Blackmail

by Parnell Hall

  I was watching Thurman’s face as he tried to follow that one. It was almost comic. I wondered how much of it he’d actually absorbed.

  Not much.

  “What makes you think the pictures are in that apartment?”

  “I don’t think the pictures are in that apartment.”

  “You just said you did.”

  “No, I just said if.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  I felt like I was back in grade school. Having a says-you argument with another school kid.

  The medical examiner showed up about then, and Richard close behind him, which kind of killed the discussion.

  Which was all right with me.

  I wasn’t sure whether I’d won the argument or not, but I can’t say I really cared.

  At least I hadn’t wound up in the drunk tank.

  24.

  “THIS IS GETTING TO BE a very bad habit.”

  Good lord. A.D.A. Baby-Pace Frost quoting Sergeant Thurman? I suppose it was possible. He’d certainly spent enough time with Thurman before he got to me. But I doubted it. I think it was probably just an example of great minds running in the same direction.

  Other than that remark, Frost had Thurman beat hands down. He was a much more adept questioner and had no problem at all dealing with the concept of my fingerprints on the photos.

  “That’s interesting,” Frost said, when I brought it up. “This Barry—or rather Cliff McFadgen—winds up with the pictures again. And just what made you think of that?”

  “Actually, Sergeant Thurman did. By insisting, was I sure my prints couldn’t be in that apartment. Since I didn’t go in, the answer would be yes. But then it occurred to me my prints could be, if something I touched was in that apartment. I thought of the pictures, naturally.”

  “Why not the money?”

  “What?”

  “The money. The blackmail money. You gave that to him. Paid it over. But you got the pictures from him. There was a reason why he’d have the money, and a reason why he wouldn’t have the pictures.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So why’d you think of the pictures? Why not the money?”

  “I don’t know. For one thing, I didn’t touch the money.”

  “Oh? I thought you made the payoff.”

  “Yeah, but you’ll recall the money was in an envelope. When I gave him the envelope he tore it open and dumped the money out on the bed. So I never touched it.”

  “You touched the envelope.”

  “Of course.”

  “When I say the money, that’s what I mean. The package with the money in it. You gave it to him. So why wouldn’t your prints be on that?”

  “I didn’t think of it.”

  “Why not?”

  I turned to Richard, who was sitting next to me at the table. “How can I answer that?”

  He frowned. “I don’t know. It’s a difficult question if you don’t know the answer.” He looked at A.D.A. Frost. “On the other hand, it is nothing my client and I wish to withhold.” He looked back at me. “So I suggest that you go through your thought process and describe your thinking to the best of your ability.”

  I exhaled. “Great,” I said. “Now, what was the question again?”

  “About your fingerprints—why did you think of the photos rather than the money? Or the envelope with the money?”

  “Right. I don’t know.” I thought. “Well, for one thing, why would he save the envelope?”

  “What?”

  “I saw him tear open the envelope and dump out the money. So why in the world would he save the envelope? He’d just throw it out.”

  “It could be in the trash.”

  “What?”

  Frost shrugged. “Say he did throw it out—it could still be in his wastebasket.”

  “In his apartment? He opened it in the motel.”

  “He could have brought it with him.”

  I held up my hand. “Hey. This is silly. I can rationalize why the envelope isn’t important, but the fact is, I never even thought of it.”

  “Right. And the question is, why is that?”

  I took a breath. Exhaled. “I suppose it’s the surface.”

  “What?”

  “I suppose you can get fingerprints from paper. Or so I understand. That technically it can be done. But I don’t think that way. I think of paper, an envelope, you handle that, it doesn’t leave fingerprints. But a glossy photograph is just the type of thing to hold ’em. So when I’m asked what I might have left prints on, the photographs spring to mind. Even though the photographs wouldn’t be in his possession and the blackmail money would. Was it in his possession?” I asked.

  Frost smiled. “If you don’t mind, I’m the one doing the questioning. But, no, there was no money in his possession. At least, not the money you describe, a large amount of hundred-dollar bills. And no blackmail photos either. Unless there’s some secret panel in the apartment we haven’t found yet. But, no, neither the money nor the pictures were there.”

  “Then what’s the big deal about?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why are we spending so much time speculating about my fingerprints being on those photographs if the photographs aren’t there?”

  “Because you thought of it.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The photographs may not be there, but it occurred to you that they might be. It’s interesting that you thought that, and that thought process is what we want to pursue.”

  “I’m flattered,” I said. “But that’s all it was—a thought. The only reason I had it was because Thurman asked me. Like, here’s an impossibility, explain it. And then I start thinking.”

  “And you come up with that. This Cliff McFadgen having the photographs.”

  “I find it hard not to think of him as Barry.”

  “Call him whatever you like. The fact is, you thought he might have them.”

  “Someone had to have ’em.”

  Frost nodded. “That’s absolutely true. But wouldn’t the most likely person be one of the people in the pictures?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I mean, after all, who would have the most motive for wanting to get those pictures back?”

  “Of course. And if those pictures aren’t in his apartment, that’s probably exactly what happened. You understand, I didn’t say it was likely those pictures were in his apartment, I was just suggesting it was possible.”

  “I quite understand,” Frost said. “Now, with regard to the murder weapon.”

  “That gun was the murder weapon?”

  “It will doubtless turn out to be.”

  “Then I assume the other gun did. The one found with Patricia Connely.” When Frost said nothing, I said, “Come on. You can at least tell me that.”

  “Yes, of course it’s the murder weapon. Just as I’m sure this one will be.”

  “Right. And I assume it’s a cold piece, or it wouldn’t have been left near the body. So you won’t be able to trace it.”

  “A cold piece?” Frost said. He raised his eyebrows. “Do you watch a lot of television, Mr. Hastings?”

  “I’m sorry I’m not up on the lingo,” I said. “I mean whatever you guys call it.”

  I’d hoped Frost would say something else about the gun, but apparently he’d only used the TV dig to put me off.

  “Now, with regard to the gun,” he said, “I assume you’d never seen it before?”

  “As to that, I wouldn’t know.”

  Frost raised his eyebrows. “You wouldn’t know?”

  “I’d like to be very accurate here. Since you’re taking down my answers. While it is highly unlikely I’ve ever seen that gun before, the fact is, I didn’t see it closely enough to tell. When I saw the guy was dead, I got the hell out of there and called the cops. I really didn’t look at the gun. I think it was a revolver, but, frankly, that’s a guess. But swear I never saw it before? I would hav
e to say, to the best of my knowledge, I certainly wouldn’t think so.”

  Frost looked somewhat pained. “You’ll pardon me, Mr. Hastings, but that’s the type of answer that could either be scrupulously fair or diabolically misleading. Do you see what I mean? Which means I have to dissect that answer and ask some more questions. For instance, did you ever see a gun similar to the gun on the floor? Or did you ever see a gun which might have been the gun on the floor? Or did you ever see such a gun in the possession of the decedent, Cliff McFadgen? Or Barry, if you will? Or in the possession of the other decedent, Patricia Connely? See what I mean?”

  “The answer to all those questions is no.”

  “Or did you ever have such a gun in your possession?”

  I frowned. “The word ever makes that question difficult. I believe I handled a gun two or three years ago.”

  “Then let me help you. I am referring to the time since you first met the decedent, Patricia Connely—have you had a gun in your possession since then?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Have you seen one? Aside from the guns found lying next to the dead bodies—have you seen a gun in any other instance during the time frame we just mentioned?”

  “No, I have not.”

  Frost nodded. “Well, that’s pretty clear. And you did not handle the gun in McFadgen’s apartment?”

  “Absolutely not. I never went near it.”

  “So if your fingerprints should be on that gun, it would constitute some sort of miracle?”

  I felt a cold tug in the pit of my stomach. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  “Oh, absolutely not. I’m just trying to pin the matter down. But the fact is, you never touched that gun?”

  “That’s a fact.”

  Frost nodded. “Fine. That helps. Now then, going back to the night of the first murder—the night you found Patricia Connely dead. That was the night you spoke to this Barry. Who turns out to be Cliff McFadgen. That was the night you spoke to him on the phone.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you sure it was him you spoke to?”

  “I’m not. It certainly sounded like him. I assumed it was him. But I certainly didn’t know him well enough to swear it was him. If you want my opinion, it’s him. If you want me to stand up in court, I’ll have to say I think it was him. In terms of your investigation and whatever conclusions you’re trying to draw, I’d say you should assume it was him.”

  “And the last time you talked to him was approximately nine-fifteen at night, when you got a call at a pay phone in Queens?”

  “Is that right? I think so. If that’s in my statement, which was made when it was more fresh in my mind, I’m sure it’s right. Let me see. He sent me out to Queens. I was in Queens when he called and sent me back to the motel. There were no calls after that because I got the note.” I looked up. “What about the note, by the way? You find samples of this guy’s handwriting in his apartment and compare it with the note?”

  “That’s an excellent idea,” Frost said. “We’ll be sure to do that.”

  I looked at him. “You mean you hadn’t thought of it?”

  Frost merely smiled.

  “What’s the point, anyway?” I said. “You think this guy was killed the same night?”

  “That’s another interesting observation,” Frost said. “We’ll be sure to keep all this in mind. Now, getting back to what I’d like to talk about. With the death of both parties to this blackmail, the identity of the people in the pictures takes on increasing importance. It has been suggested that you have another go with the composite-sketch artist.” Frost shook his head. “Though, considering the job you did on the decedent, that would appear to be a waste of time. It’s a shame we have no one else to work with.”

  As with Sergeant Thurman, once again my face betrayed me.

  “Yes?” Frost said. “What is it?”

  “You recall Barry—this Cliff McFadgen—tore open the envelope with the photos and showed me?”

  “Yes, of course,” Frost said.

  “So the envelope was open when I brought it home. And I didn’t give it to Patricia Connely till the next day.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “It didn’t occur to me till you just brought it up. But, actually, my wife saw the pictures.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  I’d expected Frost to be upset. Instead he smiled.

  “That’s the best news I’ve had all day.”

  25.

  SHE WAS FINE.

  I was afraid Alice would be upset, but she took to it like a duck to water. She also thought A.D.A. Frost’s idea was reasonable and made perfect sense, and first thing next morning the two of us were downtown making our composite sketches.

  Now, that’s not exactly right. They weren’t really composite sketches. They were separate sketches. With two separate sketch artists, Alice with one and me with the other. So we were working independently and not together.

  I must say I found that somewhat distracting. Knowing my wife was off in a room somewhere with some policeman, describing some of the most extraordinarily inventive and athletic sexual practices you could ever wish to see. That made it a little hard for me to concentrate on my own sketch.

  I shouldn’t have worried, because Alice had no such trouble. And she was not at all distracted by the sexual acts these people were performing, but instead gave a rather accurate description of their physical features.

  Their facial physical features.

  I found that out at the end of the session, when the two of us were brought together to compare and comment on each other’s drawings. An embarrassment I would have preferred to have foregone. I must admit, Alice had me beat hands down. For instance, the sketch of the woman made from Alice’s description actually tended to resemble the woman in the pictures. The sketch made from my description tended to resemble a plastic blow-up sex toy.

  Fortunately we weren’t going home together, so I was spared a lengthy assessment of my performance. But I’d missed enough days’ work since this thing started. Today I was taking cases for Richard.

  Unfortunately, my first was a fourth-floor walkup in the Bronx that made a murder investigation look like a day at the beach. All I was investigating was a worn stair tread that had caused the client, one Jerome Harmon, to slip and fall on his keister, but that wasn’t the point. Cases for Richard were never dangerous in themselves. What made them hazardous to your health were the places you had to go to do ’em.

  Jerome Harmon’s residence was on the fourth floor of a crack house. The occupants of the establishment, who were hanging out in force in the hallways and stairwells, were all black, ragged, strung out, openly doing drugs, and shocked as hell to see a white man in a suit and tie in their building. This was not surprising. White men in suits and ties didn’t go in their building. If one did, he was either a cop or a very naive young man about to enjoy the last few minutes of his life.

  I am by no means brave, but I’ve been in situations like that before, so I knew what to do. I just stuck out my jaw and barged on ahead as if I had every right to be there. And the junkies took me for a cop and made way to let me pass.

  Jerome Harmon had a cracked fibula to show for his last trip down the stairwell, and it seemed to please him. Not the fact he was injured, but the fact it was a fibula. Jerome Harmon was an amiable black man of about thirty—twenty-eight, actually, I found when I filled out his fact sheet. His doctor at Lincoln Hospital had told him that what he had broken was his fibula, and he seemed to find that enormously funny. “Broke ma fibula, man,” he said several times, and each time broke out giggling.

  Despite the bursts of mirth, I eventually recorded the necessary information and went with him to check out the offending step.

  There was a large black junkie sitting on it, smoking a crack pipe.

  That would have made one hell of a location-of-accident picture, but unfortunately I hadn’t wri
tten up the cause of Jerome Harmon’s mishap as, “Client tripped over junkie in stairwell.” So, with Jerome’s help, I shooed him away and shot the step itself. After that, it was just a cakewalk through the crack heads back to my car, and I was out of there and heading for my next sign-up in Brooklyn.

  It was a project in East New York that made Jerome Harmon’s establishment look like the Ritz. The client, one Wanita Perez, lived on the fourteenth floor. Which was too bad—I try to avoid elevators in projects because you never know who you’ll get trapped in there with. On this occasion, it was a short, scraggly bearded, bad-smelling man with a bottle of cheap rotgut in one hand and a bible in the other. Which was nice. If I had to ride in the elevator with someone, I’m happy to have his hands occupied.

  Wanita Perez began a long story about shopping in Macy’s—which made me think I’d have to go there to get the accident photos—but turned out to have fallen on a city bus after leaving the store, which meant pictures wouldn’t be required.

  While I was signing her up my beeper went off, and when I called in, Wendy/Janet sent me to Kings County Hospital to sign up a hit-and-run.

  By the time I’d signed up Yolanda Wilson, mother of hit-and-run victim Derek Wilson, it was five-thirty, my beeper was quiet, I’d done my duty, and I was heading home.

  And feeling kind of good. Three cases undertaken, three cases done. Just my typical average day.

  I had a long time to think about it on my way back from Kings County. To sort the whole thing out in my mind. And the conclusion I came to was this: I had gone back to work.

  I don’t know. Maybe it was the joy of making money again. Or maybe it was the fact that I’d had three cases and handled them well. Particularly the one in the crack house. There had to be a certain satisfaction in that. Doing something you know most people couldn’t have done. Or maybe it was the last case, helping a young mother worried about her child. But I think basically it was the fact that I was doing something someone wanted me to do on the one hand, and that I could do on the other.