Manslaughter (Stanley Hastings Mystery, #15) Read online

  The technique was quite effective. Not only did I find myself tripping daintily on my tiptoes, but entire portions of my life flashed before my eyes. I had just finished reliving my second year of grade school when I crashed unceremoniously in a heap next to a pile of dog shit by the curb. I remember being righteously indignant that some dog owners were so irresponsible—I always clean up after Zelda. I just had time to feel virtuous when a kick in the stomach made me forget all about it.

  39.

  “YOU LOOK LIKE SHIT.

  “Thanks, MacAullif.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “A half a ton of bouncer used me for a soccer ball.”

  “Were you in that topless bar again?”

  “I can’t seem to stay away.”

  “It’s that girl, isn’t it? You just can’t get enough of her tits.”

  “She wasn’t there.”

  “That must have been a disappointment.”

  “I wasn’t looking for her.”

  “Then why’d you go?”

  “Chat with the owner.”

  “What about?”

  “Dead guy named Grackle.”

  “He feel like talking?”

  “Not really.”

  MacAullif pulled a cigar out of his drawer, began to play his desk like a drum.

  “Do you have to do that?”

  “Why, you got a headache?”

  “I ache all over.”

  “The bouncer do that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You pissed at him?”

  “Actually, I’m more pissed at his boss.”

  “You plan to get even?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How?”

  “I was hopin’ to get him for murder.”

  MacAullif stopped in mid-drumroll. “Come again?”

  I told MacAullif about Herman Bertoli/Darien Mott’s rap sheet.

  “So the guy’s got a record,” MacAullif said. “How’d you happen to see it?”

  “I’m going to tell you what I told Mott.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I was arrested in Grackle’s apartment.”

  “You mean that rap sheet’s there for the police to find?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you saw it there?”

  “I didn’t say that either.”

  MacAullif snorted disgustedly. “Talking to you is a real workout. What the hell do you mean?”

  “Once again, we’re getting into hypothetical territory.”

  “God save me!”

  “The point is, the guy’s dirty and Grackle knew it. So the guy had every reason to kill him.”

  “That’s mighty thin.”

  “It’s the same case they have on the girl.”

  “Trust me, they got more than that.”

  “Oh? You find out what it is yet?”

  “No, but I’m sure they do. For one thing, they can prove she was there.”

  “They could probably prove he was too if they knew how to go about it.”

  “And how would that be?”

  “I’d tell you, but I don’t wanna get kicked again.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It has to do with the doorbell. The one that didn’t work.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Which is why I’m not bringing it up. Which is why I’m not asking you if any progress has been made on that front. I do not wish to be used as a punching bag. I would rather just not know.”

  “What is it with you and the damn doorbell?”

  “Someone put the buzzer out of commission. We know it’s not Mommy, because Grackle called her and told her.”

  “So she says.”

  “Yes, but I think it’s true. Otherwise, why bring it up? You see what I mean? If you cut the doorbell to get in, and the cops point it out, you say, ‘Oh, yeah, Grackle called and told me it was out and he’d leave the door open.’ But you don’t call attention to it if you don’t have to.”

  “What if the girl did it?”

  “I’ll buy you lunch. It’s not her speed. The old man maybe, but not her.”

  “What if it’s him?”

  “Unlikely. If he’s payin’ off a crime over ten years old.”

  “A crime?”

  “An alleged crime.”

  “The guy had no rap sheet. Are you telling me he was convicted under another name?”

  “Not at all.”

  “What are you telling me?”

  “As little as possible, MacAullif.”

  “Yeah, well what you do tell should make sense. You’re washin’ out the woman ’cause she brought the doorbell up? If she’s claiming he was dead, she’s gotta bring it up, otherwise, how the hell’d she get in?”

  “She just says she found the door was open. She doesn’t have to make up a phone call.”

  “What if there was a phone call? She knocks out the bell, Grackle calls and tells her the bell’s out?”

  I sighed. “MacAullif, you just doin’ this to torture me ’cause you won’t do the work?”

  “The work? Like it’s my job?”

  “Right, right. It’s not your job. You know where Thurman is now?”

  “No. Is that my job? Keeping track of Thurman?”

  “I just wondered if he was done bragging.”

  “What if he was?”

  “I might try to find someone he’d been bragging to. See if they knew what the hell was going on.”

  “Not a bad idea,” MacAullif said. When I said nothing, he added, “If I could figure any way to get the information myself without appearing too interested, I would.”

  I mumbled something under my breath that probably sounded less than pleased.

  “What was that?” MacAullif said sharply.

  “MacAullif, you’re my friend. Or, at least, you know me. I was arrested in this case. You could probably evince a mild curiosity just on the strength of that, without anyone considering it unduly suspicious.”

  “Yeah, I suppose.”

  “So what’s the matter?”

  “The pills I been takin’ got me all upset. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, MacAullif. These things got nothing to do with your head. They’re all physical.”

  “Yeah, but ...”

  “But what?”

  “Just takin’ ’em has me upset.”

  “So?”

  MacAullif drummed the cigar so hard it snapped in half. He didn’t even notice.

  “They got me on Prozac.’’

  From the look on MacAullif’s face the admission had nearly killed him, and if I said a damn thing about it he was going to rip my lungs out.

  I couldn’t help it.

  “It’s not working.”

  40.

  THE YOUNGER MILLSAP regarded me with wary eyes. “I’m not sure I should be talking to you.”

  “I don’t know why not.”

  “You’ve been arrested in conjunction with the case.”

  “So’s your client.”

  Millsap grinned nervously. “Yes, she has. But we’ve been cooperating with the police as much as possible. I don’t think they’d like it if they found out we were cooperating with you.”

  “And just how have you been cooperating with the police?”

  Millsap winced like a golfer who’d just shanked an iron.

  I grinned. “Yeah. Shouldn’t have told me that, should you? So let me guess. Jenny hasn’t made a statement yet, or else the press would be all over it. So any cooperation between you and the police means stuff you leaked. There’s probably a few key facts they’d like to know, a few key facts you’d like to know. You’re still adversaries, but you’re willing to trade. Highly unethical, I’m sure. What’d you do, talk in hypotheticals?”

  “Damn it.”

  “Hey, nothing to be ashamed of. This case lends itself to hypotheticals. Anyway, I’m interested in the facts comin’ back. Hypothe
tically, the police give you any idea what they got on your client? In particular, whatever Sergeant Thurman’s treating as the most important discovery since the wheel.”

  Millsap smiled nervously again. “I can’t compromise—”

  “Of course you can’t. But, hypothetically, what might you be up against?”

  He considered. “Say there were nude photos....”

  I stared at him. “You’re kidding!”

  “What’s so surprising about that? My client’s an exotic dancer.”

  “There’s a nice euphemism.”

  “It’s the one I’ll use in court.”

  “If you get there. I’m tryin’ to see you don’t.” I shook my head. “This makes no sense to me. For the reason you said. Your client’s a topless dancer. So what if there’s nude photos?”

  “That, of course, will be my argument. But the cops don’t see it that way. Just because she dances nude doesn’t mean she does girlie mags. If she did one nude photo shoot just to get dancing work, she might want those pictures back.”

  “All right. If she killed him to get ’em, why didn’t she get ’em?”

  “She couldn’t find them.”

  “Why not?”

  “She didn’t know where to look.”

  “And Sergeant Thurman did?”

  “He had time. She was rushed.”

  “Oh? She had some appointment that was more important than finding the blackmail pics? I wouldn’t like to be arguin’ that in front of a jury. According to the prosecution’s theory of the case, she killed the man to get the photos, but didn’t take the time to find them.”

  “They’ll claim she was interrupted.”

  “By what?”

  “By someone else. Coming to see Grackle.”

  “Who caught her in the apartment?”

  “No. Who scared her off.”

  “How?”

  “They rang the doorbell. She got the hell out of there. She couldn’t go down the stairs or she’d have met ’em, so she went up. She waited on the next landing till they went in the apartment, then crept down the stairs and got the hell out.”

  “That’s what she says?”

  “Hell, no. That’s what they say.”

  “Then throw it back in their face. That doorbell wasn’t workin’ that night.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Hasn’t your client told you?”

  He smiled. “I know what my client’s told me. I wanna know how you know that doorbell wasn’t working that night.”

  “I’m not in a position to tell you that.”

  “Then I’m not in a position to tell you what my client told me.”

  “Suppose I learned it from your client?”

  “Did you?”

  “Is that an admission your client knew it was broken?”

  “No, just an attempt to find out how far you’ll run your bluff.”

  I threw up my hands. “Fine, fine. May my house be safe from lawyers. The point is not who claims the doorbell was out, the point is it was. Now, that bit of information needs to be communicated to the police. If you’re all palsy-walsy with this ADA, you might make the suggestion.”

  “And just why should I do that?”

  I groaned. “Hey, I’m not trying to hustle you here. You should do that because it helps your client. The downstairs door was open because the buzzer was out. The buzzer was out because the killer disconnected it so the downstairs door would be open. I don’t believe your client’s the killer. That means the person who disconnected it was someone else. If the cops aren’t too ham-handed about investigating it, they might be able to tell who that someone else was.”

  Millsap frowned, chewed on his lip.

  “You gotta discount the fact the advice comes from me. You gotta say to yourself, if it were my investigator bringing me this, I’d think it was pretty good.”

  “Yeah, but it isn’t my investigator, so I have to ask myself why. You’re not working for me. You’re not working for my dad. What’s your vested interest in this thing?”

  “I’m working for Richard Rosenberg, who’s representing the Grackle’s widow.”

  “Who, if my understanding is correct, hadn’t seen the guy for years and didn’t even know he was dead.”

  “Which would in no way negate her claim.”

  “No, but it certainly raises questions as to how she came to file it.”

  “Don’t ask them.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Once again, you’re missing the big picture by getting involved in things that don’t concern you or your client. What’s important is not why I’m involved in this case, it’s the fact that I am. I was in that apartment. I took a look at those files. I didn’t find those photos. Assuming your client was in that apartment and took a look at those files, she didn’t find those photos. And whoever the hell killed Grackle didn’t find those photos. This would tend to bring up the question, where were the photos?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You know they exist, but not where they came from? Your friendship with the ADA is rather tenuous. I would think a simple, ‘Bullshit, where’d you get them?’ would suffice.”

  “Well, it didn’t.”

  “Then I’d refuse to give his story any credence and take the position they didn’t exist.”

  “Yes, that would be so clever, wouldn’t it?” Millsap said sarcastically

  I studied his face. Realization dawned. “Of course. He showed them to you. No explanation needed. Just guy stuff. ‘Hey, wanna see some pictures?’ How’d she look?”

  Millsap ground his teeth.

  “So, that’s the club he’s holding over you. Cooperating, hell. If you don’t do what he says, he’ll leak those pictures to the press. How badly have you had to hurt your client’s case?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “I think this interview is over.”

  “That’s what everyone says these days. I’m starting to get a complex. Just a few more questions. Does your father know about this? Does your father’s client know about this? Have they seen the pictures?”

  Millsap looked concerned.

  “They haven’t, have they? You told me more than you intended. Don’t worry. I’m not a blabbermouth. Is your father in?”

  “Now, look here—”

  “No, you look here. The cops need to trace the doorbell. I don’t care what it takes to get it. I just want it done. So you call ’em and make it happen. While you’re at it, find out where those photos were. As soon as you have that information, phone it in to Richard Rosenberg of Rosenberg and Stone. He’s the attorney for the widow. Have you got that?”

  Millsap looked at me as if I were a blackmailing slimy son of a bitch.

  That was a coincidence. I felt like a blackmailing slimy son of a bitch.

  It didn’t feel all that bad.

  41.

  RICHARD ROSENBERG LOOKED perplexed. That was good. I’d seldom seen Richard perplexed. It was nice to catch him off stride.

  Richard sat behind his desk, sipping some sort of concoction from Starbucks and eating a small sweet roll that looked like it must be all sugar. Richard often ate the most ostentatiously fattening of pastries. The fact he was as thin as a board could be attributed only to the enormous number of calories he burned up in the practice of his profession.

  “Stanley,” Richard said. “The reason I called you in here is there have been some developments in the case.”

  I figured there had. I was just about to leave home for an appointment in the Bronx when Wendy/Janet had beeped me into the office.

  “What case?” I said innocently.

  “The Starling case, of course.”

  Richard’s choice of name for the deceased defined our relative positions in the affair. For me, the case was determining the identity of whoever killed Philip T. Grackle. For Richard, it revolved around the property of Paul Henry Starling.

  “And w
hat might those developments be?” I asked.

  “I had a very strange phone call this morning from a Mr. Millsap. Jenny Balfour’s lawyer. The gentleman felt as the attorney for the decedent’s widow I was entitled to share some of the pertinent information in the case.”

  I nodded. “A most commendable position.”

  “A most inscrutable position,” Richard said. “The guy’s divulging information he doesn’t have to, with no benefit to him.”

  “And lawyers never do that?”

  “It’s one of the first rules of law. Right after signing the retainer.”

  “Well, that’s certainly lucky then. What did the attorney tell you?”

  Richard frowned. He seemed extremely unhappy with my attitude. But he couldn’t think of just what to say.

  It was wonderful.

  “He told me what the police have on his client, which is entirely out of place for any attorney.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “It seems Sergeant Thurman found some naked pictures the decedent had been blackmailing her with.”

  “My, my.”

  “You don’t sound surprised.”

  “Nothing Sergeant Thurman might do would surprise me.”

  “I was referring to the photos themselves. Not the fact he found them.”

  “I’m referring to the fact he found them. It is somewhat remarkable, since I searched the place myself.”

  “Yeah, well, apparently you didn’t search well enough.”

  “Oh?”

  “Which is why the good sergeant’s so pleased. He came through when you fell down.”

  “So where were they?”

  “In the file cabinet.”

  I sucked in my breath. “Is that right?” I said casually.

  “You just looked in the files. Thurman took the files out, and looked in the bottom of the drawer. And there was an envelope that had slid down between the folders.”

  My relief was boundless. I nodded. “Good for him.”

  Richard frowned.

  “Aren’t those photos part of the estate you’re attempting to conserve for Mrs. Starling? Shouldn’t you be filing a motion to retrieve them?”