by Parnell Hall
“You can’t.”
“No. I don’t think you killed this woman. In spite of how much evidence there is.”
“Evidence?”
“I don’t think you did it.”
“There’s evidence against me?”
“I think you’re innocent, and. I can’t see why cooperating’s gonna hurt you at all.”
“What’s the evidence against me?”
“Well, now, that’s not really my place to say. That’s something you’ll have to take up with the ADA.”
“The ADA? What’s going on? Am I being charged here?”
“Not at all. Like I say, I think you’re innocent. But I don’t want to get in trouble giving out stuff I wasn’t supposed to give.”
“Jesus Christ. Thurman—”
He shook his head. “Sorry. My instructions are to show you the body and bring you in. Which I intend to do. And I wasn’t even gonna discuss it. Except for the rather extraordinary statement you made about it being true.” He looked at me. “Isn’t that what you said?”
I took a breath. “If you can’t talk, I can’t either. Let’s go see the ADA.”
“Suits me,” Thurman said.
He yanked me out of there, stuck me in a police car, drove me down to the criminal court house. We went inside, went up in the elevator to the sixth floor.
The corridor he was taking me down seemed familiar. So did the door we stopped in front of. “Who’s the ADA?” I said.
Thurman said nothing, pushed the door open, escorted me inside. I walked inside, stopped and blinked.
Déjà vu all over again.
The man sitting at a desk was ADA Baby Face Frost.
16.
ADA HENRY FROST WAS A plump young man whoalways looked like some kid who was trying on his father’s three-piece suit. The cops called him Baby Face, never to his baby face, but behind his chubby back.
I’d had occasion to work with Baby Face Frost in solving a string of murders. The reason for that occasion was the fact I’d been arrested for several of them. But since I hadn’t been guilty of any of them, and since those arrests had largely been due to the ineptitude of Sergeant Thurman, and since the matter had eventually come to a satisfactory conclusion with the killer behind bars, there was really no reason for Frost to think unkindly of me.
Was there?
“Well, here he is,” Sergeant Thurman said. “And wait’ll you hear what he has to say.”
“I can’t wait,” Frost said. “Do come in, Mr. Hastings. Please sit down. Forgive me if we skip the amenities, but we have this murder here. Just what is Sergeant Thurman alluding to?”
I sat in a chair, put up my hands. “Whoa. Time out,” I said. “You may have a murder here, but I have my rights. I’d like to know if I’m a suspect, a witness, or what. Sergeant Thurman says there’s some evidence against me.”
ADA Frost frowned. “You weren’t supposed to say that, Sergeant,” he said. As always, when displeased he looked sulky.
“So there is evidence against me.”
Frost waved it away. “Let’s not quibble. I know you, you know me. I don’t for a minute think you committed this crime. So why should we argue over words?”
“Great,” I said. “Why is it, I hear that, my first reaction is I better call my lawyer?”
“That’s what’s known as a guilty reaction,” Frost said. “You should try to control it. The more guilty reactions you have, the harder it is to appear innocent.”
“Thanks for the hint,” I said. “Should I get Rosenberg down here, or you wanna level with me and let me in on what’s goin’ on?”
“I really don’t think you need a lawyer at this time, but it’s your call. Would you like an attorney present?”
“Not so far. Of course, that might change. For the time being, I’m willing to listen to what you have to say.”
“Actually, I was more interested in what you have to say.”
“Then perhaps I will need an attorney. You wanna keep sparring, or you wanna get into it?”
“Well, let’s kick things off,” Frost said. “Did you recognize the woman you saw in the morgue?”
“Before I answer that question, I would like to know exactly what is meant by the suggestion that the police have evidence against me.”
Frost frowned, again appeared to sulk. “Nothing, really. Your name on a piece of paper, that’s all.”
“A piece of paper?”
“That’s right. The name Stanley Hastings. In what would appear to be the victim’s own handwriting.”
“And just where was this piece of paper found?”
“Well, actually, that’s the bad part.”
“Oh?”
“It was in her hand.”
“What?”
Frost nodded. “I’m afraid that’s right.”
I stared at Frost. “The victim was found clutching a piece of paper with my name on it?”
“You got it.”
“My god, it’s like something straight out of a mystery novel.”
“Yes, isn’t it. I understand the woman dealt in them.”
“You think there’s a connection?”
“To you, or to mystery novels?”
“This may surprise you, but I don’t find any of this particularly amusing. Would you mind telling me where the body was found?”
“In her apartment.”
“That figures.”
Frost looked at me. “Oh? Why do you say that?”
“She struck me as the type that didn’t go out much.”
“Then you had seen her before?”
“I’d seen her alive, yes.”
“And just when was that?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“Around what time?”
“I dunno. Somewhere around three.”
Frost whistled.
“Why?” I said. “When was she killed?”
Frost just smiled.
“All right,” I said. “That does it. My cooperation is withdrawn.” Even as I said it, I realized I was locking the barn door after the horse was out.
“No reason for that,” Frost said. “The woman was probably killed some time yesterday afternoon. We’ll be able to pin it down a little better when we get a full autopsy report. But, while you could have done it, once again let me assure you I don’t for a minute believe you did.”
“I find that less reassuring all the time,” I said. “Just for a point of reference, how was she killed?”
“You couldn’t tell from the body?”
I hesitated.
“Aw, come on, take a whack at it,” Frost said. “No one’s gonna make fun of you if you’re wrong.”
“That wasn’t really my concern,” I said. “But if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say she’d been strangled.”
“You’d say right,” Frost said. “And I assure you your knowing that doesn’t make you any more a suspect in my book.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said. “Any more a suspect and I’d begin to wonder why I’m not wearing handcuffs. Tell me, how’d you track me down?”
“I called Richard Rosenberg, told him I wanted to talk to you. He said you weren’t working today. I asked him to beep you. He said that would do no good because you wouldn’t be on the beeper. I figured that was a hollow ruse, and told him to do it anyway. He did, and here you are.”
“It wasn’t a hollow ruse. He didn’t know I was on the beeper.”
“Just a bit of bad luck, I guess. Well, now, we’ve talked about everything you want to talk about. How about talking about what I want to talk about?”
“And just what is that?”
“Why did you happen to call on Sherry Pressman yesterday afternoon at three o’clock?”
“Oh, dear.”
“You got a problem with that? I hope not. Just when we were getting on so well.”
“Speak for yourself.”
Frost frowned. “Let’s not be like that. Haven’t I been totally frank and forthcoming, and told you
what you wanted to know?”
“Yes,” I said. “And you probably didn’t hurt anyone, violate any professional ethics, or put yourself in a position to be sued.”
“Is that what we’re looking at here?”
“I have no idea. I’m not a lawyer.”
“Again with the lawyer. Must I remind you you are not accused of any crime?”
“Can you give me your blanket assurance that anyone I mention won’t be?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“There you are.”
Frost frowned again. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist on an answer to that question.”
“Then I’m going to call my lawyer.”
17.
RICHARD ROSENBERG LISTENED TO MY story, grimaced, cocked his head. “Can’t you do anything right?”
“Richard. It’s hardly my fault the woman was killed.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean spilling your guts to the cops.”
“I couldn’t help it. When I saw her face it was a shock.”
“Right. That’s when you made your first damaging admission. That should be your first clue. That’s when a bright person says, uh-oh, I made a damaging admission. Now I’m in trouble, I better call my lawyer. But you, you don’t do that. Do you know why?”
I said nothing, waited for him to finish. But Richard wasn’t going to let it go.
“Well, do you know why?”
“No,” I said. “I think I’m too damn smart?”
“Not at all,” Richard said. “You know you’re too damn dumb. You make a damaging admission to the cops, which is why you ought to call your lawyer, but you don’t, because you’re too embarrassed to admit to me you made a damaging admission. So, like a moron, you try to carry on and patch it up yourself. So what happens, before you know it you’ve dug your grave a little deeper, and now, instead of one damaging admission, we have three. You knew the murdered woman, you’ve been to her apartment, and you were there just about the time she was killed.”
“I also knew she’d been strangled.”
“Right,” Richard said. “A fourth damaging admission. You’re having a hell of a day.”
“Still, I called you.”
“Right. After your fourth damaging admission, you made the call. Nice going.”
“Don’t I get some credit for calling? According to you, the more damaging admissions I make, the more reluctant I am to tell you about it,”
Richard looked at me. “You’re taking this awfully well. If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t seem at all concerned.”
Richard was right. Maybe it was the fact I knew both Thurman and Frost. Or maybe it was the fact neither one of them was inclined to think I was involved in the crime. But for once I did not feel personally threatened, despite the rather unfortunate position I found myself in.
“Right,” I said. “I didn’t kill this one, and knowing that makes me drunk with power. Listen, Richard, you wanna stop beating me up and tell me what I ought to do?”
“Well, now, there’s the problem,” Richard said.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m your attorney. But I’m not your client’s attorney. And I’m not your client’s best-selling husband’s attorney. So I’m representing your interests and not theirs.”
“So?”
“It is in your best interests to see that you are not convicted of this crime. Even if it meant convicting your client or her husband. On the other hand, it is in your best interests to see that your client or her husband don’t sue the shit out of you for violating professional ethics by implicating them in a crime.”
“How can they sue me? I have no money.”
“More to the point,” Richard said. “It’s important here that your client and her husband are not put in the position to sue me for advising you to tell the police things that might implicate them.”
“So you’re advising me not to talk?”
“Don’t be silly. You’ve already talked. If you stop now, it’s a red flag. The cops will find out who you were working for, and that person will become prime suspect number one. No, what you want to do is tell your story, making a frank and full disclosure in the spirit of helpful cooperation, and do it in such a way that your client becomes such an unlikely suspect it’s ridiculous to assume she ever could have had anything to do with it.”
“So you want me to talk.”
Richard grimaced. “Well, that’s the other problem. I understand that your clients don’t want any publicity.”
“Mr. Winnington would prefer it.”
“That’s fine. Whether he gets it or not is another matter. The important thing is, if there is any publicity it doesn’t come from us. So, while I would like you to talk, I don’t want you to say anything.”
“Richard.”
Richard put up his hand. “Please don’t worry about that. I’ll tell you how to do it. It’s a little messy, but it can be done. There’s just one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s gonna take lawyers.”
18.
IT TOOK THREE OF THEM. Four if you counted. Baby Face Frost. Aside from him you had Richard Rosenberg, representing me; Barney K. Rancroft, representing Kenneth P. Winnington; and Morton Steinway, representing Maxine.
When I say representing, don’t get the wrong idea. My client and her husband were not present. Only the attorneys, ADA Frost, and me.
ADA Baby Face Frost viewed the array of attorneys with distaste, and said, “For the record, could the parties present please state their name and their connection to the current case, that is the murder of one Sherry Pressman.”
“Certainly,” Richard said. “I am Richard Rosenberg, attorney at law. I represent Stanley Hastings, who has been questioned as a witness in this matter.”
Barney K. Rancroft cleared his throat. Being a man with several chins, that took some time. When he felt he had harrumphed enough, he said, “I am Barney K. Rancroft, attorney at law. And I am not willing to concede my interest in this matter at the present time. Therefore, let me state for the record that it has been made known to me that the police are conducting an investigation into the death of the decedent; that in the course of this investigation, they will naturally be interested in any persons connected in any way to the decedent; that the decedent made her living working in the field of publishing, in the capacity of what is commonly known as a publicist.”
Rancroft looked around the table, as if to make sure everyone understood and agreed with this assessment of the facts, then raised his hand. “I put forth the hypothetical situation, that it is possible that one of the authors represented by the decedent Sherry Pressman is also a client of mine. In that event, I would certainly wish to protect my client’s rights, particularly in terms of any invasion of privacy, especially one which might result in adverse publicity. I am here to guard against that happenstance.”
ADA Frost blinked. “You are here,” he said, ironically, “on the off chance we might wish to know something about an author who might happen to be a client of yours?”
“Thank you,” Barney K. Rancroft said suavely, “for such a clear understanding of the situation.”
Frost nodded grimly, turned to the other attorney. “What about you?”
Morton Steinway was tall and rather good-looking, with wavy chestnut hair.
I wondered how well he knew my client.
I chided myself for the thought, and realized I needn’t have had it. The minute Morton Steinway opened his mouth, he transformed himself from the macho stud lover into the boring, stuffy, nitpicking lawyer.
“I’m Morton Steinway, attorney at law. And I’m not even willing to concede that I’m actually here.”
“I beg your pardon?” Frost said.
“Well, hypothetically, now,” Morton Steinway said, “suppose the only reason I were here at all was as a result of phone calls made by Richard Rosenberg, largely—and here, please understand I am making no accusation, this
is merely speculation and hypothetical—but suppose I was brought here by Mr. Rosenberg largely to divert suspicion from his own client and thrust it onto others. Well, now, my very presence here could do that. Therefore, I am not willing to admit to my presence, in so much as it might in any way involve any client I might have, real or imaginary, living or dead, in any aspect of this case.”
ADA Frost opened his mouth, closed it again. “I was going to say run that by me again,” he said, “then I realized I don’t want to hear it. I get the gist of what you are saying, and quite candidly, I don’t appreciate it. We have a murder here. I would expect some cooperation. I would prefer to proceed without the double talk.”
Frost might have preferred that, but it was simply not to be. Not with three separate attorneys with three separate clients all maneuvering for position. In point of fact, it was a good forty-five minutes of hypothetical bullshit before we ever got down to brass tacks.
Even then, it was a battle for every inch.
“Now then,” Frost said, his exasperation showing. “Mr. Rancroft, we have conceded for the sake of argument that hypothetically you might be the attorney for Kenneth P. Winnington, who is a best-selling author.”
Barney K. Rancroft raised his finger. “The best-selling author part is not hypothetical. Mr. Winnington is indeed on the New York Times best-seller list.”
“Good for him,” Frost said. “And you, Mr. Steinway,” he said to the other attorney, “might hypothetically be representing his wife—and, yes, I understand this is not a hypothetical wife, it is an actual wife—and in the event the investigation should have anything to do with her, you would wish to represent her interests, though you have absolutely no reason to imagine why it should.”
Frost cocked his head. “How’m I doin’ so far?”
“Fine by me,” Richard, said. “Would you care to proceed?”
“Thank you so much,” Frost said. “Now then, there was also the hypothetical possibility that all these parties might in some way be involved with the witness, Stanley Hastings. Would you care to take it from there?”
“Absolutely,” Richard said. “To begin with, I think this might be an excellent time for Mr. Barney K. Rancroft and Mr. Morton Steinway to advise my client to make a full and frank disclosure to the police of any connection he may have had with either Mr. or Mrs. Winnington.”
