by Parnell Hall
“That’s true.”
“So what brought you down there?”
“Actually, you have Sergeant Thurman to thank,”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not at all. You’re lucky he’s such a bad cop. The type of cop, once he gets a suspect, he’ll twist every bit of evidence to make it fit him.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“This guy he drags in—the crank caller—what’s his name—Noah Sprague—he’s trying to make a case against the guy. Everything he finds, it points to his guilt.”
“So?”
“So, workin’ up a case on the guy, he finds a friend of his works at Video Access where Winnington rents his tapes.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. A little pressure and the guy breaks down and admits giving him Winnington’s new unlisted number.”
“So?”
“So, I run into Thurman and he’s braggin’ about how he just found a key piece of evidence, locked up his case.” MacAullif shrugged, spread his hands. “Which is all ass-backward. Thurman likes it because it confirms the guy made the call. What he’s missing is, if the guy got the number from the video place, there’s no connection between him and the publicist at all.”
“That’s all you had?”
“That’s all I need. If the phone number didn’t come from the publicist, there’s a good bet the crank calls and the killings aren’t related. Which means Thurman’s got the wrong man. Which means you’ve got the right one, and that note you told me about just might be pay dirt. In which case, you’re walking into a trap.”
“Yeah.” I took a breath, exhaled noisily. “I’m thinking maybe I’ll get out of the business.”
“Just because you’re no good at it?”
“No, MacAullif. The guy went after my wife and kid.”
“Yeah, I know. And how can you endanger them? But think about it. The guy came after you for something happened years ago. You quit now, you still can’t erase what’s been done. Oh, you’re forewarned, you’re more careful, you’ll check up now, every scumbag ever went to jail, make sure the son of a bitch is still there. Is he comin’ up for parole, is he likely to get out?
“But in the end, you can’t bury your head in the sand. I mean, would you quit workin’ for Rosenberg? Because that’s your real job, that’s what you do full-time. And negligence work, who’s to get upset about that?
“This other stuff—the freelance stuff you fall into—each case is individual, no one’s hittin' you over the head, you have the right to say no.”
“I know, but ...”
“But right now you’re too close to it to think rational. So take some time off, get away from it all, take a vacation. Things will look different when you’ve had a chance to calm down. When your wife and kid calm down and stop talking about it.
Once they put it behind them, you will. Then you move on. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet. You gotta give it time.”
“I suppose.”
“If it will make you feel any better, I guarantee you Mr. Kraswell will be gone for a long time. Aside from his little stunt with the bomb, he was carrying the pistol that killed Doug Mark. So he’s a cinch for that one.”
“That’s a break.”
“Whether they get him on the publicist too is iffy, unless he gives it up. There’s no real evidence there. But he’s going down for the other. So I guess it doesn’t really matter.”
I nodded. Sherry Pressman’s funeral was that afternoon.
“Except to her.”
51.
I WENT TO THE FUNERAL, I’M not sure why. Maybe because I needed a sense of closure. Maybe to see the Winningtons again. Or maybe because I couldn’t shake the feeling this woman was dead because of me. Because Carlton Kraswell followed me to her apartment. And killed her just for spite. Anyway, I felt I had to go.
Sherry Pressman’s memorial service was at a funeral home on Third Avenue in the East 80s. I drove over, got a parking meter on Lexington a block away. It was only an hour meter, but I figured that was probably as much as I could stand. I fed quarters into the meter, walked over to Third.
The first thing I noticed was how few people were there. The Winningtons were not among them. The only one I recognized was wannabe writer Wilber Penrose. I had no real desire to talk to him. I avoided eye contact, went over to commune with the dead.
It was closed casket, praise the lord. Inside was the woman I’d last seen lying on a slab in the morgue. The woman who’d pressured me to buy Winnington’s book. It occurred to me I’d never bought it. I resolved to do so, just for her. I smiled slightly at the irony—the publicist’s death resulting in a final sale.
I looked up to see Abe Feinstein come in the door. The agent looked properly respectful in his best black suit, except for the knockout of a young brunette hanging on his arm. She was also dressed in black, but there’s black and then there’s black. Her clinging little number would have raised eyebrows at the Academy Awards.
The woman spotted Wilber Penrose, and, with a wave far too cheery for the situation, disengaged herself from the arm of the agent, and went flying across the room to meet him, where the two of them proceeded to converse animatedly in low tones.
I went up to Abe Feinstein. “Come to pay your respects?”
“Absolutely. Fine woman. Besides, who knows what client of hers I might steal.”
“That hadn’t occurred to me.”
“You’re in the business, it would.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Who’s your friend?”
“Her? Oh, that’s one of Sherry’s authors. Linda Toole.”
I blinked. “Linda Toole? Are you kidding? The little old lady with the book about cats?”
“Not so little. Not so old. But a book about cats, she has. I’m handling it for her.”
“You are? I thought Sherry said it was awful.”
“It is rather bad. The woman can barely write. Still, it is a mystery about a woman with cats. Plus, the cat woman’s a cook, throws in an actual recipe for tuna salad.” He shrugged. “I got her a two book, hard-soft deal in the mid six figures, she’s happy as a clam.”
I blinked again. “You what?”
“Hey, what can I tell you? I’m the best. I suppose I should hate myself, instead I cashed the check.” He cocked his head. “Are you all right?”
“I’ve been better. Physically I’m fine.”
“I heard what happened. Of course, who didn’t.” He shook his head. “Bad business. But they got the guy who did it?”
“That’s right.”
“Can they prove it?”
“Actually, they’re not sure about her. But they have him dead to rights on Doug Mark.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah.” I exhaled. “If I were to write a book ...”
“You? About what?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Sounds good.”
“Yeah. Well, I’m a private detective. It just occurred to me.”
“You write it, give me a call. But don’t think because you’re a private eye it’s gotta be that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, take this case. You got threatening phone calls, two murders, and a bomb blast.” He shrugged. “But it doesn’t work. The guy what did it’s not involved, he’s dragged in from left field from somewhere else. The only way it works is if you set him up in the beginning, but you can’t do that, because if you do there’s no plot. Life sucks in terms of art.”
Abe Feinstein scratched his head. “The other way you do it is true crime. But there you got a problem, because Winnington won’t cooperate. That would be bad enough anyway, but on top of it I happen to be his agent, so obviously I wouldn’t touch it. But don’t let me discourage you. You get an idea, you write it up, and we’ll talk.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“You seen the Winningtons yet?”
“I was hoping to run into them here.”
“How do you know?”
“Just their style. He’s too big to come. Not his way. He won’t come to Doug Mark’s service either. Even though he’d have much more reason, all he owes him.”
“You sound like you don’t like him much.”
“Are you kidding me? He’s my favorite author. The one that pays the bills. I love the guy.”
I excused myself, went outside to get some air.
What Abe Feinstein had told me was upsetting. Not that I couldn’t write up the story—I wouldn’t have done it anyway, not with Alice and Tommie involved. No, I was just grasping at straws, wanting to do something to get out of detective work. Still, a modicum of encouragement would have been nice.
The real thing that bothered me was the fact that the Winningtons wouldn’t be there. I’d be sending them a bill and getting a check in the mail, but I wouldn’t be dropping by their apartment anymore. And—I wanted to see them again. As I said, just for a sense of closure. Though I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because the whole story was disjointed. It jumped from them to the whole Carlton Kraswell thing. And I wanted to bring it back full cycle and wrap it up somehow.
But if it wasn’t to be, it wasn’t to be.
Why should I feel bad? Why should I feel any worse than Doug Mark, whose funeral they wouldn’t be attending?
Whose death I’d caused.
I guess maybe that was it. I guess I wanted to see the Winningtons to reassure myself that what I’d done was not my fault. That someone else had set this thing in motion. That everything I’d done I had been made to do. That I really wasn’t to blame.
While I was standing there thinking that, wannabe writer Noah Sprague came walking down the street and into the funeral parlor.
It shocked the hell out of me to see him out on the street. I guess it shouldn’t have—the guy wasn’t guilty of the murders. The crank phone calls, sure, but that of course would be a bailable offense. No reason why he’d be in jail. Still, it gave me a turn.
I didn’t know why he’d come. Whether he’d known Sherry Pressman too. Perhaps once submitted a manuscript to her. Probably not. Surely if that were the case Sergeant Thurman would have ferreted it out. But maybe not. Maybe he knew the woman.
Or maybe he, like I, hoped to find the Winningtons there. Hoped to harass them one more time. Maybe he was still on their case.
Well, if he was, it was nothing to do with me. I’d done with the Winningtons. Bang, over, finished.
As I stood there, thinking that, I smiled.
Thank you, Mr. Sprague.
Thank you for coming, that will do quite nicely.
I can put this behind me now and move on.
And I’d get over it.
And Alice would get over it.
And Tommie would get over it.
And things would go back to the way they were before.
I was confident of that now.
It would just take time.
Books by Parnell Hall
Stanley Hastings private eye mysteries
Detective
Murder
Favor
Strangler
Client
Juror
Shot
Actor
Blackmail
Movie
Trial
Scam
Suspense
Cozy
Manslaughter
Hitman
Caper
Puzzle Lady crossword puzzle mysteries
A Clue For The Puzzle Lady
Last Puzzle & Testament
Puzzled To Death
A Puzzle In A Pear Tree
With This Puzzle I Thee Kill
And A Puzzle To Die On
Stalking The Puzzle Lady
You Have The Right To Remain Puzzled
The Sudoku Puzzle Murders
Dead Man’s Puzzle
The Puzzle Lady vs. The Sudoku Lady
Steve Winslow courtroom dramas
The Baxter Trust
Then Anonymous Client
The Underground Man
The Naked Typist
The Wrong Gun
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Books by Parnell Hall
