Parnell Hall - The Innocent Woman

“But he didn’t. The eight-thirty part of the story happens to be true. Which doesn’t fit with the seven-thirty phone call we also know to be true.”

Steve looked at Dirkson. “See where we can break this down?”

“No, I don’t,” Dirkson said. “What’d he shoot him with, his finger? Where’d he get the gun?”

“He was carrying the gun.”

“Why?”

“Because he was that type of guy.” Steve shrugged. “I’m not a psych major, but this is not particularly deep. He wasn’t scoring in the sack, but he was packing a rod.”

Judge Wylie nodded. “This just might hold water.”

“I’m not so sure,” Dirkson said. “Say all that happened. What did he do then?”

“Splashed back to earth, most likely. He gets the message, he’s a bull who sees red. He goes down to the office, bursts in on Fletcher, takes out his gun and shoots him. Fletcher falls dead and the bubble bursts. Suddenly, he’s no longer the avenging hero, fighting for his young lady’s honor. Suddenly he’s the murderer, the fugitive, the hunted man. Oh my god, what do I do now?”

“What does he do?”

“First off, he makes it look like a robbery. The first thing that comes to mind is the petty cash drawer. He and Amy have just been discussing it. He cleans out the petty cash box to make it look like the office had been robbed. Like that’s why Fletcher was killed. He takes the money and splits.” Steve Winslow pointed at Dirkson. “Which is another thing you can check on.”

“What’s that?”

“The detective. Samuel Macklin. He had a list of the serial numbers of the twenty-five twenty dollars bills that were in that petty cash drawer. That was admittedly a month ago, but there’s a chance some of those bills were still there. In which case, there’s a chance Cunningham has them. It’s a long shot, but if you check the serial numbers on his bills, you just might get lucky.”

“Yeah, I’ll check on it,” Dirkson said. “But now that we’ve come to it, what about the petty cash drawer?”

“What about it?”

“Who shut it?”

“I have no idea.”

“I think you do. More to the point, I think you know why Amy Dearborn found it open. I’d like to hear your explanation for that.”

“All right,” Steve said. “But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

“Never mind that. Let’s have it.”

“Okay. We agree Cunningham took the money and left the drawer open to make it look like a robbery.”

“I’m not agreeing to anything,” Dirkson said. “Just tell your story.”

“Okay. Cunningham kills Fletcher, takes the cash and gets out. He leaves the cash box and the cash drawer open. Your theory-correct me if I’m wrong-is that Amy Dearborn arrived right on his heels, found Fletcher dead and the office robbed. She then went out and tried to establish an alibi by returning at ten o’clock and calling the cops. They arrived and she told her story. The only problem was, in the meantime, unbeknownst to her, some chambermaid came by and closed that drawer. Is that right?”

“I’m surprised to hear you admit it.”

“I’m not admitting it. I’m asking if that’s your theory.”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I would assume you’ve turned that building’s maintenance staff upside down to try to find the cleaning woman who did that.”

Dirkson said nothing.

“Which you cannot do,” Steve said. “Because she doesn’t exist. You know it and I know it. Because if she did exist, you’d have found her. And if you’d found her, she’d have been a witness. She wasn’t, so you didn’t, and your theory falls apart.” Steve Winslow shook his head. “No, couldn’t have happened that way. No, the only theory that makes sense is someone from the crime scene unit closed it and he’s denying it to cover his ass. A detective could probably get away with that lie. I doubt if a chambermaid could.”

“I bet a lawyer could,” Dirkson said.

Steve Winslow cocked his head. “I beg your pardon? I’m not lying, I’m presenting theories. They may not be entirely accurate. In fact, they may be utterly false. But that doesn’t make them lies. That just makes them incorrect. Not that they necessarily are.”

Dirkson took a breath. “I’m not talking theories. You know and I know what you just told me’s bullshit. I know for a fact Amy Dearborn was down there earlier. We have the cab driver’s testimony. Plus the one who took your secretary. Not to mention the music store owner. You, her and the defendant were running around there all night, falsifying evidence and planting clues.”

“Are you making an accusation?”

“I’m telling you what you did.”

“You’re speaking in front of a judge.”

“He knows what you did too.”

“I’ve done nothing,” Steve Winslow said. “Except try to set the record straight. As I’m attempting to do now. You want to accuse me of something, figure out the charge.”

“How about obstructing justice, aiding and abetting and accessory to murder?”

“Wake up,” Steve Winslow said. “Aiding and abetting whom? Amy Dearborn didn’t kill Frank Fletcher. Larry Cunningham did. You think I aided and abetted him? Guess again. I’m trying to help you nail him. If you’d get the chip off your shoulder and stop taking potshots at me, you probably will.”

Dirkson frowned.

“What about the gun?” Judge Wylie said.

“What about it?”

“You think there’s any chance of recovering it?”

“Probably better than fifty fifty,” Steve said. “Cunningham’s the type of guy who’d hate to part with it. Plus he’d be sure no one suspected him.”

“Until now,” Judge Wylie said. He looked at Dirkson. “You think you’ve got enough to pick him up?”

“I’m not sold on this,” Dirkson said.

“I didn’t ask if you were,” Judge Wylie said irritably. “I asked if you could do it. I’d have remanded him to custody if I’d had any grounds. But it’s not like he admitted anything.”

Dirkson sighed. “All right. I’ll pick him up.”

There came the sound of raised voices in the hallway, and a court officer burst into the room. He was young and obviously very upset. “I’m sorry, Your Honor,” he said. “There’s been a shooting.”

“What?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. The witness. Larry Cunningham.”

“Don’t tell me.”

“That’s right. He killed himself. Went in the men’s room, blew his brains out.” The young man shook his head. “They told me to watch him, but only so he wouldn’t get away. I followed him into the john, but I wasn’t going to follow him into the stall.”

Judge Wylie exhaled. “Jesus.”

“Yeah,” Dirkson said. “What a mess.”

Steve Winslow looked from one to the other. “And that, gentlemen, is that.”

“Are you all right?”

There was a reason for Mark Taylor’s solicitude. Tracy Garvin looked decidedly pale.

Not that she appreciated his asking. “Just fine,” she snapped. She flopped into his client’s chair, took her glasses off and pushed the hair out of her eyes. She rammed the glasses back on, almost defiantly.

“No need to snap his head off,” Steve said. “You have every right to be upset.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Having someone blow his brains out like that is a little hard to take.”

“Granted,” Tracy said. “But why me? What about you and Mark?”

“Mark’s a hardened detective.” Steve shrugged. “Me, I’m a criminal attorney. I see stuff like that every day.”

“Don’t joke,” Tracy said.

“Hey,” Taylor said. “This is not some sexist thing. I’m sick to my stomach too. And when you figure this is your first firsthand experience with something like this.”