Blackmail

by Parnell Hall

  “Okay,” Alice said. “But if he was involved in pornography, he could know the people In the blackmail photos. Without being involved in the scheme, he could be a witness of some sort. See what I mean?”

  I frowned. Grimaced. “It’s very farfetched, Alice.”

  “Then you don’t think you should tell the cops?”

  “Why should I? I already gave them the lead to the show. They’ll talk to the producer, director, all the actors themselves. They’ve probably even done it already. When I talk to the actors tomorrow, they’ll have already talked to the cops.”

  “I suppose so,” Alice said.

  She said it rather grudgingly.

  But I didn’t ask her if she really supposed so, or if she was just humoring me.

  32.

  I NEVER GOT TO TALK to the actors.

  I had a sign-up in the Bronx at nine o’clock. I’d planned on knocking it off real quick, which would leave me time for a little snooping before my two o’clock in Brooklyn. But I hit a traffic jam on the Cross Bronx Expressway and got beeped in the middle of it. By the time I got off and got to a phone I was already late for my nine o’clock, and Wendy/Janet gave me another sign-up in the Bronx for eleven. And just because two appointments are in the Bronx doesn’t make them close together—the Bronx takes in a lot of territory. Anyway, I took care of my nine o’clock and was racing toward Co-op City for my eleven when she beeped me off the Hutchinson River Parkway to give me one in Queens. I actually managed that and was heading for my two o’clock in Brooklyn when she beeped me off the Interboro to give me a four o’clock back in the Bronx.

  When she beeped me off the Triboro Bridge on my way there, I was ready to kill her. Failing that, I was certainly going to tell Wendy/Janet what she could do with her damn sign-up.

  I never got a chance to.

  Because this time she’d beeped me to tell me someone was dead.

  33.

  THERE WERE COP CARS ALL around Jack Fargo’s apartment. When I pulled up behind one, the officer on the sidewalk tried to wave me away. I pissed him off by stopping anyway and getting out of my car.

  The officer, a bullnecked type of the Sergeant Thurman school of law enforcement, said, “Hey, buddy, I told you to move it.”

  “I’m Stanley Hastings,” I said. “Sergeant Thurman wants to see me.”

  That meant something to him. He cocked his head, said, “Oh, you’re the one.” Then he looked at me the way I could imagine Romans looked at Christians just before marching them in to the lions. “Stay right here,” he said. Then he turned and bellowed, “Hey, Marty. Tell the sarge he’s here.”

  Richard showed up just then. I don’t know what would have happened if he hadn’t, but I was damn glad to see him. I’d called him, of course, right after I’d talked to the cops and been instructed to come here. No one had said the name Jack Fargo, but I recognized the address, so I knew the news wasn’t good.

  Sergeant Thurman came out the front door and demanded, “Where’s the asshole?”

  When he spotted me his face got red. When he spotted Richard, it purpled. I had a feeling that not being able to beat me up was almost more than he could bear.

  Thurman came thundering down the front steps. “So you got your lawyer here,” he said. “Good for you. You need a lawyer.”

  “Now see here,” Richard said.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Thurman said. “You wanna sue me, sue me. I don’t give a shit. I’m not gonna hassle your client any, or deprive him of any of his fuckin’ rights, but I’m damned if I’ll listen to you.” He turned to me. “Now, asshole, I need you to make an identification.” He wheeled back on Richard. “You got any objections to that?”

  Richard smiled. “None whatever. And thank you for phrasing it so politely.”

  Thurman grabbed me by the arm. “Come on, asshole.”

  “If you manhandle my client—” Richard said.

  “Get fucked,” Thurman growled, and dragged me inside.

  It was Fargo, all right. I took one look and almost threw up. I think the only thing that stopped me was not wanting to give Sergeant Thurman the satisfaction.

  They hadn’t told me anything, so I hadn’t known what to expect. I’d been prepared for a dead body. Shot, like the others.

  Jack Fargo hadn’t been shot.

  He’d been butchered.

  He’d been stabbed several times in the body.

  His throat had been slit.

  There was blood everywhere.

  Fargo was lying on his back with his head twisted to the side. His eyes were wide and glassy. His face was white and drained of blood. Just as it had been when I’d asked him about pornography.

  Jesus Christ.

  “Well?” Sergeant Thurman demanded. He was looking at me closely. I got the impression he was disappointed I hadn’t blown lunch. “You ever seen this man before?”

  I took a breath. “Yes, I have.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  Thurman exhaled noisily. “Shit,” he said. “You know his name?”

  “Jack Fargo.”

  Thurman exhaled again. “Great,” he said. “Just great.” He turned, jerked his thumb at the crime-scene unit and the medical examiner. “Okay, boys,” he said. “Sorry to bother you, it’s all yours again.”

  Thurman grabbed my arm, jerked me out of there.

  I was relieved to see Richard still standing on the sidewalk out front. Thurman dragged me up to him.

  “Your client’s involved in another homicide. I need to ask him some questions. You intend to let him cooperate?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Fine,” Thurman said. “I got a few questions myself, but I been instructed to bring you in. And I’m sure as hell going along. So let’s move it.”

  We moved it, and not twenty minutes later, Sergeant Thurman, Richard, a stenographer, and I were all sitting at a conference table with Baby-Face Frost.

  Who didn’t look happy. “Mr. Hastings,” Frost said, “I understand that you called on Jack Fargo yesterday afternoon.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Around two o’clock.”

  “Why did you call on him?”

  “You know why. Because the last people to use the theater space where Patricia Connely was found dead were a theater group, and Cliff McFadgen happened to be in the production. I was checking on the other people who were in the production.”

  “On the actors?”

  “And the producer and director.”

  “Yes, I know you talked to them. But I’m now referring to the actors. How many actors in the production did you talk to?”

  “Just one.”

  “Jack Fargo?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why him in particular?”

  “When I spoke to Patricia Connely’s husband, that was the only name he said sounded familiar.”

  “And when did you speak to Mr. Connely?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “What time?”

  “That would be around one o’clock.”

  “Just before you went to Fargo?”

  “That’s right.”

  Frost took a breath, blew it out again. “Mr. Hastings. Yesterday at twelve noon you were in this very office. Sitting at this very table. Discussing the case.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Frost picked up a folded paper from the table. “At that time you gave me this program from the show Cliff McFadgen was in. Said that you had received it from the director of the show.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Among the cast listed is the decedent, Jack Fargo.”

  “This is true.”

  “Are you telling me you took a copy of this program to Patricia Connely’s husband, showed it to him, asked him if it meant anything to him?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You had no right to do that.”

  “I think I’d like to jump in here,
” Richard said. “That is not a question.”

  “I retract it,” Frost said. “Mr. Hastings, when you were in here yesterday and presented me with this program, you didn’t mention that you had two copies of it. Did you?”

  ““No, I did not.”

  “Did you mention that you were going to call on Patricia Connely’s husband?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Mr. Hastings, you are a private detective, is that right?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Are you employed by anyone at the present time to investigate this crime?”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Or the deaths of Patricia Connely or Cliff McFadgen?”

  “No, I am not.”

  “You are employed by Mr. Rosenberg here, are you not, to investigate accident cases?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I wanted to get that cleared up,” Frost said. “So you have no official standing in this case?”

  “I’m a witness.”

  “That you are. Do you understand the difference between a witness and an investigator?”

  “Once again,” Richard said, “I feel the need to step in. While that is a question, it is not one designed to elicit any information. Need I say more?”

  “No,” Frost said. “Let’s move on. Mr. Hastings, were you aware that, yesterday afternoon, Bradley Connely lodged a formal complaint against the way the investigation into his wife’s death was being handled?”

  Oh, shit.

  “No, I was not,” I said.

  “Is that so?” Frost said. “For your information, he first demanded to see the officer in charge. When Sergeant Thurman was not available, he demanded to see me. I actually met with the man, not that I really had the time or the inclination to do so.”

  I said nothing, just sat there and took it. Everything in the world was blowing up in my face.

  “Now then,” Frost said. “Mr. Connely didn’t indicate what prompted him to pay this call—he was actually rather evasive as to how he formed his opinion. Not that I thought that much about it at the time. With a widowed husband, this reaction is fairly typical. The police are never doing enough, the investigation is being bungled, etcetera, etcetera. Frankly, I was busy and tried to brush him off and get him out of here.

  “But it wasn’t easy. Because you’d told him about Cliff McFadgen being in that showcase production. So the guy had a legitimate gripe, wanting to know how the hell you got that ahead of the cops.”

  I stole a glance at Thurman. Visions of drunk tanks danced in my head.

  “This was late afternoon,” Frost said. “Sergeant Thurman was already out chasing down leads from the names in the program. Which is why we hadn’t got to you yet. Because, otherwise, believe me we would.”

  “I believe you,” I said. I shouldn’t have. I should have just sat there with my mouth closed. I made a mental note to do so, and Richard shot me a glance that clearly meant the same thing.

  Frost took a breath. “The thing is, no one knew you were calling on these actors. Thurman was calling on them, and he never crossed your back trail. Of course he never got to see Jack Fargo, because Fargo wasn’t in. There was nothing crucial about these actors, so we naturally called on those who were in. Only, Fargo was in, he just wasn’t answering the bell.”

  “When was he killed?” I said.

  Richard shot me another glance, but Frost merely ignored my question and went on as if I hadn’t asked it.

  “What’s the wrap-up?” Frost said. “By this afternoon we’ve talked to all the actors except Fargo. When he’s still a no-show, we checked with the super and went in. You know what we found.”

  That was not a question, so I kept quiet.

  “One of the first people we contacted was Bradley Connely. Dragged him down there to see if he could make the ID.”

  I sat on the impulse to say, “Did he?”

  Frost told me anyway. “Connely says he never saw him before in his life. But tells us the name is familiar. Tells us he told you the name was familiar. A thing he hadn’t remembered to tell us when he was in here yesterday making all the fuss.”

  Oh boy. What a fucking mess.

  Frost took a breath. Went on. “Well, that booted contacting you from being a rather low-to-middling priority way up to the top of the list. Which is why you’ve been to see the body, and why you’re here now.

  “Now,” Frost said. “The reason I’m being such a nice guy and telling you and your attorney all this is because I want you to be fully aware of just how important all of this is. I wouldn’t want you to say you were acting out of ignorance of the facts. The facts are these: Since you say you called on Jack Fargo yesterday afternoon, you were probably the last person to see him alive. You were certainly the last person we are aware of to see him alive. So the importance of that particular visit is clear. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  He turned to Richard. “Do you understand what I’m telling your client?”

  “I have a certain grasp of the English language. But if that was a threat, I certainly didn’t hear it. Because I’m sure no reputable A.D.A. would ever make one.”

  I tried to catch Richard’s eye. I knew he couldn’t let himself be pushed around, but at that point I just wanted them to get on with it.

  Frost did. “Now, Mr. Hastings,” he said. “Could you please tell us the sum and substance of your meeting with the deceased, Jack Fargo?”

  “Certainly,” I said. “As you might expect, I went there for the specific purpose of finding out how well acquainted he was with Cliff McFadgen. I also endeavored to find out if he had any knowledge whatever of Patricia Connely or her husband, Bradley Connely.”

  “Had he?”

  “None at all. Neither of the names meant anything to him, and he didn’t recognize her picture.”

  Frost looked up. “Picture?”

  “Yes. Patricia Connely’s picture.”

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Her husband gave it to me.”

  As Frost and Sergeant Thurman exchanged glances, I said, “I take it he didn’t mention that either?”

  “So you have her picture,” Frost said. “May we see It?”

  I looked to Richard.

  He said, “You may see it. You may not have it.”

  Frost thought that over. “Very well,” he said. “At this point, I am asking only to inspect the photo.”

  Richard turned to me. “Show it to him.”

  I took the picture out of my pocket, passed it over. Frost examined it, passed it to Thurman.

  Richard extended his hand across the table.

  Thurman glanced at Frost, who nodded, then grudgingly handed it back.

  Richard gave me the picture and I put it back in my pocket.

  A small victory, but one’s own.

  “You say he didn’t recognize the picture?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Or either of the names?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What about Cliff McFadgen? How well did he know him?”

  “He claimed he didn’t know him at all. The only evidence he gave to the contrary was in describing him as overbearing.”

  “Overbearing?”

  “That’s right. When I questioned him on it, he said that was an opinion formed from rehearsal and from the guy’s refusal to take direction. But he claimed he didn’t know him socially at all.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Is that relevant?” Richard asked.

  Frost shrugged. “Maybe not. I’m not trying to bind your client to anything. I’m just interested in what he thought.”

  “On that basis, you may answer,” Richard said.

  “Did you believe him?” Frost repeated.

  “Actually, I did.”

  “I see,” Frost said. He thought a moment. “Did you learn anything else from Jack Fargo which you considered to be significant?”

  I hesitated.

 
; Frost pounced on it. “Yes? What is it?”

  “I asked about pornography. Because of the blackmail pictures. I asked him if he knew of any actors working legitimately now, who used to be involved in porn.”

  “Did he?”

  “He said no. But the question bothered him. I could tell. His face actually went pale.”

  Frost stared at me. He blinked. “And you didn’t communicate this to the police?”

  “Now, hold on a minute,” Richard said. “Are you making the charge my client should have communicated this to the police? Are you indicating some law was broken here?”

  “I’m not saying it was,” Frost said. “I’m not saying it wasn’t, either.”

  Richard turned to me. “Under those circumstances, don’t tell him a thing.”

  “Whoa. Hold on here,” Frost said. “Let’s not go off the deep end here.”

  “Deep end, hell,” Richard said. “You’re giving me a maybe-if about suspecting my client of a crime? Then our cooperation is over. My client’s been quite frank and forthcoming. He’s come in here of his own volition and given his statement. That statement Is now over. Unless you care to retract what you just said, our cooperation is withdrawn. And since the statement is over, I suggest we go off the record.”

  Frost nodded to the stenographer. “That will do.” He turned to me. “Now, speaking informally and off the record, why the fuck didn’t you tell somebody?”

  “Let me answer, Richard.”

  He shrugged. “Off the record, fine.”

  “Because I didn’t think it had anything to do with the case. The way the guy acted, he gave the impression that he’d been involved in porn some time ago. He found the subject embarrassing. Like it touched a nerve. Sort of related only to him.”

  “That’s why you didn’t see fit to relate this to the police?” Frost said.

  “That’s right.”

  Frost cocked his head, looked at me. It was hard to imagine a baby face looking so hard. “And this was yesterday?” he said. His eyes bored into mine. “Yesterday?” He paused, then rammed it home.

  “While Jack Fargo was still alive?”

  34.

  ALICE WAS DEVASTATED. SHE TOOK it worse than I did, which was saying something. Which was pretty unfair, since she was the one who had insisted Jack Fargo’s reaction to pornography had to mean something. I was the one who had pooh-poohed the idea, said it meant something else. But she didn’t throw it in my face, like nine out of ten other women would have done. She didn’t blame me.