  Zambelli smiled. “I like a man who gets right to the point. All right, Mr. Winslow. It has come to my attention that you are investigating a blackmailer named Robert Greely. I thought perhaps I could be of help.”

  “How thoughtful.”

  “You apparently are under the impression that Greely was blackmailing Louie here.” Zambelli indicated the man standing at Steve’s left.

  Steve gave him a look. Louie never blinked.

  “That, however,” Zambelli went on, “is incorrect. Louie paid Greely the money, but he was merely the go-between. Greely was actually blackmailing me.”

  Steve looked at Zambelli in surprise. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because under the circumstances I believe it will be to my advantage to make sure you have all the facts.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Very well. Greely was a blackmailer. A few months ago he put the bite on me.”

  “Over what?”

  Again, Zambelli gestured to the girl. “Rita is my second wife. We were married last month.” He said it as if announcing he had purchased a stock.

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. We are very happy. Now then, a few months ago I was in the process of divorcing my first wife. There was naturally the question of a property settlement.”

  “I think I get the picture,” Winslow said.

  “Exactly. Greely got hold of some information which would have been worth several hundred thousand dollars to my ex-wife if she had gotten her hands on it. He wanted ten thousand dollars to keep it quiet. I gave it to him.”

  Steve smiled, taking the sting out of the words. “Come off it, Zambelli. That’s not your style. You’re not the type of guy to pay blackmail. You’d have rubbed him out first.”

  Zambelli seemed quite unruffled by the suggestion. “Mr. Winslow,” he said. “I’m a businessman. It would have cost me more than ten thousand to have him killed. Therefore, I paid him off.”

  Steve shook his head. “Yes, but you know perfectly well that a blackmailer never quits. Ten grand was just the first bite. What was to stop Greely from boosting the ante?”

  “In the first place, I checked him out. He was a very clever blackmailer. You probably know that he’s never been arrested. That’s because he never tried to bleed his marks. He’d take one bite and quit.

  “In the second place, as soon as my divorce was settled, he lost his leverage.”

  For the first time, Zambelli’s face got hard. “And in the third place, he wouldn’t have dared. Now look, you and me, we’re sitting here, we’re talking blackmail. That’s because Greely was a blackmailer, and that’s how you got the story, so between you and me, that’s fine, what do I care? But let me tell you. This was not blackmail. You are right, I would not pay blackmail. It happens that Greely is a guy who in his profession hears things and finds out things. He got this information. He brought it to me, through Louie, and I was grateful to have it and to know where it came from, because then I could dry up the source. So I gave him the ten grand. It was a reward, a thank you, for bringing it to me and no one else. It was payment for a job well done.”

  Zambelli waved his hand. “Now, that’s neither here nor there. We can call it blackmail. And the police would certainly call it blackmail. But if you have to know why I paid, then you are right. I would not pay blackmail. I would rub him out first. But this was not blackmail, and that is why I paid.”

  Steve thought that over. “All right,” he said. “Suppose I buy all that? Why is it to your advantage to have me know all about this?”

  Zambelli was once more the smiling host. “Because I have no wish to be dragged into court. You’re Sheila Benton’s law
yer. You’re perfectly capable of subpoenaing me and throwing me in the district attorney’s face as a possible suspect. Now, I had nothing to do with the murder. That doesn’t bother me. But I would find it particularly embarrassing to have the district attorney cross-examine me concerning my activities on the day in question.”

  “I would hate to cause you embarrassment.”

  “Then keep me out of it.”

  “You still haven’t given me a reason why I should.”

  Zambelli took a drink of brandy. “As it happens,” he said, “at the time of the murder I was engaged in a little game of cards.”

  Steve looked at him skeptically. “At twelve-thirty in the afternoon?”

  “The game actually began the night before. Two of the players were wealthy corporate executives. Being heavy losers, they were reluctant to quit. So they phoned in sick, and the game continued.”

  “Did their luck improve?” Steve inquired with mock seriousness.

  Zambelli matched his tone. “It did not.”

  Zambelli reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He extended it to Rita, who took it to Winslow, then returned to her seat. She managed to give the impression of a dog doing a trick.

  “Here’s a list of names,” Zambelli said, “of the people involved in the poker game. The first two names are friends of mine. You’ll find them most cooperative. The last two names are the corporate executives. They may be a trifle touchy.”

  “Touchy corporate executives are my specialty,” Steve said. “But why should I do this for you? Even if this is true, you’d still make a dandy red herring.”

  Zambelli shook his head. “You can’t gain anything by dragging me into court. All you’ll do is prove that Greely was a blackmailer. The police know he’s a blackmailer, but they can’t prove it. So it’s to your client’s advantage to keep me out of it.”

  Steve thought that over. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll look into it. If this checks out, you’ve done me a favor.”

  Zambelli smiled broadly. “Sure,” he said. “What are friends for?”

  24

  Maxwell Baxter paced his living room like a caged tiger. He still couldn’t quite accept it. His niece was in jail, and he was powerless to do anything about it. Him. A man of power. A man with connections. A man with influence. And he could do nothing.