Manslaughter (Stanley Hastings Mystery, #15) Read online

  “My lawyer said not to talk.”

  “That’s the stuff. Keep it up.”

  MacAullif managed to force a smile. I don’t know how it looked to Jenny, but it was one of the most frightening things I’ve ever seen.

  “Now, why don’t you beat it on home? Your mother’s worried about you.”

  27.

  I WATCHED JENNY drive off with some trepidation. It left me alone with MacAullif. Not that I figured he’d stuff me in the trunk of his car, but still. It was enough to give one pause.

  “Okay,” MacAullif said. “How do we get out of this one?”

  We sounded good. It was the best thing I’d heard all day.

  “I don’t know, MacAullif. I can’t get a straight story. The father’s lyin’, the girl’s lyin’, the mother won’t talk, and the lawyer don’t know shit.”

  “An interesting assessment. Based on your track record, she and Dad are telling the truth, Mom’s a blabbermouth, and the lawyer’s omniscient.”

  “Any time you’re through having fun.”

  “Fun? This is not fun. This is as bad as it gets. What’s the girl’s story? Do you know it?”

  “I know what she told me. Whether I believe it or not is something else.”

  “A girl with tits like that you tend to believe. The fact you’re dubious, her story must really suck.”

  “It’s not good.”

  “Well, do I have to pry it out of you? What’s the pitch?”

  “Do you really wanna know?”

  “Yes, I’d really like to know. Ignorance is not bliss. If I have to dodge a bullet, I would like to know where the bullet is.”

  I gave MacAullif a rundown of what Jenny told me. He wasn’t pleased.

  “You call that a story? That’s not a story. That’s a girl battin’ her eyes, and pullin’ the wool over yours. Where’s the facts?”

  “She doesn’t know the facts.”

  “And if you believe that, I got this swampland in Florida you’ll just love. The girl’s involved with the corpse and don’t know shit. Makes sense to me. I couldn’t think of another question to ask.”

  “What part of I-don’t-know would you like to dissect?”

  “She came to pay the guy off?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he was alive when she left?”

  “That’s what she says.”

  “So she gave him the money?”

  “Of course.”

  “Which reduced the debt by how much?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, how much did she give him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “When she gave it to him, how’d he keep track of the balance? Subtract it from a sum? Did he mark it off in a book?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “Did you ask? Of course not. Because they weren’t the questions that interested you.”

  “They were rather incidental to the crime.”

  “Is that so? They’re rather central to whether or not she’s telling the truth. The more details you can muster, the more likely she’s not just blowing you off. Which she’s probably doing. Good god, what a setup. Here’s a girl with her whole family in her power. She hasn’t told her story yet, and when she does, she can fry her mom or her dad.”

  “The cops don’t know her mom was out there.”

  “They will if she says so. What if she says she found Grackle dead?”

  “She said he was alive.”

  “That’s what she told you. You wanna know how much that’s worth? Last I checked, lyin’ to you isn’t perjury in this state. And if she hasn’t told her lawyer....” MacAullif shook his head. “That’s a situation I don’t wanna think about.”

  “You’re sayin’ we drop it?”

  “I’m sayin’ I drop it. Not that I was ever involved in the first place, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Now there’s the first right decision you’ve made this whole case. Good. I’m out of it. You, on the other hand, are right in the middle.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “What, are you nuts? You’re involved with the daughter. You’re involved with the father. You’ve been around harassin’ the mother. Not to mention the two lawyers. The only reason you’re not involved in the case is ’cause Sergeant Numbnuts Thurman is. But it’s just a matter of time. The minute that traffic cop with the partial plate manages to put two and two together and makes the ID, even a cop as obtuse as Thurman’s gonna take a tumble.”

  My face betrayed me.

  “Don’t tell me,” MacAullif groaned. “As if things weren’t bad enough, you fucked with an ID witness?”

  “What, I got no right to question the guy?”

  “Save it for the judge.” MacAullif shook his head. “This is bad news all around. You and I are teetering on the verge of extinction until this case is cleared up. With Thurman in charge, that could be years.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “I told you, I don’t do anything. But you? You gotta figure out what’s what.”

  “And just how would I do that?”

  MacAullif smacked himself on the forehead theatrically. “Oh, I forgot. No detective training. You didn’t go to John Jay College of Criminal Justice? Why is it every time I got a case, you think you know more than me; every time someone else has a case, you need my help?”

  “I didn’t say I needed your help.”

  “Didn’t you just ask me how to solve this sucker? Well, pardon me, I must have hearing problems too. I wonder if there’s a pill for that.”

  “Fine. I’ll do this on my own just to prove I can. The fact your reputation’s at stake should have nothing to do with it.”

  MacAullif frowned. “You have a point. Leaving you to your own devices is not in my best interests. All right, let’s start from the top. The girl is charged with killing the guy. Either she did or she didn’t.”

  “That’s helpful?”

  “We need to wrap up the case. The point is, she’s not your client, so we can wrap it up by proving her guilty just as well as proving her innocent. Better, actually, ’cause getting her off the hook may not clear the crime. So I’d look for things to fry her.”

  “Nice guy.”

  “Hey, if it does, it does. Girl’s told a fairy tale that’s most likely not true. If she gets hurt because of it, I’m not wastin’ tears. So try to break down her story.”

  I found myself on the verge of saying “How?”

  MacAullif rolled his eyes. “How do you think? You find discrepancies. That’s why it would be nice to know how she paid the guy off.”

  “I can talk to her again.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “What are you implying?”

  “I’m not implying anything. She’s a nubile young thing with nice tits. I imagine you’d enjoy talking to her.”

  “What are we, in high school? You sound positively adolescent.”

  “I’m merely describing you. The girl seems to have triggered a second childhood. Of course, she hasn’t slapped you yet.”

  Again, my face betrayed me.

  MacAullif raised his eyebrows. “Oh, is that right?” His eyes twinkled devilishly. “Fresh.”

  “Damnit, MacAullif.”

  “No wonder you don’t think she’s guilty.”

  “Now, look here—”

  “The white knight on the charger. One of your favorite parts, isn’t it? Saving the damsel in distress? No wonder you’re so callous about throwing an old friend to the wolves.”

  “She slapped me to facilitate an escape. So a couple of passersby would make the same mistake you’re making.”

  “Uh-huh,” MacAullif said. “So that’s how come you’re so set on provin’ she didn’t do it. Okay, assume she’s innocent, and find facts to support her story.”

  “And just where am I going to find these facts?”

  MacAullif cocked his head.

  I put
up my hand. “Never mind. I’ll handle it myself.” I considered. “Would you draw the line at facilitating things?”

  MacAullif frowned irritably. “What?”

  “Could you get me in the crime scene?”

  “No, but thanks for asking.”

  “I suppose I could pose as someone looking to rent the apartment.”

  “You could if you want to wait awhile. The police haven’t released it yet.”

  “You’re not being very helpful. What about I forget the whole thing, go back to working negligence cases?”

  “And leave a damsel in distress? You certainly could. And leave me hung out to dry? You could do that too. I happen to know you better than that. You wouldn’t last twenty-four hours before you had a moral and ethical meltdown. You’d fund some shrink’s Christmas vacation, and your self-esteem would need a twelve-step program. But if that’s the way you wanna play it....”

  “Christ, MacAullif. I just asked if you can get me in the crime scene. You don’t have to be so testy just because you can’t cut the mustard.”

  “Hey, douche bag. I’m trying to keep my name out of the murder case. You wanna explain to me how showin’ an interest in the crime scene would be a good move?”

  “So how do you expect me to get in?”

  MacAullif shrugged. “That’s your problem.”

  28.

  “I CAN’T DO IT.”

  That wasn’t good. I hadn’t even asked Leroy yet, and he’d already told me he couldn’t do it.

  I wondered why.

  Leroy Stanhope Williams had seemed somewhat reserved as he’d opened the door of his Forest Hills home. True, I hadn’t seen him in years, but even so. Leroy was one of the most aristocratic black men I’ve ever met. I suppose that’s a racist statement. Everything is these days. What I mean is, Leroy looked and spoke as if he were a dignitary from some British commonwealth. He also dressed the part, discreetly, tastefully, but always elegantly in fashion. His hair was a little grayer than I remembered, his cheeks slightly more pinched. But everything in his character was right and proper. His greeting was perfectly cordial, Emily Post to a fault. Still I sensed a change.

  Leroy’s foyer was hung with oil paintings, as were all the rooms in his house. I don’t know zip about art, but they looked good to me. As he ushered me into the living room, I caught words such as Picasso and Degas. Even to a cultural illiterate, that sounded good.

  Leroy sat me on a moderately uncomfortable velvet-covered couch, which probably reflected the period of some painting or other, and which probably wasn’t called a couch but a divan, or some such equally obscure name that I should feel uneducated for not knowing. He sat opposite me in an old throne of Louis Quatorze. It wasn’t, of course, I just throw the name in because it’s the only one I know.

  Leroy offered me coffee and tea, which I declined, and inquired after the health of my wife and child. Friendly, polite, but still reserved.

  And then suddenly, uncharacteristically, blurting out that he couldn’t help me, when I hadn’t even asked.

  “Leroy!” I cried. “What’s the matter?”

  Leroy grimaced, and in that instant I had a premonition. I was about to hear something tremendous and life-altering. His sunken cheeks would be ascribed to some catastrophic illness, aggressive, fatal, and for which there was no cure.

  I steeled myself.

  Leroy sighed, glanced around. “You see the paintings on the wall?”

  How could I help it? They were everywhere. Artistically displayed. The frames alone were probably worth more than the average collection.

  “Yes, I see them,” I said.

  “Well, you probably haven’t seen them before. It’s been years since you’ve come to call.”

  “I guess it has.”

  “The Matisse I bought last year. Likewise the Van Gogh. The Renoir I’ve had slightly longer. And the minor da Vinci work, if you can call a da Vinci work minor. Even the sculptures are new.”

  The new sculpture to my left was of a naked torso, with one leg, no arms, no head, and no genitalia. I assumed, for reasons unknown to me, it was worth a good deal of money.

  “Very nice,” I said. Considering my talent for art appreciation, that was a rather bold comment.

  Leroy registered this with only the slightest amused lift of an eyebrow. “Yes, it is rather nice, isn’t it? I have on occasion even lent paintings to museums.”

  “Really? That’s very nice.”

  “Yes, it is.” Leroy paused, frowned. “Perhaps you’re missing the big picture here. No, not the one on the south wall. I’m sure Nude Bathing struck your fancy. No, I mean the fact I loan my paintings. I am in fact on several boards of directors, and sit on various arts councils. Do you see what I mean?”

  A light bulb went on. My mouth fell open. “You’re legitimate.”

  “Exactly,” Leroy said. “These paintings are all mine. I have title to them. I have the right to own them, show them, lend them, exhibit them, sell them, auction them off. There is not one painting in this entire house that I dare not claim. Isn’t that amazing?”

  It certainly was.

  Leroy Stanhope Williams was one of the first clients I signed for Richard Rosenberg. A cheerful black man with a cast on his leg, he had sat right in this very room, helping me fill out the fact sheet. And when I’d asked his occupation, Leroy had answered, “Thief.”

  That threw me somewhat. From a legal standpoint, the client’s occupation was useful largely in attempting to recover lost wages. I was not sure how Richard would relate to that.

  I also wasn’t sure if it was a joke.

  It turned out it wasn’t. For Leroy Stanhope Williams was the modern equivalent of the gentleman jewel thief. And all of the art objects in his house belonged to someone else.

  The idea these might be his was indeed astonishing.

  “How’d you do it?” I asked.

  Leroy leaned back in his chair. “Believe me, it wasn’t easy. The opportunities to sell a painting without proper provenance at anywhere near its market value are indeed rare. Oh, there’s the occasional collector who just wants to own it, and doesn’t mind the fact he won’t be able to show it—but for the most part, I was selling at twenty to thirty percent of what I was buying. So it’s taken me a long time. But I’ve been legitimate for years now.”

  “Oh.”

  Leroy smiled. “I sense your disappointment. That and the fact I haven’t seen you in years, leads me to believe you have the need for talents I no longer possess.”

  “Possess?”

  “Practice, if you will. The point is, whatever you need done, I can’t do it. I’m a respectable citizen now. I can’t jeopardize that.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “Thanks,” Leroy said. He raised his eyebrows. “What is your problem?”

  “No reason to burden you if you can’t help.”

  “Perhaps I could offer advice.”

  I gave Leroy a thumbnail sketch of the situation. I omitted details such as MacAullif, Jenny’s mother, and my stupidity, stressing instead the young lady’s attributes and plight.

  “It’s a shame,” Leroy said. “I’m sorry I can’t help her.”

  I was too. I’d been laying on the damsel-in-distress business pretty thick, trying to play on his guilt. When he seemed to soften, I popped open my briefcase, took out the New York Post, and flipped it open to the picture of Jenny Balfour, the one that had sent MacAullif on my case. I got up, walked over, and showed it to Leroy.

  I could see him waver. I knew why. Jenny’s yearbook photo made her look young, innocent, virginal. Since I had neglected to mention her present occupation, Leroy had no reason not to believe it.

  “Who’s this?” Leroy asked.

  I looked over his shoulder.

  The picture next to Jenny Balfour was of the late Mr. Grackle, a thin-faced, sharp-nosed, squinty-eyed, dark-haired young man, with a stubby mustache and virtually no chin. Not the sort of chap to inspire confidence.
Even in the photo his eyes looked shifty. He gave the impression that swindling girls like Jenny was his primary occupation.

  Grackle was alive in the photo, standing in what was presumably the living room of his apartment. Behind him were a couch, a bookcase, and a framed picture on the wall.

  “That’s the dead man,” I said. “Mr. Grackle. He was killed in his apartment. That’s the crime scene I need to search.”

  Leroy might not have heard me. He was squinting closely at the painting that hung over Grackle’s couch in the newspaper photo.

  “Is that a Vermeer?”

  29.

  GRACKLE’S VERMEER WAS a cheap print. Leroy could tell the minute he got in the door. For my money, he could have told from the picture in the paper. Leroy was legit now. Why would he want to steal a painting, even from a dead man? Nah, I think he just wanted to help me out.

  Anyway, even if he was legit, Leroy’s skills hadn’t atrophied. The downstairs door had taken him a good five seconds, the upstairs no more than ten.

  Appraising the painting took less than that. Leroy pronounced it fake, wished me good luck, and split.

  Okay, I was in the crime scene. Now what?

  Philip T. Grackle’s apartment was modest. He had half of the third floor, which allowed for the living room in the photograph, a small bedroom, a kitchen, and bath. In terms of searching, that was good and bad. It was good in that there were fewer places to search, and bad in that there were fewer places to search.

  The police inspection seemed to have centered on the living room, where a chalk outline marked the last position Philip T. Grackle had occupied in his apartment, and the kitchen, where a knife rack on the wall featured an empty slot and a police tag. The knife rack had been dusted for prints, as had various other objects in the apartment. For instance, if after dispatching his victim the killer had stopped to call 777-FILM before leaving the premises, the cops would have had him dead to rights.

  But aside from dusting for prints and tagging the alleged source of the murder weapon, what had the police done?