Manslaughter (Stanley Hastings Mystery, #15) Read online

  Praise for Parnell Hall’s mystery Manslaughter

  “Whodunit fans with a taste for the unconventional will find this just what the doctor ordered.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “As usual, Hall has crafted a mystery that's both funny and genuinely mysterious, a real treat for his many fans.”

  —Booklist

  Manslaughter

  Parnell Hall

  Copyright © 2003, 2011 by Parnell Hall

  Published by Parnell Hall, eBook edition, 2011.

  Published by Carroll & Graf, 2003.

  ISBN:978-0-7867-1127-7

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the author, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

  ISBN (Kindle): 978-1-936441-46-4

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-936441-47-1

  Cover design: Michael Fusco Design | michaelfuscodesign.com

  For Jim and Franny

  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

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Books by Parnell Hall

  1.

  “I KILLED A MAN.”

  Uh-oh.

  Not exactly what I wanted to hear. The man who graced my office first thing on a Monday morning was rather large. Still, he had a kindly face, a not-at-all hostile face, yet certainly not the type of face I’d like to have angry at me. Joe Balfour was a simple-minded but amiable lout, who obviously killed only at the behest of undesirable companions who led him into evil against his will.

  Of course, I was making all that up. All I really knew about Mr. Balfour was he was an impediment I had to circumvent before setting out on my actual job, chasing ambulances for a negligence lawyer. I had three cases lined up already today, with more undoubtedly to come. When he’d appeared in front of my door Mr. Balfour had seemed a distraction at best. With the announcement that he had killed a man, he became a definite liability. But it occurred to me it might not be advisable to tell a walking mountain range with a track record for homicide to go to hell.

  “Is that right, Mr. Balfour?” I said. I tipped back in my desk chair with a casual disinterest that implied most of my clients had at least one homicide on their record and probably my pizza delivery boy did as well. “Tell me about it.”

  He shrugged. “Not much to tell. I was young, I was drunk. I was in a barroom brawl. A man hit me and I hit him. I got up. He didn’t.”

  I waited for more, but that was it.

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Twenty-five years.”

  “What happened to the case?”

  “I was arrested and charged with murder. My lawyer plea-bargained it down to manslaughter. I got three to five.”

  “What’d you serve?”

  “One and a half.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. I couldn’t help wondering what three to five meant, when time served was a year and a half. I shuddered to think how bad you’d have to behave to wind up serving five.

  “So what’s your problem?” I said.

  “Well, I have a daughter.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  He looked at me sharply. “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, if the two things are connected, that’s trouble. I assume your wife and daughter don’t know you have a record and someone’s threatening to tell?”

  He looked at me as if I were clairvoyant. “How’d you know that?”

  “Just a lucky guess.”

  “So what can I do?”

  “There’s only one thing to do. You sit your wife and your daughter down, and you tell ’em just what you told me.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “I knew that too. Now, I’m gonna give you a little more advice, then I got an appointment in the Bronx. You say you can’t do that, and I hear you, and I appreciate what you say. Now, what you need to do is step back and say, here’s what happens if I don’t do that. And then start listing all the things that happen in that event. When you get to the part where your wife and your daughter find out what you did, try to explain to yourself why that result is preferable to the one where you sat down and told them.”

  He looked as if his mind was whirling, trying to follow all that. When he caught up, or at least appeared to, he gulped and said, “That can’t happen.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. When it does, I’m sure it will console you to know that happenstance defied the laws of physical possibility.”

  He scowled. “Stop talking cute. I need your help. I wanna hire you. Whaddya say?”

  “I told you. I have a job.”

  “How much does it pay?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I pay cash, and I don’t file ten-ninety-nines, and what you tell the IRS is between you and them.”

  Mr. Balfour reached in his pocket and pulled out a fat wad of bills.

  “Now, do you want this job or not?”

  I wanted the job.

  You gotta understand. I am not the type of private detective you see in movies and TV shows who says, “There, there, Citizen,” straps on his gun, and goes out and deals with the bad guy. I am a poor son of a bitch working my ass off to support my wife and kid. In New York City, that’s not easy. Particularly if, as in my case, you have a liberal arts degree, which to date has been useful in pleasing my mother and serving as a bookmark in one of our family photo albums. In terms of a job, I am virtually unemployable. My skills are writing and acting. Oddly enough, it is not often that anyone wishes to hire me for either. Which is why I work the private detective shift. It is a permanent job-job. I do it for the money. And the money’s not that good.

  Mr. Balfour’s money looked good.

  I didn’t grab for it, however. I leaned back in my desk chair, distancing myself from the cash, and said, “What is it you want?”

  “I told you. To keep this from my wife and kid.”

  “And how would I go about doing this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s less than helpful.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m flustered. Here. Take a look at th
is.”

  Mr. Balfour’s briefcase was on the floor next to him. He put it in his lap and popped it open. He took out a piece of paper, folded in thirds like a letter, and passed it over. “This was sent to me at my office.”

  I unfolded the paper.

  There was no date, no salutation, no signature. Just a typed message: I know who you are. And I know what you did. Be at the Purple Onion Thursday night at 6:30. Wear a red rose in your left lapel. Don’t fail me.

  “This came in the mail?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s the envelope?”

  “I threw it away.”

  I paused just long enough to let him know what I thought about that, then said, “When did you get this?”

  He frowned. “Yesterday. Why?”

  “Why’d you wait till now?”

  “I was figuring out what to do.”

  “You figured me?”

  “You’re near my office.”

  I considered, hopelessly conflicted. That pile of bills was awfully big.

  I sighed. “Mr. Balfour, this is probably just a prank. Whoever sent this doesn’t mention anything about a criminal record. My personal opinion is you don’t need my help.”

  “Fine. That’s very ethical of you. But I disagree, and I want to hire you. At least until I know what this is all about. The meeting is tonight at six-thirty. Can I count on your help?”

  “You want me to hang out in the Purple Onion and keep an eye on you, and when this guy shows up, you want me to tail him?”

  “No.”

  “No? Then what do you want?”

  “I want you to be me.”

  2.

  “MANSLAUGHTER,” RICHARD ROSENBERG SAID. He leaned back in his desk chair, steepled his fingers. “What an interesting word.”

  “It interested the blackmailer,” I said.

  Richard frowned, waved it away. “No, no, no,” he said, dismissing my comment, the way he would dismiss the arguments of opposing counsel in court. Richard Rosenberg was one of New York City’s leading negligence lawyers. That one of is hedging a bet. I could think of none better, and neither could he. A little man with big aspirations, Richard had boundless confidence in his own abilities, and this opinion was infectious. Opposing counsel had been known to settle the minute they heard Richard was on the case. In a way, giving in was the only way to thwart him, as he loved nothing better than beating an opponent down. Richard was prone to argue with any adversary, even me.

  “What do you mean, no, no, no?” I inquired. From long experience I knew the best way to handle Richard was to ask for an explanation. He always had one, and the ensuing lecture gave me time to catch my breath.

  “I mean, the word itself,” Richard said. “Manslaughter. When you hear it, you think it’s made up of the words man and slaughter. But if you look closely, it’s also made up of the words man’s and laughter. Manslaughter equals man’s laughter. And why is the man laughing? He’s laughing because he got off with manslaughter and beat a murder rap.”

  “Man’s would be apostrophe ‘s’ ” I pointed out.

  Richard looked offended. “You’re gonna fault me on a punctuation mark? I am wounded. I am cut to the quick.”

  “You’ll live. So what do you think I should do?”

  Richard steepled his fingers again. “You paid blackmail before. As I recall, that didn’t work out too well.”

  “This is different.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s not blackmail. All I gotta do is show up and meet the guy. There’s no evidence. No incriminating photos. No bone of contention. Nothing I am responsible for.”

  “If it’s that simple, why bring it to me?”

  “Oh.”

  Richard grinned. “Ah. Hadn’t thought that one up, had you? You can’t want advice, you’ve already agreed to do it. And you don’t need to be told how to do it, since it’s a piece of cake. Which means you came to me merely for approval. I am touched. I am moved. I am overcome.”

  “Actually, Richard, I came to tell you I’ve accepted this employment, so I may have to turn down a few of your cases.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. Like that’s really an issue. No, you wanted my blessing. I think that’s rather sweet.”

  I muttered something that could barely be considered sweet.

  Richard frowned. “Did you just invite me to go fuck myself?”

  “I’m sure I would never do such a thing.”

  “See that you don’t.” Richard sighed. “Okay, you better give me the background on this blackmail.”

  “I thought you agreed it was a piece of cake.”

  “With your track record, nothing is a piece of cake. If I have to come bail you out of the hoosegow, it would help to know why you’re there.”

  I gave Richard a rundown of Joe Balfour’s problem.

  “Twenty-five years?” Richard said. “That’s a rather long time.”

  “Yes, but there’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

  “Huh?”

  “Murder never outlaws. If it could be shown he murdered the gentleman in question, he could still be prosecuted on the charge.”

  “No, he couldn’t,” Richard said impatiently. “He’s been found guilty of manslaughter. That conviction would be a bar to farther prosecution.”

  “Are you sure about that? Seems to me it’s a fine line.”

  “Yes, and do you know why? Because you have the most devious mind I’ve ever encountered. Composed almost entirely of murder plots from Erle Stanley Gardner, Agatha Christie, Rex Stout, and Ellery Queen.”

  “I also watch The Practice.”

  “I’m thrilled. But that’s not the case here. All you have is a twenty-five-year-old manslaughter conviction the blackmailer’s threatening to make public.”

  “I have a twenty-five-year-old manslaughter conviction my client supposes the blackmailer’s threatening to make public.”

  “Worse and worse. It’s the most nebulous case I ever heard.”

  “The money was real.”

  Richard frowned. “And that’s wrong too. Why should the guy pay you up front. Nobody pays up front. Who says you’re gonna be sucessful? What’s so special about you?”

  “Hey, hey!”

  “Not to run down your abilities, such as they are. But Jesus Christ, you got a situation here that screams to high heaven, where the odds of success are very small. You have to stop a man from revealing something he hasn’t threatened to reveal yet. If he has no intention of revealing it, you can succeed by doing nothing. However, if he does intend to reveal it, nothing you can do will stop him. Short of paying him the hush money he hasn’t demanded.”

  “Could you point out any other drawbacks in my situation? It’ll keep me from getting overconfident.”

  “Then there’s the part about pretending to be him. As long as he’s not a cop, you’re okay. There’s no law against impersonating a person. The most they could get you with is wearing a flower with intent to deceive. If that were illegal they’d have to arrest every prom date in America.”

  “You’re in rare form this morning, Richard.”

  “Well, whaddya want from me? You come in here, you bring me this outrageous story. You pretend you’re asking for time off to handle it, but closer examination reveals it’s happening tonight after work. Further examination reveals you haven’t the faintest idea what you’re doing besides making a pile of money.”

  “Because my client doesn’t know. He’s meeting someone, he’ll find out more then.”

  “You’ll find out more then if you agree to do this.”

  “I already agreed.”

  “My point exactly. What do you want from me?”

  “I would like some assurance what I’m doing isn’t illegal.”

  “I’m sure you would. Unfortunately, I’m not the one to ask.”

  “Who is?”

  “Try a cop.”

  3.

  SERGEANT MACAULLIF SCOWLED. “I hate hypothetical questio
ns.”

  “No, no, no. You love hypothetical questions. Hypothetical questions are great. They allow you to talk about things without getting in trouble.”

  “Getting in trouble? I’m a cop. Why would I get in trouble?”

  “You wouldn’t, of course. And that’s where the hypothetical question comes in.”

  “Wrong,” MacAullif said. “I wouldn’t in any case. I am not in trouble. And you can’t get me in trouble. You can get yourself in trouble. You have an amazing knack for that. A hypothetical question lets you skirt the edge of trouble. The worst part of it is, it allows you to talk to me. Whereas, without it you couldn’t talk to me at all.”

  “That’s rather rude.”

  “Tough shit. You come in here to ruin my day with a hypothetical question, fine, that’s par for the course. You wanna pretend it’s wonderful for me, go fuck yourself. I’m too busy for that kind of crap.”

  “All right, hypothetically, suppose this hypothetical weren’t hypothetical.”

  MacAullif’s mouth dropped open. “God save me.” He jerked his desk drawer open, fumbled inside.

  I thought he’d come out with a cigar. His physician had made him give up cigars, but he played with them from time to time, usually when I was driving him nuts.

  This time he came out with several plastic pill bottles. He squinted at them, dumped two pills out, chewed them up.

  “For my stomach,” he said. “I got acid reflux, whatever the fuck that is. Apparently new and fashionable. Never heard of it all my life, suddenly everyone’s got it. According to my doctor, it’s either caused by stress or the other pills he’s giving me.” MacAullif shook his head. “You know the ads on TV for all these drugs: May cause drowsiness, liver damage, flatulence, and pissing in your pants.”

  “I believe that’s exactly how they phrased it.”

  “And you ask yourself, is all that shit worth low cholesterol? I mean, compared to that, maybe high cholesterol ain’t all that bad.”

  “It’ll kill you.”

  “That’s what the doc said. So he’s got me on this one for high cholesterol, this one for high blood pressure, this one for clogged arteries, this one for sinus condition, this one clogged lungs, this one for heartworm—”

  “Heartworm?”

  “That’s the dog’s pills. I gotta remember to take it home.”