by Parnell Hall
MacAullif shrugged. “The other theory is merely sexist. The woman he can strangle, the guy he has to shoot.”
“But why? Why does he do this at all?”
“He does it to cover up his complicity in the crank phone calls. Though what’s behind that, and why it’s so important, I have no idea.”
“Why it’s so important?”
“Covering it up, I mean.” MacAullif spread his arms. “Before the first murder, what have you got? A few crank phone calls. Big fucking deal. If you catch the guy, what’s he gonna get? A slap on the wrist, and don’t-do-it-again. To avoid this he commits murder? Way out of proportion, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do. But the fact is, it happened.”
“Right. Which strongly indicates the first murder wasn’t planned. It was an impulsive action, taken on the spur of the moment. Of course, once the guy goes that far, there’s no turning back.” MacAullif raised his finger. “The only thing against that scenario is ...”
“Yes?”
“The fish. If the killer dumped the fish in your car, then we are dealing with something really sick. In which case, Thurman is wasting his time tailing this would-be writer. Instead, he should be tailing you.”
“Me?”
“Sure. Both victims died after you called on ’em. How did the killer know that? Most likely he was following you. If this were my case, I’d put a tail on you and see who shows up.”
“You think I should suggest that to Thurman?”
“I think you should stay as far away from Thurman as you could possibly get. All I’m sayin’ is, watch your back.”
“No shit. Any other insights?”
MacAullif frowned. “I keep coming back to books. The victims are a publicist and an editor. The client is a writer. Or the client’s husband, or whatever. But the fact is, he is. And what’s more, he writes mysteries.”
“Actually, he writes suspense.”
“What’s the difference?”
“It’s a different kind of book.”
“I didn’t think it was a different kind of vegetable. How is it different?”
“Actually, I don’t really read suspense.”
“So you don’t know?” MacAullif said. “You’re telling me you don’t know?”
“You make it sound like a federal crime.”
“Fucking up a murder investigation should be a federal crime. Thurman’s doing it, that’s no reason you gotta do it. You got a suspense writer involved in a murder plot. Everyone connected to the suspense writer’s career starts dropping dead. Do you suppose there might be a connection?”
“I get the point.”
“Do you? Good, Here’s another one. This guy Sergeant Thurman’s sitting on—what do you know about him?”
“Not much. Why?”
“Just because Sergeant Thurman thinks he’s guilty doesn’t mean he isn’t.”
I exhaled. “Right. I’ll consider the possibility.”
“And those other writers—the wannabes, from the publicist—you ever track ’em down?”
“Not yet. But ...”
“Right,” MacAullif said. “You don’t want ’em to die. Too bad you broke up with Thurman. You could call on one of ’em, he could stake him out and see who tries to kill him.”
“Or you could.”
“In your dreams. It’s not my case, and I’m not goin’ near it. In fact, I shouldn’t even be talking about it.” MacAullif pointed the cigar at the door. “In case you didn’t recognize it, that’s your exit cue.”
“Any last advice?”
“Yeah. Why don’t you talk to Rosenberg?”
“My attorney? Why?”
“The son of a bitch.” MacAullif snorted. “Maybe you could lead the killer to him.”
38.
RICHARD WAS PISSED. “WHY didn’t you call me?”
“There was no need.”
“No need? Are you kidding me? You spilled your guts.”
“Richard, no one thinks I did it.”
“And what difference does that make?”
I sighed, ran my hand over my head. “Give me a break, Richard. This isn’t some game I’m playing with these guys. This is a murder case.”
“Exactly my point. You’re involved in a capital crime. You have to watch your step.”
“Richard, I’m not guilty.”
“What difference does that make? You think an innocent mail never went to jail?”
“What’s the matter? Are you willfully misunderstanding me? Frost knows I didn’t do it.”
“The murder, yes,” Richard said. “But there’s obstruction of justice, withholding evidence, tampering with a witness.”
“I’m not doing any of those things,” I cried in exasperation.
“Yes, but they don’t know that. And you do not have the swiftest cop in the world in charge of the investigation. You’re cooperating with him now, but if you should get on his bad side ...”
“Oh.”
“Why do you say, oh?”
“Well, I told him to go fuck himself.”
Richard rolled his eyes. “Probably not the brightest move you could have made. See what happens when you don’t call your lawyer?”
“If you’d been there, you’d have told him to go fuck himself.”
“Perhaps. But I would hope in less actionable terms. You mind telling me what inspired this bonehead play?”
“I couldn’t help it. He thinks this guy from the book signing’s guilty. So he puts him under surveillance. Then he knocks off because it’s five o’clock. The murder happened after five, so now he says the guy could have done it, ’cause he wasn’t watching him.”
“Makes sense to me,” Richard said.
“Sense? You call that making sense?”
“It’s perfectly logical. If no one was watching him, the guy could have done it.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t,” I said. “If someone was watching him, we could have eliminated him from having done it. Then we could get on with the case. Instead, Thurman’s fixated on this guy, and he’s not doing anything else.”
“What would you like him to do?”
“Right now, get hit by a truck.”
“Uh-huh,” Richard said. “Perhaps I should have phrased that differently. In terms of the investigation, what do you think should be done?”
“I don’t know.”
“And yet you fault Thurman for not doing it.”
I exhaled. “Jesus Christ. This is not my day. Everyone’s a pain in the ass.”
“Everyone?”
“You, MacAullif. Not to mention Frost and Thurman.”
“How about your client?”
“Haven’t seen her. Her, or her husband. I called, but they weren’t home. Most likely downtown answering questions about Doug Mark.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” Richard said.
“Why?”
“Because they are smart enough to call their lawyers. They did for the first murder, so they automatically will for the second. It’s a simple learning experience. Practically a conditioned reflex. Even the lower animals are capable of it.”
Richard’s irony seemed more than the situation warranted. Which clarified his present mood. He wasn’t at all concerned I might have implicated myself with Frost. He was pissed off at missing out on the action. If the other attorneys were there, he didn’t want to be left out of the loop.
“A point well taken, Richard,” I said. “The fact is, Winnington and his wife have nothing to do with it. It will turn out they haven’t had any contact with the man in years, their attorneys will advise them to cooperate fully with the police in all aspects of the case, and the only bone of contention, the only reason the lawyers will be there in the first place, will be to see what they can do in terms of controlling publicity.”
“Granted,” Richard said. “Toward that end, I’m wondering if you said anything that might result in bad publicity for your client.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“It didn’t happen.”
“Oh, no? When I asked about your client, your best guess was she and her husband were dragged downtown. Immediately after you gave a statement to the police. One might wonder if there was any connection.”
“One might if one were an incredible hair-splitting pain in the ass,” I said. “The murdered man was Kenneth P. Winningtons first editor, who had reason to hate his guts. You think the police aren’t going to have him in?”
“And how did the police happen to know that?” Richard said. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems to me they heard it from you.”
I rubbed my head, reminded myself again that there were two people I should never argue with, my wife and my lawyer. “That’s fine, Richard,” I said. “Guilty as charged. But Winnington’s not going to sue me, and one way or another his connection with Doug Mark would have come out. Anyway, I’m sure his attorney, what’s-his-face—”
“Barney K. Rancroft.”
“Right. I’m sure Mr. Rancroft has advised Mr. Winnington to cooperate fully in exchange for keeping his name out of it.”
“That may not be possible,” Richard said. “This is, after all, the second crime.”
“Yeah, but no one knows that. And the means were different. So it won’t be written up as a serial killer.”
“Even so,” Richard said. “The publicist was one thing. They withhold the bit about the phone calls, because they would anyway, and they play Winnington down. The papers mention him, but in passing, and only because enterprising reporters dig it out. The story is Publicist Murdered, and Winnington is mentioned as being her most famous author. But that is it, no other connection is made.”
Richard shook his head. “The editor is a brand-new ball game. The story is Editor Murdered, and if it comes out Kenneth P. Winnington is his most famous author, that is a connection even the stupidest reporter is going to make.”
“I know.”
“As if that weren’t bad enough, you’ve got the piece of paper with your name on it.” Richard rolled his eyes. “Thank goodness the police don’t suspect you of anything. Most people, confronted with evidence like that, would think, oh gee, I gotta protect myself. You, knowing better, decide to talk to the ADA and curse out the investigating officer.”
“That’s the other thing,” I said.
“What is?”
“The notes. The papers with my name on ’em.”
“What about ’em?”
“Nobody buys ’em. Frost thinks they’re too obvious for a frame. So does MacAullif. Thurman probably takes ’em at face value, but that’s just Thurman. The way I see it, they’re so crude and obvious there’s practically no point.”
“So?”
“So, what’s your opinion? Aside from the fact I should have called my lawyer.”
Richard pursed his lips, nodded. “The notes are a deliberate slap in the face. They are not meant for the cops, so much as they are meant for you.”
“Do you think so?”
Richard shrugged. “Either that, or they are a clumsy attempt to frame you for the crime. And a rather half-hearted attempt, at that. In which case, I would say the killer used them not because they related to you, but because they were at hand. At least the first one. The killer sees the note lying there, thinks what a dandy clue for the cops, and sticks it in the victim’s hand. The second body, there’s no note, but the killer decides there should be. So he holds the guy at gunpoint, forces him to write one. He has him tear it out of the notebook, then shoots him in the head.”
“You really think that happened?”
“If the note is in the victim’s handwriting I think it’s a strong possibility. In which case the killer has a bizarre sense of humor, or really hates you, or is somewhat unhinged, or any combination of those three. Then there’s another thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The whole business with the notes is very unreal. It’s one of those things that seem stranger than fiction.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“What do you mean?”
I told Richard about the fish. “So what do you make of that?”
“It’s either absolutely nothing, or something very sick. If it’s deliberate—if the fish were put in your car for a purpose—then you’re absolutely right, it’s just like the note. It’s something straight out of a book. So the first question would be, is there anything like it in any of Winnington’s books?”
“That’s exactly what MacAullif said.”
“Really?” Richard cocked his head. “Gee, doesn’t that make you sort of wonder?”
39.
“TELL ME ABOUT YOUR BOOKS.”
Kenneth P. Winnington frowned. “What?”
“The books you write. Suspense novels. Tell me about ’em.”
Winnington frowned, leaned back in his desk chair, and gestured with his drink to his wife, who was curled up in an easy chair sipping a drink of her own. It occurred to me no one had offered me a drink. Not that I wanted one. Still, no one had.
“We just got back from talking to the police,” Winnington said, “and we’re a little stressed out. Among other things, we ID’d Doug Mark’s body.”
“You saw him at the morgue?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I saw him at the crime scene. It wasn’t pleasant.”
“No, it wasn’t. It’s been a hell of a day. Then you come in here and ask me about my books as if nothing had happened.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to skip the amenities. I had a reason, but it can wait. How’d it go with the cops?”
“Not well. First thing that ADA did was ask us for an alibi.”
“Did you have one?”
“No, we didn’t,” Winnington said irritably. “And the way he asked the question there was no way that we would.”
“What do you mean?”
“He says, Tell me what you did yesterday. He doesn’t tell us when the crime happened, ask us what we were doing then. No, he says describe the whole fucking day.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Are you kidding me?” He gestured to Maxine again. “Either we claim we were together all day long, or risk winding up without an alibi. The way I understand it, we don’t have an alibi.”
“You know that for sure?”
“No, it’s just the impression I get from the questions that were asked. I still have no idea when the guy died.”
“Yesterday, sometime after five o’clock.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s when I saw him.”
“What were you doing calling on Doug Mark?”
“Looking for someone with a reason to hate your guts.”
“You mean you thought he might be behind the crank phone calls?”
“It had occurred to me.”
“That’s absurd.”
“I admit his murder probably exonerates him. Anyway, yesterday he was merely a lead. Today, he’s important enough to wind up dead. Would you have any idea why?”
“No, I wouldn’t,”
“How about you, Mrs. Winnington?”
“Me?” Maxine said. “I don’t even know Doug Mark.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Well, would it surprise you to know he was in Elizabeth Abbott’s office Monday afternoon? He was there alone, and at a time when her Rolodex was turned to your new unlisted phone number,”
She frowned. “What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m telling you why I considered Doug Mark a suspect. Anyway, that’s why I called on him. And why he wound up holding a piece of paper with my name on it.”
I put up my hand, turned to Winnington. “Now then, this is what I was getting a
t before. The crimes strike everyone as something straight out of a book. You write books. It’s logical to ask if there is any connection.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Oh, really? Why?”
“I have nothing like that in any of my books. Corpses clutching clues. That’s not suspense. That’s mystery fiction. That’s whodunit.”
“That’s exactly why I’m asking,” I said. “I’m not up on suspense. My experience is mostly mystery fiction. I know there’s a difference, but I’m not that clear on what it is. I’m asking you because you know. Now, let me give you another example.”
“Example?”
“Yeah. The phone calls. The ones you’ve been getting. Threatening anonymous phone calls. Is that suspense or mystery?”
“It could be either. It depends on how they’re used. If they’re used to frighten, to terrify, that’s suspense. If they’re merely a plot device, they’re mystery.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Well, let me ask you this. Is there any similarity to your books?”
“You mean the crank phone calls?”
“Yeah.”
Winnington shook his head. “Not at all. I’ve never used anything of the kind.”
“All right,” I said. “Another example. Someone breaks into the protagonist’s car, leaves a pile of dead fish on the front seat.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Anything like that in your books?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Would that be suspense or mystery?”
“That would be simply weird,” Winnington said. “You’ll pardon me, but is there a point to all this?”
“I’m just trying to work things out. We got a problem in this case. The cop in charge is not too bright. He’s sitting on the guy who walked out on your signing. If he did it, fine, the case is solved, and no one will be happier than I will. But if he didn’t, we have to fend for ourselves.” I pointed. “Now, you’re a suspense writer. People connected with your career die. Your literary career. Which happens to be suspense. So I need to know about that. I’m asking you because you happen to be the best source of information. You not only write it, you talk about it. Like at the signing. When you talked about writing in the first person. You get questions like that all the time, so you not only know how to do what you do, you know how to explain it. I need to have it explained. On the off chance it will help. Can you do that for me?”
