Manslaughter (Stanley Hastings Mystery, #15) Read online

  I was juggling a time bomb, and I knew it. I just didn’t know when it was set for. There was no way to defuse it. I just had to protect myself before it went off.

  I called information, asked for Millsap & Millsap. It was, as I’d feared, a midtown address. I drove there, put the car in a midtown garage. Wished like hell Richard had a midtown client to charge it to. Midtown garages don’t come cheap.

  Millsap & Millsap had offices in a ritzy building on Madison Avenue. The elevator spewed me out into a hallway with a directory. That was encouraging. At least the Millsaps didn’t have the whole floor. I followed the directions to suite 403, pushed open the door, and found myself in a modest reception area, where a gum-chewing redhead manned a kidney-shaped desk.

  “Yes?” she inquired.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Millsap.”

  “Which one?”

  “Balfour’s attorney.”

  “Which one?”

  I blinked. Took a second to digest that. “Jenny Balfour,” I said.

  “That would be David Millsap. Do you have an appointment?”

  “What do you think?”

  She frowned. “Huh?”

  “From the fact I didn’t know what Millsap I wanted, what are the odds I have an appointment?”

  She smiled the way only redheads can. I’m not sure what way that is, it just sounds like what a private eye would say. “If you don’t have an appointment, he probably won’t see you.”

  “I’ll risk it. Give him a ring. See if he wants to see me.”

  “Your name?”

  “Stanley Hastings.”

  She rang on the phone. “Hello? Mr. Millsap. A Mr. Stanley Hastings here to see you.” She listened, covered the phone, said, “What is this with regard to?”

  “I’m a private investigator hired by Jenny Balfour’s father. I thought Mr. Millsap might like to debrief me.”

  He did. Moments later he ushered me into his private office.

  David Millsap was young, though everyone looks young to me these days. Still, the man was probably younger than Richard Rosenberg. He had red hair too, and freckles. He was thin, trim. Didn’t wear glasses, his handshake was vigorous.

  He seemed glad to see me. “Come in, come in, Mr....?”

  “Hastings. Stanley Hastings.”

  “Mr. Hastings. I’m David Millsap, attorney for Jenny Balfour, who’s been charged in the death of Philip T. Grackle. Please sit down.”

  He gestured to a chair. I sat in it. He sat opposite. A pad of legal paper was in front of him on the desk. “Now then, Mr. Hastings, what can I do for you?”

  “For starters, is this conversation being recorded?”

  He drew back, frowned. “Why do you ask?”

  “The way you got me to state my name, pretending you didn’t know it. When in point of fact the receptionist gave it to you and it’s written on that pad. But you didn’t answer my question. Is this meeting being recorded?”

  Millsap took a breath. “It’s company policy. We often record meetings. So we have a point of reference.”

  I nodded. “I’m pleased to hear it. And you still haven’t answered my question. Is this conversation being recorded?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I hate being sued. My wife gets on my case. Wonders why I wasn’t more careful. So I try to be more careful. I’m trying now.”

  “I see.”

  “Since I’ve asked you three times without getting an answer whether this conversation’s being recorded, I’m going to assume it is, and act accordingly. That, of course, will curtail free speech.”

  Millsap frowned, pulled open his right-hand desk drawer, reached inside, pushed the button. “Okay, the recorder’s off. What do you want to say?”

  “I just wanted to point out why I’m probably a liability to your case.”

  “And why would you want to do that?”

  “Frankly, to make sure you don’t throw me to the wolves.”

  “And why would I want to do that?”

  “I take it you’re not Joe Balfour’s attorney?”

  “No. My father is.”

  “He’s the other Millsap? Of Millsap & Millsap?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

  “Only within the family. Dad’ll be cranky if he loses.”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t plan to, does he? And neither do you. It looks like a conflict of interest, but actually it’s great. You’ll dump it all on Joe Balfour, and your father will dump it all on the kid. That’s why you’re not worried about me. I’m the old man’s PI. You figure anything I know incriminates your father’s client.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”

  “That doesn’t happen to be the case. Now then, as Jenny Balfour’s attorney, you’re not about to go rushing to the police with anything that connects her to the crime. It’s not the sort of thing that would be good for business.”

  His mouth fell open. “Are you blackmailing me?”

  “What a nasty word,” I said. “I’m certainly glad you didn’t record that nasty word. Of course I’m not blackmailing you. I’m not that kind of guy. I’d just like some assurance before I spill my guts that you won’t go running to the cops.”

  “You have evidence that implicates my client?”

  I sighed. “Oh, dear. Here we go with the hypothetical again. I would certainly not want to put a reputable attorney such as yourself in the position of withholding material evidence from the police.” I caught my breath. “God, that’s a mouthful. So, let’s say the situation was this: Suppose I happened to see your client go into the town house on the night of the murder.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. That’ll certainly make my life easier. But the officer who rousted your client ID’d a car that looked like mine right about the same time. The saving grace is he doesn’t remember it’s about the same time; he just knows it’s in between the time she drove off and the time he tagged Dad. Suppose, just for the sake of argument, that happened to be me. Suppose I was there exactly the same time as your client, and happened to see what she did. The cop can only put her on the street. ’Cause he didn’t see her first, he saw her car. All he knows is she came running up and stopped him. Suppose I saw her come out of the town house. Suppose, just for the sake of argument, I even saw her go in.”

  “Are you saying you did?”

  “I wouldn’t want to embarrass you with that information.”

  “Then how would I know it’s true?”

  “You can’t, of course. But I’m gonna assume your client’s confided in you, it bein’ a murder case and all. So I’m gonna assume she’s told you the truth. That she drove there directly from Midnight Lace, where she’d been working all night as a stripper.”

  David Millsap’s freckles were much more noticeable against his ashen face. He said nothing, just gawked at me.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “if I were planning my defense, I would almost certainly put me on the list of witnesses I would least like to trot out.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Hey, her old man hired me. You think I’m not gonna earn my money? Speaking of which, your client out on bail?”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know how bad she needs the money, but it’s probably not a good time to be working at Midnight Lace.”

  A man stuck his head in the door. I’m not good at faces, still the guy was a dead ringer for an older version of David Millsap. His hair was whiter, and his freckles looked more like liver spots. He stopped and said, “Oh, sorry. Didn’t know you had a meeting.”

  The look on David Millsap’s face was priceless. He wanted to say, “Dad,” but not in front of me. Aside from that, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. He certainly didn’t want to introduce me to his father, and he couldn’t think of a deflection that wouldn’t arouse the old man’s interest.

  I smiled and said,
“Hi, you must be David’s father. I’m afraid this is a little awkward for him. I’m here asking him if I should go to the police with information that implicates your client, Joe Balfour. You are representing Mr. Balfour, aren’t you?”

  The older Millsap’s eyes narrowed. “And just who are you?”

  “I’m the private eye your client hired. And then fired. Which looks bad on my resume. I was hoping to straighten things out.”

  His face was hard as nails. “What do you mean?”

  “As an investigator, I try to give service. Just ’cause your client dumped me doesn’t mean I stop working. In point of fact, I followed him to find out the score.”

  “Followed him when?”

  “Good point. Excellent point. And just the one I was bringing up with your son. The cop who tagged your client makes a car that looks like mine in between his client and yours. When I say looks like mine, it’s because the cops have only a partial license plate and haven’t made the connection yet. When they do, it’s gonna be rather embarrassing for all concerned. At the present time the cops believe the daughter did it. Under the circumstances, the parking tag is just that, a parking tag. Nothing directly ties it up. On the other hand, if an eyewitness saw your client go into that town house....”

  “Are you saying that’s the case?”

  “I’m very carefully not saying that’s the case. I’m merely pointing out that under the circumstances, keeping me away from the police is probably to everyone’s advantage. Since I happen to have the dirt on both daughter and daddy. Have you had a talk with Sergeant Thurman?”

  “That’s the arresting officer?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I didn’t see the arresting officer. I dealt with an ADA.”

  “I’ll bet you did. ADAs keep Sergeant Thurman as far away from the general public as possible. The man has the brains of a turnip. If he thinks your client’s guilty, the fact someone else has been charged with the crime isn’t going to faze him much. Unless he arrested the daughter. You happen to know if he did?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” the younger Millsap said.

  “If it was Thurman, it would. Thurman rings bells.”

  The older Millsap looked as if he was getting a severe migraine. He held up a hand to his forehead, said, “Please, please. What is that, some type of tough PI lingo? You’ll pardon me, young man, but you’re having too much fun.”

  I loved him. Right then and there I decided if there was any way to help the senior Millsap, I would. Granted, the guy looked about a hundred and five. Still, he was the first person in years to call me “young man.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Sergeant Thurman is a bullheaded moron. I’ve dealt with him before. And he’s dealt with me before. Frankly, it’s two strikes against your client that I’m on the case. So it’s really to your client’s advantage to keep me out of it. Now, if your client’s made a full disclosure to you, you know that to be true. So you know it, and I know it. I’m here trying to make sure your son knows it. Because right now, the only way I get dragged into this case is if he brings me in. I don’t know if he listens to you, and it probably wouldn’t be ethical anyway for me to ask you to intervene. The point is, I was on the verge of talking him out of throwing me to the cops when you came in. So why don’t you butt out and let me finish the job?”

  The elder Millsap stared at me a few moments, then turned, stalked out, and slammed the door.

  David Millsap watched him go. A smile creased his freckled face. “Say,” he said. “Nicely done.”

  I thought so.

  22.

  SOME DAYS YOU GET LUCKY. Today it was more like an answered prayer. My beeper was silent. The office didn’t want me. I had no pending job.

  Except trying to save my ass.

  So far, things were going well. The traffic cop couldn’t ID me, and neither attorney would give me up to the police.

  That left Sergeant Thurman.

  Thurman would nail me if he could. Nothing would please him better. Thurman would turn me in at the drop of a hat.

  That was a risk I couldn’t afford to take.

  I caught up with Sergeant Thurman at a greasy spoon near the Criminal Court Building, offered to buy him lunch.

  Antennas went up. A radar screen of suspicion flashed between the cauliflower ears and on the flattened nose. Tiny blips registered on the eyes.

  “Whaddya want?” Thurman grunted.

  “I thought we might chat a bit.”

  I signaled the waitress. “Diet Coke and a cheeseburger for me. What’ll you have, Sergeant?”

  Thurman ordered a turkey club. I had visions of the waitress bringing a huge wooden club in the shape of a turkey, and Thurman beating me to death with it.

  As the waitress retreated with the order, Thurman said, “Whaddya want?”

  “What makes you think I want something?”

  “Oh, sure. You just stopped in for lunch.”

  “I hear they make a good burger.”

  “Look, I don’t want you messing in my case.”

  “Is it your case anymore?”

  “Huh?”

  “You arrested the father. Turns out he didn’t do it. Doesn’t that let you off the hook?”

  “What, are you nuts? Are you stupid or something? Homicide’s a homicide. You think it matters who the hell did it? You’re on the case, you’re on the case.”

  “So you’re on the case?”

  “Brilliant! What brain power! You must be a member of that whatchamacallit, that bright club, sounds like a woman’s thing. You know, when you gotta buy tampons.”

  I tried to decode his twisted logic. “Mensa?”

  “That’s it. You must be one of them.”

  “Just a hint, Sergeant. If you’re ever asked to speak at a women’s club, decline.”

  He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re on the case. That’s the main point. You’re on the Grackle case.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “I thought maybe you’d like to discuss it.”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  “No. I was Joe Balfour’s investigator before he gave me the boot.”

  “You’re off the case?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Then what the hell are you doing poking your nose in?”

  “I’m not happy with the situation. I’d like to know what’s going on.”

  “Oh, you would, would you?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with that. You’re a wise-ass punk son of a bitch thinks he’s smarter than the cops. You wanna solve this case for me? Is that what you’d like?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I believe that. Just like I believe every perp says he didn’t do it.”

  “Come on, Thurman. I’m curious, is all. It’s unusual to arrest two members of the same family for the same crime within twenty-four hours. I’d like to know how it plays out.”

  “Buy a paper.”

  “Come on, don’t be like that. I haven’t seen the crime scene, I haven’t seen the victim. I don’t know what evidence you got.”

  “Yeah, well I’m sure it’s not for lack of trying.”

  The waitress shoved the burger and club sandwich on the table in front of us.

  “One check, and give it to him,” Thurman told her. As she withdrew, he said, “I’ll let you buy me lunch in return for some free advice. Stay the hell away from this case. I don’t wanna see, hear, or smell you. You’re not involved in this case. You’re not hired in this case. You got no business in this case. There’s no reason for you to be in this case. The old man hired you at one time—big ... fucking ... deal. It was way before the crime, and he’s not the perp. So I don’t wanna talk to you about this, now, then, or ever. Butt the hell out. This crime is no business of yours. Is that clear?”

  Yes, it was.

  23.

  SO FAR I WAS BATTING a thousand. God b
less reverse psychology, and a cop as simple as Sergeant Thurman to fall for it. If I’d tried to avoid him, he’d have run me in. By going to him I was safe. All I had to do now was butt out.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t do that.

  Not with the time bomb still ticking.

  I got in my car and drove out to White Plains.

  I had learned one thing from my meeting with the Millsaps. Jenny Balfour was out on bail.

  I had no problem finding the house. It was the only one on the street that looked like it. I suppose it was Art Deco, or some other recognizable style— my expertise in architecture ranges from houses with stairs to houses without stairs. On the other hand, maybe it was just weird. Anyway, I got there.

  Jenny’s Nissan was parked in the driveway. I parked in the street, went up the front walk, and rang the bell.

  The door was opened not by Jenny Balfour, but by an attractive older woman in a sweater and slacks. By older, I mean older than Jenny Balfour—I’m sure she was younger than me. A fact I have to keep reminding myself of when I meet women these days.

  That wasn’t the first thing that occurred to me.

  This woman was a looker. Her auburn hair had clearly spent time in the beauty parlor, and it had worked. Her face, though lined, was attractive and a hint of what it must appear in less trying times. Her figure was trim and youthful. Her sweater showed it to good advantage. Even for one who had recently spent a good deal of time in a topless bar, she held allure.

  But that wasn’t what I noticed either.

  She was clearly Jenny Balfour’s mother. The family resemblance was uncanny. No, I’m not talking about her sweater. I mean the fullness of her lips, the tilt of her nose, the fire in her eyes. The resemblance was so close it was hard not to flinch for fear she might slap me in the face.

  But that wasn’t it, either.

  The resemblance was clear up close, but it hadn’t been from a distance. Even so, I’d had a good enough look to make the ID. She was the woman I’d seen leaving Philip T. Grackle’s town house just before Jenny Balfour went in.

  Great. That was all I needed. Assuming Jenny hadn’t talked, I was the only one on god’s green earth who knew she’d been there.

  “Yes?” Jenny’s mother demanded, making no move to let me in. I should point out that all my observations about her were made through a partially opened door. Not a big deal, perhaps, but one takes note when one’s triumphs are so few.