Manslaughter (Stanley Hastings Mystery, #15) Read online

  “What do you mean?”

  “How did she know she was being tailed?”

  “Are you kidding me? The way you work? You might as well hang a neon sign around your neck: PI ON SURVEILLANCE.”

  “I bought you coffee for this?”

  MacAullif and I were rendezvousing in a joint on Sixth Avenue where we’d agreed to hook up at nine P.M. if all else failed. As all else had failed, I was sitting there not having a particularly good time of it.

  MacAullif sipped his coffee, grimaced as if he’d been poisoned. “Jesus Christ, this stuff is bad. I’m gonna have to take some more pills.”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Thanks. I just was. It got me slapped in the face and wasted my evening for no purpose whatsoever.”

  “That’s not true, MacAullif. We learned a lot.”

  “Such as?”

  “For one thing, the girl knows my client. She took one look at you and knew you weren’t him.”

  “This is not big news. Blackmailers usually know who they’re blackmailing. There’s no reason to assume otherwise just because you wouldn’t.”

  “I’m not a blackmailer.”

  “Thank god. You’d give the profession a bad name.”

  “Any time you’re through having fun at my expense.”

  “How can I help it? You just came out with the remarkable deduction the girl knew her victim. I’m overwhelmed. I’m floored by your logic.”

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t add up. The blackmailer may know Balfour, but Balfour doesn’t know the blackmailer. Why would she want to reveal herself now?”

  “Reveal herself is a good way to put it. Did you see that dress?”

  “She looked good.”

  “I’ll say. A real show-stopper. Every eye in the place was on her when she pasted me one.”

  “Could we stick to the topic?”

  “Sorry. I keep forgetting my getting slugged is entirely coincidental.”

  “Come on! I mean, suppose you’d been Balfour. How does that make sense?”

  “How the hell should I know? Suppose the girl knows him but he doesn’t know her. Suppose the girl’s working for someone. So she doesn’t care if he knows her.”

  “In which case she wouldn’t know him.”

  “Right. That’s the reason for the flower.”

  “Yeah, but if she doesn’t know him, how does she know you’re not him?”

  “We’re going around again.”

  “We sure are, because your theories keep going around. Come up with a theory that doesn’t.”

  “Okay,” MacAullif said. “The girl doesn’t know him. She’s a hired functionary. She’s been told to meet the man with the flower. She’s also been given a picture to make sure the man with the flower is the man with the flower.”

  “That’s better,” I said. “Not great, but better. And why did this hired functionary take such offense at you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she gets paid on completion of the job. Your client not showing up negates that possibility.”

  “You’re sure you didn’t compliment her tits?”

  “Swear to god.”

  “Okay, then what’s the manila envelope?”

  “The blackmail evidence.”

  “What blackmail evidence? Normally there’s a bunch of dirty pictures that could be made to go away. The guy has a criminal record. He served time in jail. Evidence of that criminal record can be reproduced again, and again, and again.”

  “Having a copy of it is proof she knows.”

  “So is calling him an ex-con. This guy doesn’t want the news leaking to his wife and daughter.”

  “True, but producing a rap sheet is a good move. It has just the right psychological effect. If the guy wasn’t ready to pay before, that should ice it.”

  “Pay what? He hasn’t been asked to bring any money.”

  “Exactly. And he won’t be asked until he sees the rap sheet. ‘Here’s what I got, here’s what I want you to pay me to go away.’” MacAullif’s stomach growled ominously. “Oh, this is not good. I should not be doing this. I should be home, digesting a bland but hearty meal in front of the TV”

  “Your wife okay with that bland but hearty assessment?”

  MacAullif’s face darkened. “Hey, one blackmail per night. You don’t even know my wife. No way you could pass that along. Anyway, I meant it as a compliment.”

  “I’m sure you did. So what am I gonna tell my client?”

  “Tell him you fucked up.”

  “That’s not exactly helpful.”

  “Yes. That will probably be his opinion.”

  “Listen, MacAullif. I’m in trouble here. Can you think of anything to get me off the hook?”

  “No.” MacAullif shook his head. “You lost the girl, you lost the envelope. You haven’t the faintest idea who the girl was or who she represents. All you know is whoever it is, they’re not pleased. Instead of lessening the chances of this information leaking to the wife and kid, you’ve increased them. Not only that, you screwed up the only means the guy had of contacting this blackmailer. Now he couldn’t buy him off if he wanted to. There’s no two ways about it. Taking everything into consideration, you’ve done the worst job you possibly could.”

  6.

  “YOU DID FINE.”

  God save me. I knew she’d say that. My wife is so predictably unpredictable. After years of trying to figure her out, I have thrown in the towel. All I know is, whatever I think is wrong.

  Which should be enough. Which should save me. I should be able to say to myself, “I expect Alice to react this way, therefore she won’t, so I know she will do the opposite.” Only, such doublethink only comes back to haunt me. I find my original, utterly logical assessment to be absolutely true. It is my abandoning of it that is my undoing.

  Sorry. I’m talking in abstracts. I know that’s not helpful. I just lose all reason when dealing with my wife.

  In this instance, Alice had pulled a simple reversal. There being no reason on god’s green earth to assume I had done anything other than kick my client’s case to hell and back, I had been in such a funk about it that I had overlooked the obvious. The obvious being a totally supportive Alice, blithely interpreting every bummer as a groove. But here she was, radiant as ever, a smile lighting up her perky face, reassuring me everything was all right.

  I wasn’t buying it. “Fine? How can you say I did fine? I screwed up the contact, lost the evidence, let the girl give me the slip. Can you point out a single thing I did right?”

  “You had MacAullif be the contact. He’s the one compromised, not you. So what’s the bottom line? You learned a ringer isn’t going to work. Which is good, because that was your client’s idea, not yours. His idea failed, so if he wants you to try again, he’s got to cough up more money and either give you more leeway or suggest another tack. If he suggests another tack, that’s good, because if it doesn’t work, he’s blown it again.”

  “I suppose.”

  Alice and I were in bed watching the eleven o’clock news. Alice was looking good in her blue-and-white flannel pajamas. She always looked good, but pajamas tended to enhance the effect, suggesting, not without reason, that she wasn’t wearing much underneath. Of which, I must say, I approved.

  Unhappily, as was more often the case, this availeth me naught. Alice and I are getting on in years, which I find only tends to emphasize the difference in our genders. Alice is basically a sensitive, mature, intelligent, perceptive, discerning woman.

  I am basically a sex maniac.

  Even in normal times this is enough to create a somewhat strained relationship. With Alice on the brink of menopause, the situation is almost more than I can bear. And quite unfair, if you ask me. Men don’t go through womenopause. At least, I don’t. Quite the opposite, actually. And when I pointed out to Alice that she wasn’t going through menopause yet, she stopped me dead in my tracks with something called perimenopause, which I’d never heard of before, but which suddenly
was all the rage. Sort of like acid reflux. A lot like it, apparently.

  “So,” Alice said, pressing her advantage. “That puts you in an awfully good position. You’ve been paid for your services—you have been paid, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “There’s no ‘of course’ about it. You’re such a softie. A client with a good story can talk you into anything. Though that’s usually women clients.”

  “You were saying something about my wonderful position,” I reminded her. “Speaking of which ...”

  “Don’t even think it. Tommie’s still awake.”

  “Well, that’s not right. He has school.”

  “It’s good to hear you being a responsible parent.”

  “Was that sarcasm?”

  “Not at all. Why don’t you tell him to go to bed?”

  I found Tommie dispatching Nazis on his computer, told him to cease and desist. He did so with the usual ritual grumbling. Tommie’s a good kid, but he is a teenager. He pled some level or other he had to reach, and we struck a deal. Minutes later, Alice and I heard him crashing around in the bathroom.

  “So,” Alice said, resuming her lecture as if there had been no interruption. How she does this is beyond me. I can barely remember the topic of a conversation. Alice can pick up in the middle of a sentence, even after a thirty-minute phone call. “Since you’ve been paid up front, there’s nothing much your client can do. Even if he’s unhappy with your services.”

  “Why should he be unhappy? I did fine.”

  “Was that sarcasm?”

  “It strikes me as a legitimate question. If my client’s displeased, that’s not good.”

  “Well, you can’t please everyone.”

  “That’s for sure. Luckily, I pleased you.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Alice. You said I did fine.”

  “You did, but that doesn’t mean I’m pleased. You expect me to be pleased every time you do okay?”

  “Just okay? I thought I did fine.”

  “Let’s not quibble over words. You did fine. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I hope you’ll pardon me if I don’t give you a medal for it.”

  “Alice. How did we get so far off the track?”

  “What track?”

  I had no idea. As usual in my discussions with Alice, I had no clue what we were talking about. All I knew was I had gotten Tommie to go to bed, and I wanted our conversation to reach a satisfactory conclusion so that I could move on to more important topics, if you catch my drift.

  “You’re looking awful good,” I said, a daring, blunt, abrupt change of subject.

  Alice looked at me as if I’d just thrown a hail-Mary pass. “The point is,” she said, refusing to dignify my desperately unsubtle compliment with comment, “you have done no harm. That is the important thing to remember. Not that you did anything good. Just that you didn’t do anything bad. This blackmailer—assuming that is what this guy is—isn’t going to run to the guy’s wife and say, ‘Nyah, nyah, your husband’s a convicted killer.’ What good does that do him? If you ask me, this is a case where the blackmailer’s in a no-win situation. If you don’t play ball with him, he’s screwed. If he releases the information, he immediately ceases to be a threat. Only withholding it empowers him. Since last night was a total washout, the poor guy’s back to square one. You haven’t hurt a thing.”

  “Except my client has no means to contact the guy.”

  “So what? He doesn’t want to. The other guy wants to. If he doesn’t, the problem is solved. If he does, the problem of how to get in touch with him is solved.”

  “Are those new pajamas?”

  “See what I mean?”

  “Yes. I think Tommie’s gone to bed.”

  “Zelda has to go out.”

  On cue, Zelda, curled up in front of the television, wagged her tail. Zelda is a Portuguese Water Dog, which are very fashionable these days. We didn’t know she was fashionable when we got her—we just wanted a dog who wouldn’t shed.

  “I already walked her,” I said. I’d run Zelda down to Riverside Drive the minute I got home, as I often do. It’s convenient. I hold the elevator door, whistle for her, and she comes running out, wagging her whole rear end like Chubby Checker. Zelda is black with white markings on her nose and paws, and I generally have a good time walking her. I just didn’t want to walk her right now.

  “Fine,” Alice said. “You set the alarm?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Good. I’m beat.”

  “Come on.”

  “What do you mean, come on? Do you know what time it is?”

  “Earlier Tommie was awake.”

  “Yes, and you were at me then too.”

  I blinked. Surely there was some place in the conversation I could score if not a winning point, at least a moral victory. A small moral victory. Even an immoral victory. I mean, damn it, was I going to let Alice argue both sides of every issue?

  The phone rang.

  Alice and I looked at each other. Phone calls after eleven o’clock are not good. People don’t call after eleven o’clock. Phone calls after eleven o’clock are either wrong numbers or emergencies.

  Alice reached for the phone. I sucked in my breath, prayed for a wrong number.

  “Hello?” Alice listened a minute, then said, “It’s for you.”

  I took the phone with some trepidation and was relieved to hear MacAullif’s voice. “Sorry to call so late. Just thought you’d wanna know.”

  “Know what?”

  “I stopped by One Police Plaza on the way home. ’Cause I hate bein’ slapped in the kisser and taken for a ride.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I ran a check on your client. Which I should have done before if this whole thing hadn’t seemed like such a piece of cake.”

  “And?”

  “Joe Balfour never took a fall for manslaughter. As a matter of fact, there’s no record of any Joseph Balfour ever being convicted of anything.”

  7.

  “YOU BLEW IT.”

  “That’s one way to look at it.”

  “Well, perhaps you could suggest another.”

  I bit my lip, stifled several angry retorts. I wouldn’t have been too cheerfully disposed toward my client just then, even if I hadn’t known he was faking. In light of that little tidbit, I wasn’t taking guff from him for long. I leaned back in my desk chair, cocked my head. “Actually, if anyone blew it, you did.”

  That brought him up short. He stopped pacing and scowled at me, utterly bewildered. “How do you figure that?”

  “I just did what you told me. It’s not my fault if it didn’t work.”

  “But you didn’t do what I told you.”

  “Sure, I did. You were told to be in the bar. You decided to ran in a ringer. The blackmailer didn’t like it, and that’s where things went wrong.”

  “Absolutely not,” Balfour said. “You PIs, the way you distort the truth, it’s unbelievable.”

  “Excuse me? And just what is distorted about that?”

  “Practically everything. I ran in a ringer? No. You ran in a ringer. I asked you to be in the bar wearing a flower to make the contact. You didn’t do that. You got some stooge to do it for you. You ran in a ringer, and that’s where things went wrong.”

  “Bullshit. The girl came into the bar, and saw the guy with the flower wasn’t you. It didn’t matter who was wearing the flower. All that mattered was the fact that you weren’t.”

  Balfour wrung his hands, invited the gods to witness his tribulations in dealing with mere mortals, and stupid ones at that. “Jesus Christ, if I’d known what a moron you were, I wouldn’t have hired you! What do you mean, it makes no difference? It makes all the difference in the world. You may be a dip-shit, but you’re a respectable-looking dip-shit. Amiable, pleasant-looking, certainly no threat. A person might talk to you just to know what the score was.” He grimaced. “On the other hand, you take a big
, beefy cop who looks like a big, beefy cop, a guy who might as well have the word cop tattooed on his forehead, for Christ’s sake. A person looks at him and says, ‘Uh-oh, let me out of here.’”

  “So she slaps him in the face?” I said skeptically.

  “A guy might just keep walking. A girl who’s turned every head in the place and who’s not that quick a thinker doesn’t know what to do. So she falls back on old faithful. Slap the guy and walk out. Odds are he won’t try to stop her. Even if he did, odds are some macho jerk would come to her rescue.”

  “Is that what you did?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your barroom brawl. Is that how it happened?”

  “Don’t change the subject. The fact is, you fucked up running in this cop, and now I’m in trouble and it’s all your fault.”

  I took a breath, made a note to pass that assessment of the situation along to Alice at the first opportunity. “So, what was in the envelope?” I asked.

  “Since you lost it, we’ll never know.”

  “A record of your jail time, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You don’t sound sold.”

  “Well, what would be the point? The blackmailer doesn’t have to prove his case, just make the claim.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “Why is that interesting?”

  “It’s interesting that you refer to the blackmailer as he, when it’s the girl who made the approach.”

  “So? I assume she’s working for someone.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “Once again, thanks to you, we’ll never know.”

  “Not at all. If the blackmailer’s serious, he’ll contact you again. If not, you have no problem.” Before he could retort, I said, “What about the girl? Who might she be?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You know anyone who fits that description?”

  “Not at all. My friends are all my age. They’re not twenty-year-old Playboy Playmates.”

  “Well, she obviously knew you.”

  “There’s nothing obvious about it. She just knew the guy was a cop.”

  “That would probably make her a pro.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”