Parnell Hall - The Baxter Trust

Of course, pants would help.

He went back, jerked open a drawer of the bureau, found a pair of jockey shorts, pulled them on.

Great. Now the suit.

Steve rummaged through the whole closet before he remembered. Shit. He’d lent the suit to Arthur for that wedding last year, and he’d never gotten it back. And Arthur’d moved to California.

Jesus, what to do? Improvise. Pants, jacket, tie-throw it together, get it done. If you’re going to do it at all. If not, call her back and tell her to forget it. What are you, nuts? The first client in a year. Come on Winslow, you big schmuck, this can’t be that hard.

He continued to rummage through the closet and dresser drawers.

Sheila Benton opened the front door and stared.

Standing in the doorway was a young man with his hair slicked back from his head, wearing blue jeans, a tan corduroy jacket and a green tie.

Sheila blinked. “Yes?”

“Sheila Benton?”

“Yes.”

“Steve Winslow.”

Sheila blinked again.

Steve wasn’t going to take the chance of having the door slammed in his face, not by a potential client, and not in a murder case. He pushed right by her and into the apartment.

Sheila, as if in a daze, closed the door and locked it. She turned to find the young man standing looking down at the chalk outline on the floor.

“This is where you found him, eh?” Steve said.

“Yes.”

“How was he killed?”

“With a knife.”

“In the front or the back?”

“The back.”

He frowned. “Hmm. That probably rules out self-defense. So he was lying on his stomach?”

“Yes.”

“Where’d the knife come from?”

“It was mine. From that set on the wall.”

Sheila pointed to the kitchen alcove.

“Uh huh.” He crossed to the alcove. He pantomimed taking a knife out of the rack, turning and stabbing the man. He followed the man’s fall down to the chalk line.

As he bent down, some of the hair tucked under his collar came loose and swung down.

Steve stood up. The hair hung down the left side of his face, giving him a lopsided look.

“Well, that’s a break,” he said.

“What?” Sheila said. She had only half heard him. She was staring, hypnotized, at the dangling hair.

“The position of the knife rack to the body,” he said. “The circumstantial evidence would indicate that the murderer grabbed the knife from the rack, turned and stabbed the victim.”

“So?”

“If worse comes to worst, that would probably rule out premeditation.” He glanced around the room, then back at her. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s get the facts. Tell me exactly what happened.”

Sheila blinked again, seemed unable to speak. “Well,” he said. “What’s the matter?”

Sheila shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s just that… I don’t know. You’re just not my idea of a lawyer.”

He looked at her, smiled. “Well,” he said. “You’re not my idea of a murder suspect, either.”

It was a weak comeback, and it wasn’t working. The girl just kept staring at him.

He noticed the dangling hair. He pushed it back. He gave up, sighed. All right, so much for bluffing it through.

“All right, look,” he said. “I’m not what you expected. You think of a lawyer as someone in a three-piece suit with a haircut and a manicure and probably about sixty years old. Well, I’m not. But I didn’t call you, you called me. That doesn’t mean you have to hire me, and if you want to tell me to get lost, you certainly have that right. But the thing is, you can tell me to get lost at any time. So since you got me over here, why don’t you tell me what this is all about, and we’ll see if there is anything we can do about it. And then you can tell me to get lost, and you can go out and find some guy who dresses right and looks constipated, which I’m sure is your idea of what a lawyer ought to be.”

She smiled, and he knew the battle was half over.

District Attorney Harry Dirkson was worried. He was worried because of what had happened and because of what hadn’t happened. What had happened was Sheila Benton, niece of Maxwell Baxter, had gotten involved in a murder. What hadn’t happened was Maxwell Baxter’s attorneys hadn’t called him and/or the commissioner, raising merry hell and demanding that the situation be cleared up as quickly and quietly as possible, keeping Sheila Benton’s name out of it.

If that happened-and Dirkson was sure that it would-then he would be in a no-win situation. If he kept Sheila Benton out of it, which would be a pretty impossible job, and it got out, as it surely would, the press would crucify him. By the time the media got finished with him, his chances for re-election would be virtually nil.

On the other hand, if, god forbid, he should end up having to prosecute the girl, it was even worse. He would have Maxwell Baxter, the commissioner, and maybe even the mayor on his back. No one would condone his actions. He would be the fall guy, pushed out front with no room to maneuver, and no expectations except to take grief from all sides until his head was finally, mercifully, chopped off.

Dirkson sat and stewed.

There were only two ways out, he figured. The first was the best. Clean it up. Exonerate the girl. Find conclusive proof that she wasn’t involved. In short, find the murderer.

The second was terrible. Nail the girl. Prove she did it. Prosecute her and prove her guilty in a court of law.

It was a frightening proposition, but, Dirkson realized, it was something he just might have to do. It would be messy. He would take a lot of grief over it from all sides. But if she were guilty, really guilty, and he proved it, he just might survive. More than just surviving, he might emerge a hero, a fearless, crusading DA, who forged ahead regardless of political pressure and personal interest, believing in equal justice for all.

Dirkson thought of that image a while, and he liked it. It scared the hell out of him, but he liked it. Prove the girl guilty. Done right, it could be quite a coup.

But too risky. Dirkson came back to reality. Jesus. Too damn risky. A last resort, and nothing more. You don’t proceed against the girl unless it’s an ironclad case. A sure thing.

You don’t proceed against the girl unless you have no choice.

Having made that decision, Dirkson immediately felt better. Yeah, that was the ticket. The burden of proof was on the police department. They had to come up with it all. And it had to be airtight. Motive, means, opportunity. It all had to be there.

Well, the means was already there. The knife. It was presumably from the rack on the wall, which made it the girl’s knife. Not good, but not bad. The knife was there at hand. Anyone could have used it.

Opportunity? That would depend on the autopsy report and the testimony of that damn cab driver, if the cops ever found him.

Shit, why the hell hadn’t they found him yet? How the hell long could it take the damn cops to run a simple procedure like that? Dirkson realized it probably didn’t matter. The preliminary report indicated that the victim had been killed not long before the police arrived on the scene. So, unless something spectacular and unforeseen showed up in the autopsy report, there was no reason why she couldn’t have come home, stabbed him and run out and called the cops.

Dirkson was starting to feel slightly queasy. Shit. Means and opportunity were falling into place just fine.

Which left motive.

There, on his desk, sat the blackmail note. That’s what it was, Dirkson conceded. Despite what some clever defense attorney might argue, despite its vagueness, despite the lack of any hint of violence or any demand for money, this was a blackmail note.