Alice Kimberley - The Ghost and the Femme Fatale

Mrs. Burwell blanched. "Yes," she admitted. "I do."

"So do I. They do the dirty digging for Marigold and Webster, the law firm where your husband worked before he became a public prosecutor."

The woman's eyes were wide, her expression clearly distressed. "I never once mentioned you to Nathan, Mr. Shepard. You have to believe me. The reason I'm letting you go has nothing to do with Nathan. I mean… it does, actually, just not in the way you think. Can't that be enough for you? Won't you go now and let things be?"

Mrs. Burwell stared at Jack. He stared back. His large form seemed to fill the hallway, and it was clear that he had no intention of moving it until the woman told him what he wanted to know. She seemed to figure that out, too, because she finally cleared her throat and admitted-

"Nathan's being blackmailed."

"By who?"

"Someone. He won't tell me; not even whether it's a man or woman. He said his hand is being forced in an official capacity. If he doesn't comply with the demands of this person, then Nathan's… well, his indiscretions will be exposed. It would ruin him. Ruin me, too. The scandal would destroy our standing completely."

"Why don't you let me uncover this blackmailing rat? You've already paid me an awful lot of dough, Mrs. Burwell. Let me find out who's blackmailing your husband."

"My husband knows very well who's blackmailing him,

Mr. Shepard. And apparently Nathan has already decided to give in to this person."

"So what's the payoff?" Jack asked.

"No payoff. There's no demand for money."

"Then what does the blackmailer want?"

"A reprieve, Mr. Shepard."

"From what?"

"Apparently from being accused of murder. This blackmailer planned a murder with an accomplice. The blackmailer demand-ed Nathan let them both off, clearing them of any crime, but Nathan's made the blackmailer see that the public needs a fall guy. So in a few months, he'll put the accomplice on trial-for manslaughter. The blackmailer will betray the accomplice and provide testimony to help with the conviction. Nathan gets a conviction, and the blackmailer goes free."

Jack's jaw worked for a moment. "If you don't want my help, then why are you telling me this?"

"So you'll take the money and go. Nathan doesn't know about you, Mr. Shepard, and I want to keep it that way. When he found out he was being blackmailed, he told me everything. I told him I wanted a divorce, and that if he gave it to me I'd go away quietly instead of making things worse for him. He has enough trouble, so he's letting me go. But if he found out I hired a private eye, that you were collecting hard evidence against him to be used in court, well… I don't know what he'd say or do then. So please just take the money and leave."

Jack rubbed his chin, took the envelope. "All right… if that's what you want."

"It is. I'm flying to Miami tomorrow with my girls. I hear life's good down there. Sunny. I like the sunlight. Clears out the cobwebs… I've lived enough years in Nathan's shadow."

WE LEFT THE penthouse and headed outside. It was late afternoon; the sun was going down and the streets were getting dark. Commuters filled the sidewalks, flooding out of office buildings, flowing down to subways, rushing into train stations. Jack flagged a cab and we rode downtown toward his office.

"It had to be Hedda," I said in the back of the cab. "You know that now, right? The blackmailer was Hedda and her accomplice was Pierce Armstrong."

"Yeah, baby. It only took me sixty years-and a little snooping redhead-to break the case."

"Little snooping redhead?" My eyes widened. "You mean me?"

"Who do you think I mean, baby? Little Red Riding Hood? I was never able to ID Wilma Brody as the chippy at the Hotel Chester and I never came up with any leads connecting her to the starlet Hedda Geist. Now that you've done both, the pieces have fallen into place."

I stared at Jack, a little stunned. He wasn't the sort to dish out compliments when it came to gumshoeing-yet here he was telling me I'd actually helped him crack one of his own cold cases. I couldn't help grinning.

"Thanks," I said.

"Yeah, well… you did good, kid." Jack chucked my chin. "But don't let it go to your head or anything. You're still green as a broken traffic light."

"I may be green, but I'm far from done." I folded my arms. "And you're not off the hook, either. There's a pretty heavy situation still going on in my time."

"I know, baby. I haven't forgotten."

"Good," I said, then admitted something that was still bothering me. "There's still one thing about your case I don't understand."

"What's that?"

"Why didn't Mrs. Burwell take you up on your offer to help nail the blackmailer?"

"The lady just wanted out. And that's what she got."

"But her husband admitted to her that he was going to let a murderer walk free! How can she live with that?"

"You don't understand these cliff dwellers, baby. The threat of scandal might sound like a punch line to some floozy in the Bowery, but women with Mrs. Burwell's address would never survive the shame of a tabloid blitz. Society's circle would close her out. She'd be shunned by friends, family… ruined. It's a long way down from a Manhattan DA's wife to an object of pity. Alcohol and pills is the typical end for dames in that situation. I've seen it before. They're lucky if they don't get a trip to Bellevue and a nice long stay at a cackle factory."

"But Jack… she's buying her freedom with a man's life."

"Mrs. Burwell didn't stab Irving Vreen, sweetheart. Hedda Geist did."

"With the help of Pierce Armstrong," I pointed out. "And Wilma Brody."

"Well, Wilma's dead," Jack reminded me. "You told me that yourself. She died in 1966 in a horseback riding accident-the same year some journalist tried to open a can of worms on the Vreen murder."

"But Pierce is still alive," I noted. "And so is Hedda."

"And that's why you've got to be careful," Jack warned. "You're in the middle of a kettle that's been boiling for decades. And it just might explode in your face. Keeping watching your back, honey."

"I will. As long as you keep watching it, too."

"I always do."

"Not my backside, Jack. My back." He laughed.

A few minutes later, our cab pulled over and Jack paid the fare. As we climbed onto the sidewalk, Jack touched my arm.

"Be a doll, okay?" He took a bill from his pocket and handed it to me. "Take that sweet backside of yours into the drugstore on the corner. Buy me a deck of Luckies and meet me upstairs in my office."

"What am I? Your secretary?"

"For the moment? Yeah, you are. My old one quit last week to get hitched. Just be grateful I haven't put you to work yet typing and filing."

"Ha! From the complete lack of organization in those dusty files of yours that Kenneth Franken sent over, I'd say you needed to hire a new secretary badly."

"I'll take it under advisement."

We parted ways on the sidewalk. As Jack took his building's elevator up, I ducked into the corner drugstore. I bought the cigarettes for him, a candy bar for me, and took the same elevator north to his office. The clanging lift may have been new in Jack Shepard's day but to me it felt like an ancient relic. It had a hard-to-close cage and it squealed and squeaked and seemed to take forever to climb the few flights up. Finally, I arrived.

I pulled back the cage and stepped onto green linoleum. When I found Jack's office, the door was wide open.

"Jack?"

No lights were on. I glanced around the dim room. "My god!"

The place was in chaos! Files were strewn everywhere! Chairs were overturned! I flipped on the light.

"Jack!"

I found him slumped on the floor in the corner. His head was bleeding. "Jack, can you hear me? Jack!"