The Baxter Trust sw-1

by Parnell Hall

  He’d gone to jail to see her and she hadn’t told him a thing. Not a thing. Except to say that she had her own lawyer, and he could damn well pay him. Fat chance! That weirdo. That twerp.

  And his own lawyers were powerless to help him. Marston, Marston, and Cramden had been besieging the D.A.’s office all day, but to no avail. She was arrested, it was an open-and-shut case, there was not the slightest possibility of bail. And that was that.

  He could get no information, that was the infuriating thing. If the cops had an open-and-shut case, what was it? No one was talking. The lid had never been on so tight. Even a personal call to the commissioner had been fruitless. There simply was no information to be had.

  Max shook his head. Jesus, what the hell were his attorneys doing? Or his detectives, for that matter? Should he call them again? How long had it been? He checked his watch. Ten minutes. Impossible. Only ten minutes?

  The house phone rang. God, let it be news. He dove for it.

  “Yes?”

  The voice of the doorman said, “Mr. Baxter, there is a Mr. Winslow down here. He insists on seeing you.”

  Max was ready for any information at this point. “All right. Send him up.”

  The voice of the doorman was apologetic. “Yes, Mr. Baxter. I must tell you, the gentleman is somewhat disheveled and he smells of liquor.”

  “I see. It’s all right. Send him up.”

  “Very well, Mr. Baxter.”

  Max hung up the phone and strolled out into the foyer. The elevator arrived, the door opened and Steve Winslow, as described, but very determined, emerged and strode up to him.

  “All right, Uncle Max,” he said. “Take out your checkbook.”

  Max prided himself on his self-control. It took a lot in this instance, but he merely raised his eyebrows, not his voice.

  “What the devil do you mean barging in here in this fashion?” he said coolly. “You smell of liquor and you look as if you’ve been in a barroom brawl.”

  Steve wasn’t about to take any shit. “Never mind that. Just take out your checkbook.”

  “Now see here-”

  “Take out your fucking checkbook.”

  The elevator man, who had been reluctant to bring Steve up at all, now hovered expectantly.

  Max waved him away. “That will be all, Frank,” he said.

  Frank somewhat reluctantly closed the door.

  Max stood aside and gestured Steve into the living room. His manner was still cool and polite.

  “And just why should I take out my checkbook?” he said as he ushered Steve in.

  “You are going to write me a check.”

  Max smiled. “I think not.”

  Steve wheeled around to face him. “I’m tired of working for nothing. You are going to give me a twenty-five-thousand-dollar retainer.”

  Max stared at him. “Twenty-five thousand dollars! You must be drunk.”

  “Did you know that your niece took drugs?” Steve snapped the words out, slapped him in the face with them. “Well, she does. Cocaine, to be exact. When the police get their hands on that bit of information you can kiss her ass goodbye.”

  Max recoiled, genuinely shaken. “Mr. Winslow-”

  “Not to mention the fact that she lied to the police about where she was at the time of the murder.”

  Max was still at sea. “She told you that?”

  “She sure did,” Steve said. “Which brings us to an interesting situation. Either I’m your niece’s attorney or I’m not.”

  “Well, you’re not.”

  Steve went on as if he hadn’t heard the interruption. “If I am your niece’s attorney, everything she told me is a privileged communication, and no power on earth can drag it out of me. If I’m not her attorney, the prosecution can put me on the stand and force me to tell everything I know.”

  Max stared at him. “But… but… they wouldn’t know to put you on the stand.”

  “Wanna bet?” Steve said. “I’ll bet you twenty-five thousand dollars that if I walk out that door without that check, inside of fifteen minutes the district attorney will get an anonymous tip to pick me up and shake me down.”

  Max stared at him, openmouthed. “Mr. Winslow,” he said. “That’s blackmail!”

  Steve nodded in grim satisfaction. “Yeah,” he said. “Ain’t it?”

  25

  Steve Winslow came out the front door of Baxter’s building holding the check in his hand. He folded it, stuck it in his pocket and headed for Lexington Avenue.

  He found a phone on the corner, dropped in a quarter and punched in the number.

  “Hello,” came the voice of the dispatcher.

  “Charlie? It’s Steve.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You know yesterday I told you I was sick? Well, I got worse and died.”

  Steve hung up the phone, stepped out into the street and hailed a cab. He gave the cabbie Sheila Benton’s address, then settled back in the seat as the cab headed uptown and through the park. It felt good to be riding in a cab instead of driving one. Steve pulled the check out of his pocket, unfolded it and looked at it again.

  Yeah, it felt good.

  The cab pulled up in front of Sheila Benton’s apartment. Steve paid the fare and over-tipped, knowing how the cabbie felt.

  He went up the front steps and into the foyer, looked through the slot in the mailbox. Sure enough, there was something inside. He sighed and headed up the stairs.

  The key was over the door, right where Sheila had said. He took it down and fitted in into the lock, clicked the bolt back and opened the door.

  Hands grabbed him, pulled him into the darkness, wrenched him around. Jesus, not again. He braced himself for the blow.

  It never came. Instead, the lights clicked on, and Steve could see the two men who had pinned him against the wall. Cops. They jerked his arms down and twisted them behind him. He felt the cold metal and heard the click of the handcuffs.

  The cops spun him around and he saw the figure of a third man who was seated on the couch. A solid, beefy cop, obviously in charge.

  Sergeant Stams arose from the couch with a triumphant grin. His stolid, impassive look was just the face he wore for Lieutenant Farron. It was his second-in-command face, his good-soldier face. But Sergeant Stams wasn’t the second-in-command here. This was his operation. He’d thought it up, he’d put it into operation, it had worked and now it was his moment to shine, to be as suave, as ironic, and as sarcastic as the rest of them.

  “Well, well,” he said. “I figured maybe Greely had an accomplice.”

  Steve stared at him. “Are you crazy? I’m Sheila Benton’s attorney.”

  Stams looked at Steve’s rumpled clothes. “Sure you are.”

  One of the cops who had been frisking Steve for a weapon held up the check. “Hey Sarge, look at this.”

  Sergeant Stams took the check and looked it over. A broad grin twisted his face. “Well, well. A check from Maxwell Baxter for twenty-five grand. That ought to clinch it.”

  Steve couldn’t believe it. “I tell you, I’m Sheila’s attorney. That check is my retainer.”

  Stams looked at him ironically. “Yeah. Sure. You really look like an attorney. Can’t you come up with a better line than that?”

  “I tell you-”

  “Save it, buddy. You’re going downtown.”

  Steve blinked. He took a deep breath and let it out again. He controlled himself with a great effort.

  “All right,” he said. “But under the circumstances, I feel compelled to ask you one question.”

  “Oh yeah?” Stams said. “What’s that?”

  Steve looked him right in the eye. “How would you like to kiss my ass?”

  26

  Lieutenant Farron stood to one side as the guard unlocked the door of the holding cell and let Steve Winslow out.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Winslow,” he said.

  “Yeah, sure,” Steve said. “Are you familiar with the laws regarding false arrest?”r />
  Lieutenant Farron guided Steve down the hall toward the main desk. “As a matter of fact, I am,” he said. “The charge of false arrest can be defended if the officer in charge acted in good faith and had reasonable grounds to make the arrest.”

  “You considered that check sufficient grounds?”

  “It did tend to tie you in with Greely.”

  “You ever hear of a blackmailer who took checks?” Steve said.

  “I admit the situation is unfortunate.”

  They reached the front desk. Farron led Steve over to the counter where he had surrendered his personal possessions before being locked up.

  “Winslow,” Farron told the cop at the desk, “Check him out.”

  The cops reached under the desk and brought out a manila envelope.

  “Sign here, Mr. Winslow.”

  Steve signed his name, opened the envelope and poured the stuff out on the table. His wallet, his keys, some loose change, his watch and Sheila Benton’s apartment key.

  “Where’s the check?”

  “I have it here,” Farron said, taking it out of his pocket.

  “Oh?”

  “It was considered evidence and was examined as such.”

  “I see.”

  Steve folded the check and stuck it into his pocket.

  “Now that you’re convinced that I’m Sheila Benton’s attorney, do you have any objection if I inspect the scene of the crime?”

  “Be my guest,” Farron told him.

  Steve jerked his thumb in the direction of the holding cell.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I just was.”

  Steve made his way out of the police station, hailed a cab and took it straight back to Sheila Benton’s apartment. He went up the stairs, unlocked the door and went in. He switched on the light and looked around. This time there was no one there.

  He went over to the night table and opened the drawer. It was full of junk. Pencils, tissues, eyeliner, change, papers, buttons, string. He pawed through it, found the key. He held it up and looked at it. It was a mailbox key, all right. He sighed and shook his head.

  He stuck the key into his pocket, with the feeling that just by doing that he was taking a chance. He went to the door, opened it, switched the light off and went out, locking the door behind him. He did not replace the apartment key over the sill. Instead, it joined the other one in his pocket.

  He went down the stairs, not even glancing at the mailbox as he went through the foyer. He just kept on going out the door and down the front steps.

  Outside, he paused for a moment, then strolled off toward Columbus Avenue.

  He walked slowly around the block. As far as he could tell, no one was paying any attention to him. No one seemed to be paying any attention to the apartment house either. Of course, there was no way to be sure. He was worried about Lieutenant Farron and Sergeant Stams. Either one of them could be having the apartment watched. Farron because he was smart, smart enough to figure Steve might be up to something. And Stams because he was dumb, dumb enough to watch the apartment in the vain hope of vindicating himself from looking stupid, even though that was now a useless exercise.

  It was a hell of a situation to be in. Just when he’d finally gotten his retainer, too. Steve chuckled. What had he said to Lieutenant Farron? “You ever hear of a blackmailer who took checks?” Well, the check was blackmail, wasn’t it? His first retainer, and he’d had to blackmail someone to get it. There certainly were things they didn’t teach you in law school.

  He stopped outside the building. Okay, should he do it or not? Silly question. Of course he should. A lawyer’s duty was to his client, even if that client held out on him and loused things up. Yeah, he had to do it. The only question was whether or not he would get caught. Well, he’d already been caught. The funny thing was, if Sergeant Stams had only been smart enough to have staked out the building instead of the apartment, he would have caught him red-handed.

  Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Steve went up the front steps and into the foyer. He took the key out of his pocket, opened the mailbox and took out the letter. The envelope was hand addressed, with no return address on it. It seemed to have a small packet inside. He folded it, stuck it in his pocket.

  He went out the front door and down the steps, trying hard to keep from looking around. He headed back to Columbus Avenue.

  There was a garbage can on the corner. He would have loved to tear the letter open and ditch the coke, but he didn’t dare. Instead, he walked out into the street and looked for a cab.

  It was five minutes before one came. He flagged it down, hopped in and gave the driver his address.

  In the relative privacy of the backseat, Steve tore open the envelope and took out the packet of coke. He stuck the envelope in one pocket, and the packet of coke in another. He immediately felt better. He could still get busted for possession, but his client was safe.

  As safe as one can be when they’re in jail charged with murder.

  The cab pulled up in front of Steve’s building. He paid off the cab, went up the front steps and opened the door.

  Inside. Safe at last, unless they were waiting for him in his apartment, something he couldn’t quite put past Sergeant Stams.

  They weren’t, however. The apartment was a holy mess, as he had left it, but there was no one there.

  Steve locked and bolted the door. There, safe at last. Which, he realized, was a strange way to be feeling. This whole thing was making him paranoid. But then, how often did he get arrested on his way to pick up someone’s drugs?

  He sat on the couch, picked up the phone and called his answering service. There was one message from Judy Meyers: “Where are you?”

  He sighed. Hell. He’d forgotten to call and cancel. This was the third time he’d stood her up, too. Only this time he had a legitimate excuse.

  That thought made him realize the other two times he must not have had a legitimate excuse. Was he avoiding Judy Meyers? Not consciously. He hadn’t really thought about it before.

  He looked at the clock. 11:30. Where had the day gone? Well, not too late to call. He reached for the phone. Stopped. Shit. It was too late to call. Judy had an audition tomorrow morning. That’s why they’d made an early dinner date. She’d be asleep now.

  He suddenly realized how tired he was. What a day. He should be sleeping too. But first things first. Take care of business.

  He went in to the bathroom and took the packet out of his pocket. It was a small brown envelope. He tore it open. Inside was a small plastic bag filled with a white powder. He tore the bag open, dumped the powder into the toilet, then threw the plastic bag and the brown envelope in too.

  He flushed the toilet. It didn’t flush. It gurgled encouragingly for a few moments, but then quieted. The ripples in the bowl smoothed out, and the water moved in a gentle circle. The envelope and plastic bag floated like ducks on a pond. The coke floated on the surface too-white pond scum.

  He stood looking down at the bowl and chuckled. Well, a fitting end to the day, somehow. Sometimes the toilet worked and sometimes it didn’t. He’d been after the super for weeks to fix the damn thing. Well, he couldn’t call him now. “Yeah, it won’t flush. Please ignore the cocaine floating in the water.”

  He moved the pile of old magazines and assorted junk off the tank of the toilet and took off the top. About five minutes of fiddling produced the desired effect. Water coursed down, and envelope, plastic bag and cocaine were flushed away. He kept watching to make sure they didn’t pop up again. They didn’t.

  He emerged from the bathroom, bent down, untied his shoes and kicked them into the corner, then pulled off his jacket and tie and threw them over a chair. He stepped out of his pants and hung them on the doorknob. They missed, fell to the floor. He let them lay. Well, fold out the couch? Screw it. He was too tired. As usual.

  He flung himself facedown on the couch and was instantly asleep.

  27

  “You son of a bitch!”


  To understate it, Sheila Benton was not happy. She was glaring daggers through the wire mesh screen in the visiting room.

  Steve Winslow, on the other hand, was in rare good humor. He had gotten a good night’s sleep. He had showered and shaved, and attended to his cuts and bruises. His jacket and tie were the same, but he had put on clean socks and underwear, a clean shirt and a clean pair of pants.

  And he had money in the pockets.

  “Nice talk,” he said sardonically. “Why am I a son of a bitch?”

  “You know why,” Sheila said between clenched teeth. “You told Uncle Max I was taking drugs.”

  “He was here, then?”

  “I’ll say he was here! Do you know what you’ve done? Do you have any idea? You’ve probably fucked me out of my entire inheritance.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. You’ve got eleven years to work your way back into his good graces.”

  “Yeah! Great. Why the hell’d you have to tell him I was taking drugs?”

  “I had to.”

  “Yeah. I know. He told me. You needed the money.”

  “That was only part of it. I had to get him to call off Marston, Marston, and Cramden before they bungled you into a first-degree-murder rap.”

  Sheila laughed sarcastically. “Oh, sure. Here you are, the great savior. What the hell makes you think they’d do any worse a job than you’ve been doing?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’d sure like to hear what they would have said when you asked them to pick up your cocaine for you.”

  She had been preparing another angry retort, but that stopped her. “Oh. Did you get it?”

  “Yeah. I got it.”

  She lowered her voice. “Do you have it on you?”

  Steve looked at her in disbelief. “No, I do not ‘have it on’ me. I have enough trouble without walking around with drugs in my pockets. Did you know the police picked me up and frisked me last night?”