Parnell Hall - The Anonymous Client

“Monday.”

“The seventh?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s when you met Bradshaw and bought back the bills?”

“Right.”

“Then why did Marilyn go see him on Tuesday, the eighth?”

“’Cause she didn’t know I’d got the bills back. I hadn’t been able to talk to her.”

“You hadn’t told her you were going to do it?”

“No. I hadn’t figured it out at the time. When I was talking to her, I mean. I only told her she made a mistake giving ’em to him. She was worried about it, and she went to Bradshaw to try to straighten things out herself.”

“That’s on Tuesday?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Bradshaw was nice as could be. He was sorry she’d upset herself, but there was nothing to worry about. I’d been there the day before and bought the bills back, hadn’t I told her? Relax, everything was going to be just fine, and if she didn’t believe him, why didn’t she talk to me.

“Which it turned out she couldn’t do, because when she met me on the boat I was with my wife and we never got a moment alone.”

“All right. That’s Tuesday. What about Wednesday?”

Kemper grimaced. “Just what you’d expect. Bradshaw made another pass at Marilyn. The son of a bitch. He’d just told her everything was straightened out to let her think she was off the hook. To give her one peaceful day. To let her see just how good that felt, just how wonderful that feeling of relief could be. Before he jerked the rug out from under her.”

“What happened?”

“She called me at work. She was hysterical. You gotta remember, that was the same day she found out her father’d been murdered. She’d had cops at the house all morning. She’d just gotten rid of them when she got the phone call. It was Bradshaw at his oiliest best. He was so sorry, but he needed more money, and the whole spiel. He had another photostat of the motel reservation-what a surprise, right? — and he had the bills she withdrew from the bank, proof she paid blackmail. Of course that shocked the hell out of her. She thought I’d bought them back. He told her different. He had her ten grand, he wanted another ten grand, and he’d give her till five-thirty that afternoon.

“She called me at work. Just caught me as I was going out the door. I was supposed to show some people some properties. It was a tough moment. The boss was there. I had to act cool on the phone. I couldn’t really tell her anything, I had to just listen. And she’s telling me what Bradshaw did and what Bradshaw demanded. She wants me to meet her and bring her the ten grand I bought back from Bradshaw. So she could use it to pay him off again.

“Well, I didn’t have it, I’d sent it to you, but I can’t tell her different with the boss standing there and this young couple at my elbow waiting to go see some properties. So the best I can do is to get the message across that I can’t talk now, but I’ll meet her at this coffee shop on Lexington Avenue around four o’clock. I figure I’ll meet her there and we’ll tackle Bradshaw together.

“Only I get hung up. This young couple’s picky. They don’t know from my problems, they’re planning a life together. They want to see this, that and the other thing. And they’re do-it-yourselfers. They must spend all their time watching This Old House on PBS. They’re tapping walls and talking about structural beams and types of molding. They probably don’t know shit, but they’re talking a lot, you know what I mean. You know the type. So I’m going crazy with ’em. But it’s an emergency, and I probably would have just ditched them, except the fucking boss comes along. He does it now and then when he thinks someone’s slacking off. What with me sneaking off to meet Marilyn now and then, I know he’s been suspicious of me, and what with me getting that phone call and all. So the son of a bitch tagged along.

“So I couldn’t get out of there, and the end result’s I’m late. I get to the coffee shop at five after five, double park and run in. She’s gone.”

“So what’d you do?”

“Beat it down to Bradshaw’s, to try to head her off. I was too late there too. Or so I think. There’s no sign of Marilyn. I double park the car. I run in. I go upstairs. The door’s open. I walk in. I find him there on the floor, dead.”

“So what do you do?”

“What do you think I do? I’m in a panic. I’m afraid Marilyn got there first and killed him. I look around the apartment real quick, trying to see if she left anything incriminating. Then I beat it out of there.

“I hop in my car and drive off. Just as I’m turning the corner, I look back down the block at Bradshaw’s building to see if anything’s happening. When I do, I see Marilyn come around the corner and walk in the front door.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Well, I would have waved to her, but it happened too quick. I’m too far away, and she doesn’t see me. She’s already gone in. It’s a one-way street. I can’t turn around and go back. So I zoom around the block. I’m going to double park again, run in and get her.

“But I get caught in traffic. By the time I’m coming down the street again, I see her come tearing out of the building and run around the corner again. I beat it down to the corner just in time to see her hop in her car and pull out.

“But then another car pulls out and tags along behind her. I realize she’s being followed. I don’t dare contact her then.

“By then it’s late. I’m supposed to pick up my wife for dinner. I’ve stalled her off. But now I’ve gotta go. I pick her up. We go out to eat. It’s a real bitch with all this churning inside of me. But there’s nothing I can do about it.

“After dinner we drive up to the house in Glen Cove, and that’s where I ran into you. You know what happened. I don’t get to talk to Marilyn, the cops pick her up, and I don’t get to talk to her until Fitzpatrick gets her released the next day.”

Kemper stopped. “There you are. That’s it. That’s the story.”

Steve Winslow looked at him for several moments. Then he shook his head. “No, it isn’t,” he said.

“What?” Kemper said.

“No, it isn’t. It’s bullshit. At least part of it. The part about you finding Bradshaw’s body. It never happened that way. You made it up.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Sure you did. And you didn’t even do a good job of it. You’re so transparent, Kemper. You know what you’re doing? I’ll tell you what you’re doing. You’re trying to be some goddamn storybook hero-that gallant, noble, romantic leading man who cheerfully takes the blame to save his ladylove. The problem is, you don’t fit the part. Gallant? Noble? Shit, give me a break.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“No. You sit there and take it, ’cause you have to. I’m going to tell you what happened. The bit about you finding Bradshaw’s body is all wrong. You made it up from what you heard in court-from the testimony of the detectives who were following Marilyn, and the testimony of the witness who heard a voice in the apartment. You put that together and you say, ‘Hey, I’ll shade my story a little bit and I’ll be the gallant hero and I’ll give her an alibi.’ So you say you got there first and found him dead. You figure your statement, coupled with the testimony of the detectives who were following Marilyn, will put her in the clear. Bradshaw was dead before she got there. Of course, that puts your ass right on the line, but that’s what the romantic hero’s supposed to do, right?

“And it doesn’t really put your ass on the line, because your story’s so bad no one will believe it. You got to the coffee shop after Marilyn left, but you want me to believe you got to Bradshaw’s first.”