Manslaughter (Stanley Hastings Mystery, #15) Page 7
“Are you enjoying this, Richard?”
“Of course I am. I cancelled two appointments, lost a morning’s work. Thank goodness I didn’t have to be in court. It would be embarrassing explaining to the client and the judge just what emergency had required the continuance.”
“So, what’s the charge? Did they tell you?”
“No one told me a damn thing. Since it’s none of my business. I assume it’s murder, with Homicide involved.”
“He might just be a material witness.”
“Could be. Either way, it’s an odds-on bet the corpse lived on East Eighty-first Street. But it’s not my affair. If you’re lucky, it won’t be yours.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t imagine the guy hiring you, but you could wind up a witness. I would take pains to see that doesn’t happen.”
“What a nightmare.”
“No shit, Sherlock. Thanks for letting me in on it.”
“It’s a murder case. I thought you’d be pleased.”
“You thought wrong. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve gotta get back to work.”
“Don’t you want to know what happened?”
“Sure, but no one’s gonna tell me, and I got no authority to ask.” Richard cocked his head. “Don’t you have work to do?”
“I have some appointments later on.”
“I thought you had a sign-up at ten o’clock.”
“I called, said I’d be late.”
“Oh, you don’t have one for noon?”
“I’ll push it back.”
“Sounds like a full day. Guess you better get going.”
I sighed. “Yeah, I guess I’d better.”
16.
MACAULLIF WASN’T GLAD to see me. “Well, aren’t you the kiss of death?”
“I beg your pardon.”
MacAullif pointed to a paper on his desk. “Among the arrests this morning was one Joseph Balfour. Name ring a bell?”
“That’s what I came to talk about.”
He shook his head. “I should have known. I’m sayin’ to myself, ‘Joe Balfour,’ ‘Joseph Balfour,’ it doesn’t have to be the same guy. Could be just coincidence. I don’t believe in coincidence, but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen.”
MacAullif picked up the paper. “Attorney of record, Gordon Millsap, no clue there. So I’m minding my own business, looking for a break.”
“Tell me about it.”
MacAullif took out a cigar, began drumming on his desk. He was, for MacAullif, in a fairly good mood. “So I’m banking the odds this is our boy, and here you are with a confirmation. Not that I happen to give a rat’s ass, just as long as it doesn’t involve me.”
“It doesn’t involve you.”
“How do you know?”
“You know anyone on East Eighty-first Street?”
“You mean like Philip T. Grackle?”
“Who?”
“The dead guy. Mr. Grackle. Which I gather is a type of bird. I’m not big on birds.”
“What’s Mr. Grackle’s story?”
“He’s dead.”
“Before he died. Did he have any raison d’être?”
“I’m not supposed to know what that means because I’m a dumb cop?”
“Pray enlighten me.”
“I have no idea how the young man got raisons in his d’être. ’Cause by the time I learned of his d’être, he had ceased to d’être.”
“That’s less than helpful.”
“And more than required. Here’s what I got. Grackle, age thirty-nine, killed last night in his apartment on East Eighty-first Street between the hours of eight and midnight. The murder weapon’s a carving knife, stabbed directly into the heart. The knife matches a set in the kitchen, probably his, no prints on the knife.” MacAullif looked up from the report.
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“So what ties Joe Balfour to the crime?”
“A double-parking ticket issued outside the building at ten forty-five.”
“They arrested him on that?”
“It does seem an overreaction,” MacAullif said. “But when the cops came around on a strictly routine follow-up of the parking ticket, they ran into a PI with an attitude, who practically hung a neon sign around the guy’s neck, blinking guilty.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
“So I’d like to commend you on your good work. I’m sure you were only copying what you read in some book. And I’m sure it worked real good for the PI there. Only problem is, in real life you run into cops who haven’t read the book. So, instead of confounding them with your expertise, you merely get their backs up. In case you were thinking of dropping in on Balfour’s lawyer, I would imagine the gentleman is not too kindly disposed toward you.”
“Oh, hell.”
“Hey, you fucked up. So what else is new? My advice to you is go home, lie down, pull the covers up over your head, and pretend none of this happened.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
I went out the door.
MacAullif called after me, “If anyone asks, you never heard of me.”
17.
IT WAS GREAT HAVING Thurman, and Richard, and MacAullif all tell me to go to hell. I mean, one opinion you could dismiss. But when they all started lining up against me, and you added in the fact Balfour wasn’t my Number One Fan, and his lawyer probably wasn’t Number Two, it really told the tale. I spent the afternoon signing up clients for Richard Rosenberg, secure in the knowledge that as far as the Joseph Balfour case was concerned, it was none of my business.
“What, are you nuts?” Alice said. “Don’t you want to know what happened?”
“It’s not my place,” I told her.
“Not your place? Weren’t you employed by this guy?”
“Not anymore,” I pointed out.
Alice steamrolled over it. “You were employed to find out who was blackmailing him. Well, here’s a dead man, presumably the blackmailer. Wouldn’t that warrant investigation?”
“If I were still working.”
“When did you stop?
“Huh?”
“After you lost the girl, after you found the girl, after you tailed the girl to the murder site? A rather relevant detail, I would think.”
“I suppose.”
“You suppose. What did MacAullif say?”
“Oh.”
Alice’s eyes widened. “You didn’t mention that to MacAullif?”
“It seemed like a touchy subject.”
“So MacAullif doesn’t know you were at the scene of the crime last night?”
“I wasn’t at the scene of the crime.”
“That’s rather technical. You mean you didn’t go in?”
“Of course I didn’t go in. Don’t you think I would have mentioned it if I’d found a dead body?”
“Well, you’re not being very communicative. After all, you didn’t tell MacAullif.”
“I’m not married to MacAullif.”
“You mean you’d tell me if you found a corpse? Stanley, I’m flattered. I don’t know what to say.”
“Alice, I’ve had a rather hard time of it. Everyone I know is beating up on me. You don’t need to join the club.”
Alice raised her eyebrows. “I wasn’t aware I was beating up on you.”
“Let’s not get into it,” I said irritably. “The point is, no, I didn’t mention it to MacAullif. Because I don’t want him to have a coronary. The guy’s a walking pharmacy. Another drug would probably kill him.”
“You’re very considerate.”
“Is that sarcasm?”
“Is your concern for MacAullif’s health genuine?”
“Alice—”
“Or are you just afraid of what he’ll do to you when he finds out?”
“Thank you for putting my darkest fears into words. Now I can confront my demons.”
“Stanley, stop sparring. How bad is it?”
“That’s t
he problem, Alice. I have no idea. Because I have no information. I know a guy named Grackle’s dead, and that’s it. He was stabbed with a kitchen knife sometime last night between eight and midnight. I have reason to believe the topless daughter called on the guy long about ten-thirty.”
“Topless daughter?”
“Well, I don’t know her name.”
“Even so, that’s rather curious shorthand.”
“Yeah. I don’t know what made me think of it.”
“Stanley—”
“How’s your stomach?”
“I feel terrible.”
“You’re looking awful good.”
“Don’t go there.”
“I hate that expression.”
“Damn it, Stanley. I’m concerned. How mixed up are you in this murder?”
“I have no idea.”
Alice considered. “You should probably tell the police what you know.”
“I can’t do that. It would be violating a confidence.”
“Whose confidence?”
“Balfour’s.”
“You didn’t see Balfour. You saw his daughter. You’re not working for her.”
“That’s no reason to throw her to the wolves.”
“There’s no reason to lose your license over her either.”
“I’m not going to lose my license.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Come on, Alice. Why would I lose my license?”
“You’re withholding material evidence in a murder case. What do you think they’re gonna do, give you a medal?”
“Alice, I don’t know that I have any evidence at all.”
Alice made a face. “Give me a break. You saw his daughter go into the building. That plays out one of two ways. One, she killed him, which gets Daddy off the hook. I think that would be a material point, exonerating one suspect and convicting another. Yeah, that would probably be worth mentioning.”
Alice raised a finger, in full lecture mode. “Or, the guy was putting the bite on the topless daughter, giving Daddy the motivation to do him in.”
“Topless daughter?”
“Don’t change the subject. The point is, you have material evidence relating to this crime. When the police find out you have material evidence relating to this crime, and you neglected to mention you had material evidence relating to this crime, they are going to be less than pleased.”
“Will they be less pleased than you?”
“I’m not joking, Stanley. I think you’re in trouble here.”
“So what do you want me to do? Go to the police and spill my guts?”
“Boy, talk about loading the question.”
“Okay, you phrase it then.”
“Stanley, the cop is Sergeant Thurman. That’s not good. He found you in Balfour’s office. You told Balfour not to talk.”
“Under the mistaken impression I was working for him. Which I’m not.”
“It doesn’t matter. As far as Thurman’s concerned, you’re meddling in his case.”
“I’m not meddling in his case.”
“Yeah, but Thurman doesn’t know that. You have to show him you’re not meddling in his case.”
“How do I do that?”
“By meddling in his case.”
18.
SO THERE I WAS, once again, heading for Midnight Lace. why, you might ask? Well, that’s a very good question. Barbie seemed unlikely to be working today, what with her father being arrested for murder and all. And what with her having presumably called on the man who wound up dead. Those seemed fairly good grounds for her not to be there. But I was going anyway, driven by one compelling reason I’m sure most husbands can relate to. When your wife sends you to a topless bar, you go.
There was one small problem. After my exit from the bar the night before, I was likely to be persona non grata. At the very least, the owner might want to have a little chat. Which was apt to prove embarrassing if not downright hazardous to my health.
So what could I do? A wig? False mustache? A Mission Impossible rubber face mask? I had a feeling outside of the movies a person would look like a fugitive from Halloween.
I still hadn’t figured it out when I got to Midnight Lace. There was a parking spot right in front. I pulled in and surveyed my options. They seemed pretty much the same as they had when I’d been driving over.
I got out of the car, fed quarters into the parking meter.
She came out the front door just as I dropped in the last one.
I might have been surprised if it weren’t for the quarters. It was the same theory by which you can get an important phone call just by hopping into the shower. Paying for the parking space invited the god of Dork to fly down and make sure I didn’t need it.
I hopped in my car, started the engine. Prayed Greaseball and the Hulk wouldn’t come out the front door and see me. I swerved out of the spot, backed up past the entrance to the parking garage. Pulled over to the curb to wait.
I wasn’t sure what I was going to do next. All I knew was, I wasn’t going to do it there. I had no particular location picked out. Just as far away from Midnight Lace as possible.
I was roused from my musing by a tap on the window. It was lovely Rita, meter maid, directing me to move on. Only in New York City.
I considered flashing my PI license, telling her I was on a case. That only would have made her laugh. Anything short of a police shield wasn’t gonna cut it.
I smiled and pulled out.
I circled the block. Rita now was nowhere in sight. This time as I neared the garage I saw Barbie getting into her car. I passed by the garage, drove to the corner. I pulled in next to the fire hydrant there and settled down to wait.
Barbie wasn’t long. She breezed by two light changes later without giving me a glance.
I pulled out and tagged along, giving her about a half a block head start, while making sure I made the light. She turned left, went over to Third Avenue, and headed uptown.
I was having a bad sense of déjà vu, and if she’d stopped at Eighty-first Street I was apt to freak out. However, she went right by, hung a left on Eighty-fifth, and went into the park.
Okay, I’d done that too, and I wasn’t about to follow her home. By the time she came out of the park on Eighty-sixth, I was right on her tail. I pulled up next to her, hit the horn, and flashed my ID. I know it wasn’t great, but I don’t have a red light. Only one of my many failings.
Luckily, it worked. She pulled up in the bus stop. Evidently she was young and naive enough not to question why a guy in a Toyota might be pulling her over.
I parked alongside and wedged her in before she had time to change her mind. I walked up, banged on her window.
“All right. Get out of the car.”
She opened the door and squeezed out. She was wearing a sweater and blue jeans, looked like a college kid. A frightened college kid.
I hadn’t the slightest idea what I was going to say to her. That had been the small flaw in Alice’s plan. But when I’d mentioned it to Alice, she had gotten on my case about how I was a moron who couldn’t order a sandwich without rehearsing what I was going to say to the waitress. Which was hardly fair. I could have ordered a sandwich, no problem. I just wasn’t sure what to say to Barbie.
So I was winging it. “Sweetheart, you’re in a lot of trouble.”
She grimaced. “Don’t I know it.”
“I don’t think you do. You were followed last night.”
Her mouth fell open. “How do you know that?”
“How do you think?”
“You followed me? Why? That makes no sense.”
“I didn’t say I followed you.”
“Well, who then?”
I just smiled.
She scowled. “Come on. This isn’t a game. I did everything you asked. Don’t play with me.”
I tried not to look surprised. “I’m not playing with you. I want to know what you’re going to do now.”
“What do you me
an, now?”
It was like walking through a minefield. I had no idea who she thought I was, or why she was talking to me. “Now that Grackle’s dead.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“I never said you did.”
She frowned. “That’s funny.” She pursed her lips. “Who’s Headly?”
“What?”
“Who’s Headly?”
“What are you talking about?”
She hauled off and slapped me full across the face, just like she slapped MacAullif.
She was good at it. It was loud and it stung.
It attracted the attention of a young couple strolling down the street. When I tried to follow Barbie, the guy stepped out and grabbed me by the arm. He was a jock type, with muscles and crew cut and attitude. “Young lady doesn’t like you, Mister.”
Great. All I needed was some macho stud trying to impress his girl. Never mind the fact the guy was younger, faster, stronger. Everyone seems younger, faster, stronger these days. The fact is, even if I’d been inclined to fight the gentleman, which believe me I was not, there wasn’t a prayer of me escaping his clutches before Barbie got away.
“You know why she slapped me?” I said.
That caught him up short. “Huh?”
I whipped out my ID. “She’s a material witness in a case I’m investigating. She needed a distraction to get away.”
Studly might have had trouble processing all that, but his date tuned right in. Her mouth was open and her eyes were wide. You’d have thought I’d just admitted to being secretly James Bond.
“Help him, Jack,” she said. “Come on. She’s getting away!”
Actually, she’d gotten away. By the time I gave chase, Barbie was long gone. Of course, I knew where she was going. I could have just followed her home.
All right, I hate to be ignoble. But I am not a romantic hero. Not a knight in shining armor. Just a poor schmuck trying to make ends meet. Just your basic common man trying to get by. And if you live in the real world, at some point you gotta stop and say to yourself, “Hey, I’m not getting paid for this.”
Particularly when you get slapped in the face.
I got in my car and drove home.