Ed McBain: Puss in Boots

“What are you?” Gwen asked. “The dumb one’s agent?”

“We’re just two nice guys hoping to spend a little time with two nice girls.”

“He thinks we’re hookers,” Rachel said.

“I do not !” Tick said, sounding offended, but wondering about it nonetheless.

“We’re not, you know,” Gwen said.

“I didn’t think you were.”

“I mean, we’re not. ”

“So what do you say?” Mose said.

“Listen to Speedy here,” Gwen said. “It’s a good thing you’re handsome because you sure are dumb.” She turned to Rachel. “What do you think?” she asked. “You want to go listen to some stereo with these two nice guys who’re hoping to spend a little time with two nice girls?”

“Gee, I don’t know,” Rachel said. “I’m a little stiff from exercise class.”

Tick held his breath.

The girls exchanged glances.

Tick waited.

It seemed to take forever.

“Well,” Gwen said at last, “I’m game if you’re game.”

“Well, maybe for a few minutes,” Rachel said.

“Good,” Tick said at once. “Let me settle the tab, and we’ll... ”

And that was when he heard what the television announcer was saying.

The television announcer was saying that a woman identified as Prudence Ann Markham had been found stabbed to death outside a movie studio in Calusa, Florida.

Tick looked at Mose.

Mose was staring open-mouthed at the television set over the bar.

“So are we getting out of here or what?” Gwen said.

On Friday morning, November 28, the day after Thanksgiving, Matthew Hope went to see Carlton Barnaby Markham at the county jail. Markham was wearing dark blue trousers, a pale denim shirt, black socks, and black shoes. A handsome man — lean and muscular, with blond hair and blue eyes — he was rendered anonymous by the institutional clothing he wore and the jailhouse pallor he’d acquired in the four short days since his arrest.

Markham had been charged with violation of Section 782.04 of the Florida Statutes, which read: “The unlawful killing of a human being, when perpetrated from a premeditated design to effect the death of the person killed... shall be murder in the first degree and shall constitute a capital felony, punishable as provided in Section 775.02.” In Florida, even a person accused of a capital crime was entitled to bail, the state attorney’s burden being to oppose bail by showing that the evidence in hand was legally sufficient to obtain a verdict of guilty. The court, in its sole discretion, had the right to grant or deny bail.

Markham had been denied bail.

According to the grand jury’s indictment, he had “coldly, calculatedly, and premeditatedly” murdered his wife Prudence “in an especially heinous, atrocious and cruel manner,” the latter language setting up for the state attorney a request for the death penalty as defined in Section 775.02.

“Did you kill her?” Matthew asked.

“No, I didn’t kill her,” Markham said.

Important to Matthew, in that when he’d decided to specialize in criminal law, he’d also decided he would never take on anyone he believed was guilty. Since July, when he’d begun his new career (some career, so far) he’d represented only two clients (well, almost two) who’d been charged with criminal offenses. The first was a lady schoolteacher who’d been arrested for violation of Section 316.193 of the Florida Penal Statutes, defined as “driving, or being in physical control of, a vehicle while under the influence of alcoholic beverages or a chemical or controlled substance, or with a specified blood alcohol level” and commonly referred to as DUI, for “driving under the influence.” The violation was a misdemeanor that could net a $500 fine and up to six months in jail for a first conviction.

There were four county court judges in Calusa, and two of them had come up with an innovation regarding punishment for a DUI conviction. If an offender was placed on probation, a bumper sticker was affixed to his or her automobile and the sticker read:

The license restriction meant that the driver could only use his or her automobile for business purposes or for routine chores like grocery shopping or visits to the doctor. Matthew had argued the case unsuccessfully: the lady was fined $250, and her car wore the DUI bumper sticker for the full six months.

His second client — the almost client — was a man charged with violation of Section 893.135, “trafficking in cannabis,” a first-degree felony punishable by three years in prison and a fine of $25,000. He admitted to Matthew, up front, that when he was arrested he was indeed carrying in his pickup truck five hundred pounds of very good Mexican gold, but he insisted that a good criminal lawyer should be able to beat the rap. Matthew had no reason to believe he was a good criminal lawyer who could beat the rap; he would have refused the case, anyway, because the man had already admitted his guilt. (He also called Matthew a no-good turd as he left the office in high dudgeon, but that was after he learned Matthew wouldn’t represent him.) One and a half clients since July. Back to real estate closings, divorce settlements, will probations, property liens — until Carlton Barnaby Markham called from the county jail.

“Want to tell me why they arrested you?” Matthew said.

“They arrested me because they couldn’t find anybody else to arrest,” Markham said.

Somewhat petulant mouth, sudden anger flashing in the blue eyes, as though he suspected Matthew of having baited a trap. Voice tinged with a faint southern accent. Probably born right here in Florida. When you thought of Florida, you visualized beaches and water and sailboats and cloudless blue skies, and palm trees and oranges, you conjured a resort . The resort, though, was a part of the Deep South — as far south as you could go, in fact, without falling off the continent — and there were millions of people here who weren’t on vacation, and who knew damn well that this was Dixie.

“Even assuming the police were wrong... ” Matthew said.

“They were.”

“Even so, the state attorney wouldn’t have gone to the grand jury without what he believed was sufficient cause for indictment.”

“I’m sure he thought he had a strong case.”

“And so did the grand jury when they returned a true bill, and so did the circuit court judge when he denied bail. Mr. Markham, why were all these people so sure you killed your wife?”

“Whyn’t you go ask them ?”

“Because you’re the one who’s asked me to represent you.”

“What do you want me to tell you? Why it looks like I killed her?”

“If you will.”

“Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“Nobody’s. Not yet.”

“All they’ve got is circumstantial evidence,” Markham said.

“Well, that’s all they ever have, unless someone’s caught in the act, or unless someone else witnessed the actual killing. They didn’t catch you in the act, did they?”

“Of course not!”

“And I’m assuming no one witnessed the murder.”

“Only the killer.”

“So why’d they arrest you? Why’d they charge you?”

Markham was silent for several moments.

Then he said, “The blood was the main reason.”

“What blood?”

“On my clothes.”

“There was blood on your clothing?”

“Yes.”

“ Her blood? Your wife’s blood?”

“So they say. Her type blood.”

“You were wearing this clothing, with your wife’s blood on it — her type blood — when they arrested you?”