Parnell Hall - The Anonymous Client

Steve frowned. He thought that over. “No, that’s not right. If she killed him in cold blood, it doesn’t matter when she decided to do it. See, most people think premeditation means the crime was thought out and planned well in advance. It doesn’t. All it means is that the crime was committed deliberately and not in the heat of passion. If Marilyn went into the kitchen to make a drink, opened the drawer, saw those knives, and couldn’t resist the temptation to use one, that’s still premeditated murder, and Dirkson can get her on it.”

“In that case, I can’t see what Dirkson is so worried about.”

“Neither can I. Especially since all he really needs to do is convict her of manslaughter.”

“Then how do you account for it?”

Steve thought a moment. He smiled. “I have one theory that you probably won’t care for.”

“What’s that?”

“That Dirkson isn’t worried at all. That he deduced from our finding Tracy Garvin in his office last night that there must be a leak at headquarters, and therefore he’s handing out this crock of shit so your man won’t find out what he’s really up to.”

Taylor made a face. “You’re right.”

“About my theory?”

“About my not caring for it. I’ve been up all night listening to this crock of shit.” Taylor’s eyes widened. “Jesus, Steve, do you suppose the bit about the bills being traced to Marilyn is phony too?”

“I would tend to doubt it,” Steve said. “Since it’s on the front page of the Daily News.”

Taylor shook his head. “Aw, fuck. Not only do I stay up all night listening to the shit put out by the D.A.’s office, but the only real information I come up with I could have got by buying the morning paper.”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t pay you overtime to buy the morning paper.”

“Hell, I’m not doing this for the money. I’m doing this so you’ll keep me out of jail.”

“You’re not in there yet.”

“Right. Thanks to my lucky stars and ten serial numbers that conveniently failed to match. You didn’t by any chance switch those numbers around, did you Steve?”

“If I had, would you want to know?”

“Fuck no!” Taylor said. “Never mind. I withdraw the question.”

Steve grinned. “It’s all right. Just for your peace of mind, I didn’t tamper with the list.”

“You didn’t?”

“Of course not. You saw the list yourself.”

“Sure. Just like a volunteer from the audience sees the magician’s ordinary deck of cards.”

“The bank teller can vouch for the list, Mark. By now even the cops will have to admit it’s genuine. What Dirkson’s going to accuse me of is switching the money.”

“You mean taking ten thousand dollars of Marilyn Harding’s money and planting it on the corpse in place of Bradshaw’s ten grand?”

“That’s right.”

“Shit, Steve, what the hell could you expect to gain by that?”

“Fortunately, I don’t have to answer that question. Dirkson does, and that undoubtedly is one of the things he’s really worried about.”

“Gonna sit back and make him prove you guilty beyond a reasonable doubt?”

“No joke. That’s exactly what I may wind up doing.” Steve rubbed his head. “All right. What about the witness?”

“What witness?”

“The woman who called the police.”

“Oh. Margaret Millburn. Well, there you know as much as anyone. She heard an altercation and called the cops.”

“What kind of altercation.”

“What do you mean?”

“Physical or verbal?”

“I gather both.”

“Then she must have heard the assailant’s voice.”

“That’s right, but not well enough to identify it.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because the police haven’t arranged for her to hear Marilyn’s voice.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. The police finished with the Millburn woman and put her back in circulation before Marilyn Harding was picked up. She hasn’t been near the police station since. That confirms my report that Miss Millburn didn’t actually see Marilyn Harding, and indicates she didn’t hear the argument distinctly enough to recognize voices.”

“Could she hear them well enough to tell if the other party was a man or a woman?”

“If the cops know, they’re not letting on.”

“What about Miss Millburn?”

“What about her?”

“You said the cops put her back in circulation?”

“That’s right.”

“What’s to stop you from having a little chat with her?”

“Just one thing, Steve. You’re forgetting she lives next door to Bradshaw’s apartment. I wouldn’t go near the place right now if my life depended on it.”

“Right,” Steve said. “They’d figure you were after the evidence I ditched.”

“I got the dope on her anyway,” Taylor said. He referred to his notebook. “She’s twenty-eight and she’s a divorcee. Millburn is her maiden name. She was married to a used car salesman named Buckley. Apparently he tried to trade her in on a new model, so she went to Reno, established a six months’ residence, and got a divorce. That was three years ago. She moved here three months ago. She does nothing in the line of work, and seems to be living off her alimony.”

“And how the hell did you get all that?”

“From the landlady, who, I’ll save you the trouble of asking, was out shopping at the time of the murder and didn’t see or hear a thing.”

Steve leaned back in his chair and rubbed his head. “See, Mark, your evening wasn’t wasted after all.”

“What do you mean?”

“None of that stuff was in the morning paper.”

There was a knock on the door and Tracy Garvin slipped in, closing the door behind her. She seemed excited and her actions were furtive.

“What is it?” Steve said.

She practically put her finger to her lips. “There’s a man in the outer office,” she hissed.

“So?”

“I’m not sure, but he looks like a process server.”

“Oh.”

“I didn’t tell him you were here,” Tracy said. “You want to duck out the back?”

Steve shook his head. “I’m not ducking service. Show the gentleman in.”

Tracy obviously didn’t agree, but she nodded and went out.

“Maybe I should get out of here,” Taylor said.

“No. Stick around, Mark. I want to see if he serves you too.”

Tracy returned with a rather apologetic looking individual with a briefcase.”

“Mr. Winslow?” he said.

“I’m Winslow. This is Mark Taylor.”

The man handed Steve a paper. “Mr. Winslow, there is a subpoena to appear before the grand jury at two this afternoon and to answer questions arising from the death of one David C. Bradshaw. I’m sorry to trouble you. Please understand, I mean no offense. I’m merely doing my job.”

The process server bowed himself out of the door.

Steve eyed the subpoena thoughtfully.

“Well, that’s quick work,” Taylor said.

“Yes it is,” Steve said. He looked up from the subpoena. “All right, Mark. At least they don’t want you. Get out of here and get some sleep.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. There’s nothing much you can do now. Put a man on the phones and go home.”

Taylor heaved himself out of the chair. “That’s a break,” he said. He nodded to Tracy and went out.

The minute he was gone, Tracy turned on Steve. Her eyes were flashing.

“All right,” she said. “I’ve had enough.”

Steve held up his hand. “Whoa. Back up. What do you mean, you had enough?”

“You can’t do this. It’s not right.”

“What?”

Tracy was going for righteous indignation, but she was bordering dangerously on schoolgirl pout. “You know what. I’m supposed to be your confidential secretary. That’s what you told the D.A. That’s why I’m not answering questions for the police. All right. Your detective just gave you a rundown on the case. Did you have me sit in and take notes? No. You kept me in the outer office and wouldn’t let me hear a thing.”