Manslaughter (Stanley Hastings Mystery, #15) Read online

  19.

  IT ONLY MADE PAGE 12 of the Post. And a small article at that. A Mr. Philip T. Grackle, of East Eighty-first Street, described as a businessman, had been murdered in his apartment. A Joseph Balfour, of White Plains, also described as a businessman, had been arrested for the crime. There were no details other than it was a stabbing. No picture accompanied the article. In a city where murders happen almost daily, it was no big deal.

  Except, of course, to Mr. Balfour.

  But he had dispensed with my services.

  I finished my coffee and corn muffin, got in my car, and drove up to Harlem to see why Phyllis Miller, of West 149th St. had requested the services of Rosenberg and Stone.

  It was—surprise, surprise—because she had broken her leg. There was no way to be coy about it. The cast gave it away. The woman had obviously fallen. The only question was where?

  That was difficult, because there were so many excellent choices. She could have tripped on the concrete rubble that passed for sidewalk in front of her tenement building. She could have trusted the broken handrail and fallen on the rotting stoop. Or she could have stumbled over one of the passed out winos or drug addicts who littered the front hall.

  In point of fact, none of these had happened. The young woman had aimed a foot at the groin of her philandering boyfriend and lost her balance. Just who that made the defendant wasn’t quite clear, but that was Richard’s problem, not mine. I signed the errant place kicker to a fresh new retainer, and headed off to Brooklyn to sign up Kenneth Rex.

  No suspense there. The assignment listed him as having fallen in a supermarket. The only question was which one?

  I was not to find out. My beeper went off as I sailed over the Brooklyn Bridge, and when I checked in with the office, Wendy/Janet told me to call MacAullif.

  “Get in here,” MacAullif growled, and hung up the phone.

  He didn’t sound pleased.

  I called Wendy/Janet back, told her I was wanted by the police. She didn’t ask questions. That was sort of depressing. I’ve been at Rosenberg and Stone long enough for being wanted by the police to have become a matter of course.

  I drove to One Police Plaza, hurried to MacAullif’s office.

  “Close the door,” he said.

  He was alone and he was calm.

  Remarkably calm.

  With his high blood pressure he was supposed to be calm. But even so, MacAullif this calm couldn’t be good.

  I flopped into a chair, said casually, “What’s up?”

  I could practically hear his teeth grinding to a halt. See the lines on his forehead attempting to relax. See his lips give a try at a smile.

  I wondered how bad it was.

  “The Grackle case,” MacAullif said. “The police made an arrest in the Grackle case.”

  “Yesterday’s news, MacAullif. I was in here yesterday. We went over that.”

  “Yes, we did, didn’t we?” MacAullif’s left eye looked like it was about to twitch, like Peter Sellers’s boss in the Pink Panther movies.

  “So what’s up? Did Balfour make a statement?”

  “No.”

  “You wanna tell me, or should we play guessing games?”

  “The police made another arrest.”

  “Oh?”

  “Also by the name of Balfour. Jenny Balfour. Daughter of Joseph Balfour. How’s that for a kick in the head? Not twenty-four hours after arresting Daddy, they turn around and arrest his daughter for the crime.”

  “Daughter?” I said innocently.

  “Yes. The man has a daughter. College-age kid. On the hook for the murder.”

  “I don’t understand. What evidence did they arrest her on?”

  “She was involved with the decedent. Exactly how, I don’t know.”

  “Then how do you know she was?”

  “Well, here’s the funny thing.” MacAullif didn’t sound as if he thought it was fanny. “The cop who tagged her father with the parking ticket. Name of Sammy Dawson. He’s a good cop, leaves nothing to chance.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I thought you would be. Anyway, he’s got a habit. Anytime he stops a car, before he gets out to talk to the driver, he scribbles the license number on a pad of paper. Just in case the driver bolts.”

  “Good habit.”

  “I thought you’d approve. On the night in question, just before he tags Mr. Balfour, he rousts a car at a hydrant in approximately the same spot. Only, the driver returns before he writes the ticket, and talks him out of it.”

  “Am I supposed to guess who the driver is?”

  “The car’s registered to one Jenny Balfour. Daughter of the aforementioned Joseph Balfour. Officer Dawson, his memory refreshed by his notepad, recalls the young lady who drove off in that car. Recalls her quite well. Picked her out of a lineup, no less.”

  “I’m not sure I follow the police theory here. Are they arbitrarily charging anyone illegally parked near the place?”

  “Seems that way, doesn’t it? Anyway, news of this new arrest is no skin off my nose, what with Balfour having given you the pink slip. Only, I have a little chat with Dawson, just in case. Guess what he recalls? Another car double-parked in the street right about the same time. A silver Toyota Camry.”

  “It’s in his report?”

  “No, it’s not. Because he didn’t roust it like he did the girl. Just saw it double-parked there. But the driver was in it. Before he made a move on it, it drove off.”

  “Sounds like nothing.”

  “Sure does. He didn’t even write it down.”

  “Amazing he’d even remember.”

  “He didn’t till I questioned him. And, like I say, he’s a good cop. He didn’t write down the license number, but when prompted, he remembered seeing it. He didn’t get the whole thing, but the first three letters stuck in his mind. UNC .”

  “Is that right?”

  “So I ran it through the computer, and guess what I came up with? For Toyotas with license plate UNC ?”

  “MacAullif ...”

  “I find one registered to a Mr. Stanley Hastings. Now, this could be coincidence, but I don’t believe in coincidence. I ask myself, could that double-parked car possibly be Stanley Hastings? Of course not. He was fired from the job. Surely even he is not stupid enough to continue to work on a job from which he’s been fired.”

  I said nothing.

  MacAullif’s eyes bored into mine. “Did you follow Joseph Balfour last night?”

  “The night before last, MacAullif.”

  “Whenever the hell it was. Did you follow him?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  MacAullif exhaled with the force of an atom bomb. He controlled himself with an enormous effort, said, “Why in the world would you do that?”

  “I wasn’t happy with the situation.”

  MacAullif snorted. “I’m not happy with most of my cases. I still only work when required.”

  I said nothing, prayed MacAullif wouldn’t ask any more questions.

  He did. “Did you see Balfour go into that apartment?”

  “It’s a town house, MacAullif. You can’t tell what apartment someone goes to.”

  “Did you see Balfour enter the town house?”

  “You’re talking about Joseph Balfour, my client?”

  “Your former client. Anyway, you have no professional privilege. They can call you as a witness.”

  “To testify against Joseph Balfour? I thought they’d arrested his daughter for the crime.”

  MacAullif frowned.

  “Even if I had seen Joseph Balfour enter that town house, MacAullif—and I’m not admitting I did—but if I had seen him, wouldn’t that be totally irrelevant to the case? Particularly in light of the police theory he entered it well after the alleged perpetrator?”

  “Not if he and that perpetrator were acting in collusion.”

  “Is that the police theory of the case?”

  “I don’t know the police theory of the ca
se.”

  “Then there’s no reason to suspect collusion.”

  “Damn it,” MacAullif said. “I am trying to be calm. Let me spell it out for you. It is bad news for a policeman to be involved in a murder. One he is not investigating, I mean. Somewhat against my better judgment, I allowed you to rope me into your little sting. Immediately your client goes and gets arrested for murder. That’s not good, because it puts me in the very uncomfortable position of possibly being a witness.

  “Miracle of miracles, the police decide he didn’t do it. Instead, they arrest his daughter for the crime. I am saved. I am off the hook. If his daughter killed the guy, it is too damn bad, but at least it doesn’t concern me.”

  MacAullif took a breath. His eyes gleamed. He exhaled slowly. I could practically see steam coming out his ears. “Except for one thing. The outside event. A totally illogical, irrational happening, such as a sane man should not have to guard against. You, for reasons best known to yourself, decide to follow Mr. Balfour. The double-parked car is inconclusive. However, he’s right back in the soup if someone saw him go in. If you saw him go in, you’re a witness. As a witness, you might be asked how you happen to know Mr. Balfour. I would hate it a great deal if that explanation happened to involve me.”

  “Why would it?”

  “It could, because the defense attorney’s gonna ask any damn question he can think of.”

  “Or she?”

  “Huh?”

  “Some attorneys are women.”

  “Save the PC shit for someone who gives a damn. Right now I would like to know if that male or female attorney happened to get you on the stand, would you be testifying to seeing Mr. Balfour go into that town house on the night of the murder, yes or no?”

  I took a breath. “No, I would not.”

  MacAullif stopped in mid-moderate, low key, low blood pressure, underplayed, scathingly sarcastic remark. “You would not?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You mean you would say you didn’t see him go in, or you didn’t see him go in?”

  “Both.”

  MacAullif blinked. Digested that information. For the first time since I’d entered his office his calm appeared genuine. “Well,” MacAullif said. “That’s the best news I’ve had all day.”

  “Glad to help. Now, if you don’t mind, I have an appointment in Brooklyn.”

  “Go, go,” MacAullif said. “God forbid you should be delayed in helping someone sue the city of New York.”

  MacAullif was in a good mood by the time I left his office.

  I wasn’t.

  I had been perfectly candid in answering MacAullif’s questions. I hadn’t misrepresented a thing.

  I’d just left a few small facts out.

  Like Balfour’s daughter being Barbie, and tailing her instead of him.

  20.

  RICHARD ROSENBERG WASN’T PLEASED. “You blew off my client to bring me this?”

  “I rescheduled the sign-up.”

  “Suppose the guy goes somewhere else. You know how many negligence lawyers there are in New York City?”

  “I thought the case would interest you.”

  Richard rolled his eyes. “Oh, it utterly fascinates me. I suppose I should count myself lucky you didn’t trick me into posing as her lawyer.”

  “She has a lawyer. What’s-his-face. The one representing her dad.”

  “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

  “You would think so. He evidently doesn’t.”

  “Of course not. One of those shysters who will take a retainer from anyone.”

  I couldn’t recall Richard ever turning down a retainer, but it seemed a bad time to bring it up. “Come on, Richard. I’m in a stew here. How do I get out?”

  “You ever think of minding your own business? If you hadn’t tagged along after this girl, you wouldn’t know who she was or where she went.”

  “Right. But I did, so I do, so whadda I do now?”

  Richard shrugged. “No one seems to want you to do anything.”

  “Yes. Because no one has all the facts. As soon as they do, I’m toast.”

  “That’s when you would like me to step in as your lawyer and keep you out of jail?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, as far as not being candid with MacAullif, I don’t really have anything to offer. Why don’t you just tell him the truth?”

  “I thought he knew the truth. By the time I realized he didn’t, it was a little late to volunteer any information on the subject.”

  “You chickened out?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  Richard shook his head. “This makes little sense. You got a girl with a habit of slapping guys in the face accused of stabbing one with a knife. Is she in custody, by the way?”

  “I think her mouthpiece got her out.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that pejorative term. So, she’s out of the pokey. It’ll be interesting to see if she shows up at the topless bar.”

  “You thinking of dropping in after work?”

  “Stanley, I’m a bachelor. If I wanna go to a strip joint, I don’t need an excuse. But you might drop by.”

  “You’re advising me to talk to the girl?”

  “Certainly not. That would be infringing on another attorney’s turf. I would never advise you to do such a thing.”

  “Oh.”

  “Should you choose to do so without my advice, let me know what she says.”

  “It’s a deal. Now then, with regard to my status as a witness....”

  “What about it?”

  “What is my responsibility to come forward?”

  “As a conscientious citizen, it’s your duty to come forward.”

  “If I’m not a conscientious citizen, am I liable for criminal prosecution?”

  “For what? For failing to confirm what the police already know. The traffic officer who got flirted out of a citation puts her on the spot.”

  “Yeah, but not in the apartment.”

  “You don’t put her in the apartment.”

  “I put her in the town house.”

  “Big deal. The cops put her in the apartment. How, I don’t know, but they do. Which means you’re not as important as you think you are.”

  “So I’m in the clear?”

  “Not at all. If the cops can prove you tailed the girl there and didn’t report it, they’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks.”

  “So I should report it?”

  “Not unless you have a death wish. You’ve already withheld the information. All that’s at stake now is how long you withhold it. I doubt if that matters much. At least not in terms of your guilt.”

  “Richard, you’re not cheering me up.”

  “Did you expect me to? You leave a client in the lurch to come in here and whine about what a spot you’re in. You’re gonna fault me for agreeing with you?”

  “I guess not. Tell me, do you see any upside to this?”

  “That would be a stretch. I guess you’re lucky this cop didn’t get your whole license plate number, or you’d be under interrogation right now. Of course, it’s just a matter of time. He see you in the car?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Richard shook his head. “No matter. By the time the cops make the connection that the PI Balfour hired is the guy double-parked there, whaddya wanna bet he makes the ID?”

  “You’re saying he’d lie?”

  “Heaven forbid. Cops don’t lie. They just make their stories a little better. It’s not like he’s gonna say you were out there when you weren’t out there. After all, you were out there.”

  “He didn’t see me.”

  “Oh, yeah? Try and prove it. He’ll be lying, and so will you if you say you weren’t out there. Only, his lie will be true.”

  “What can I do about it?”

  Richard considered. Shrugged. “Nothing I wanna know about.”

  21.

  I PULLED MY TIE DOWN a few in
ches, unbuttoned the top button of my shirt, and mussed my hair. I descended on the young cop climbing out of his police car, flipped open a pad of paper, took out a pen.

  “Officer Dawson. Officer Dawson. Could I ask you a few questions, please?”

  “About what?”

  “About the Grackle case.”

  Dawson seemed an amiable sort. He smiled good-naturedly and shook his head. ‘Tm not supposed to talk about it.”

  “Of course, of course,” I said, tipping him a wink. “And I certainly wouldn’t wanna quote you on it. Just between you and me, is there a story there?”

  “Sorry. I can’t tell you anything.”

  I put up my hand. “Never mind. Don’t tell me. I’ll tell you. The suspect. This Jenny Balfour. The one you saw in front of the apartment house. That would be a converted town house, would it not?”

  “I really can’t say.”

  “You don’t have to. I have all this from other sources. She was parked at a fireplug when you started to write up a ticket. She batted her eyes and talked you out of it.”

  His face darkened. “You write that, we got trouble.”

  “So what’s your version?”

  He merely smiled.

  “Okay,” I said. “I gotta go with what I got.”

  “Nice try, buddy. I have no comment. You wanna print crap, you learn it somewhere else, I can’t stop you.”

  I shrugged. “Okay. Just wanna check with you first. Word is you tagged Papa, let the girl go. That’s certainly gonna look like favoritism influenced you.”

  The young officer seemed considerably less amiable. “What part of ‘no comment’ don’t you understand?”

  “Excellent,” I said. “Great quote. Thank you very much.”

  He flushed, clamped his lips together, stared me down.

  I let him. After all, I’m a nice guy. I didn’t wanna push anything.

  I rushed out to Brooklyn, quick like a bunny, and signed up Lester Phillips, a twelve-year-old boy who’d thought it was pretty clever to empty the fire extinguishers in his school hallway, and had subsequently slipped on the wet floor. I made quick work of the greedy juvenile delinquent, or rather, the juvenile delinquent’s greedy parents, and shot back to Manhattan trying to figure out what else I could do to get off the hook.