Parnell Hall: The Baxter Trust

She folded up the letter and put it on the night table as if to dismiss it from her mind. Screw the letter. It’s nothing.

She stood up and looked around. The apartment, of course, was a holy mess. It was a small studio apartment, and with the couch folded out into a bed, there was barely room to move around.

Sheila began to straighten up. She made the bed, folded it up and put the cushions back on the couch. She picked up the dirty clothes from where she had left them lying on the floor and stuffed them into the laundry bag in the bathroom.

The remains of the Chinese food she and Johnny had ordered the night before were still sitting on the table in the small kitchen alcove. Sheila dumped them in the garbage and wiped the table.

She realized she was doing all this to keep from thinking about the letter. Which, of course, made her think about the letter. The nagging thought that taunted her, of course, was what if it wasn’t a joke? What if it was real? “I K NOW A LL A BOUT Y OU.” Knew all what about her? What was there about her that someone could know that could hurt her?

The answer, of course, was the cocaine. Someone could tell the cops about the cocaine. Or tell her uncle, which would be worse. Or actually, which would be the same, since if she got busted, her uncle would find out.

So what should she do? If this was a blackmail letter, she should go to the police. But what could she tell them? She couldn’t say, “Hey, I do cocaine and someone’s threatening to tell you about it.”

Shit. She wished Johnny were here. Johnny would know what to do. She would too, if it weren’t for the cocaine. That was the tricky part.

Thinking about the cocaine made Sheila realize she really needed another hit. She opened the drawer of her night table, and took out the plastic bag.

Shit Almost nothing left. Had they really gone through that much? They’d had a whole gram last night. There was only enough left for a couple of good lines.

Sheila ripped the bag open, and dumped the coke out on the mirror. She chopped it with the razor blade, fashioned two lines, picked up the straw, and snorted the coke up her nose. She licked the powder off the inside of the plastic bag. There. That should make her feel better.

It didn’t, however. And she’d known it wouldn’t. Snorting the last line of cocaine never made her feel good. There was always the sense of loss.

Well, that was that. Two whole days without Johnny or coke. Well, it would be good for her. A chance to show herself that she didn’t really need it.

The phone rang. Sheila walked over and picked it up.

“Hello,” she said.

A gruff male voice said, “I know all about you.”

Sheila felt as if the floor had suddenly disappeared from under her feet. She had a flash of absolute, total panic. What triggered it was the sudden realization, the sudden awareness. In that split second she knew, absolutely knew, that this was no joke, that this was real, and this was now, and this was happening. Happening to her.

“What?” she gasped. “Who are you? What do you want?”

The phone clicked dead. A dial tone buzzed in her ear.

Sheila knew that the man had hung up, but she couldn’t help jiggling the button on the phone and saying, “Hello?… Hello?” Finally she gave up, and hung up the receiver.

She sat there for a moment, pulling herself together.

Okay. The letter was one thing, but this was something else. And Sheila realized she just couldn’t take it. There was only one thing to do.

She picked up the phone and dialed 911.

Lieutenant Farron turned the letter in his hands, glanced over at the stolid, impassive face of Sergeant Stams and thought, “Why is he bringing this to me?”

Lieutenant Farron, tall, thin, wiry, twenty-six years on the force, was a smart cop. A crisp, efficient, no-nonsense cop. Bright enough to handle anything. Brighter still in being able to quickly sort out and decide what to choose to handle.

Sergeant Stams, on the other hand, was a short, stout, bull-necked man. Less intelligent. A plodder. Still, he was a good cop, and he knew his job. And part of his job was keeping this type of stuff off Lieutenant Farron’s desk. So why had he brought him this?

Lieutenant Farron glanced over at Sergeant Stams, hoping for an answer and expecting none. Sergeant Stams merely returned his gaze with the stolid, impassive look that seemed to be his only expression. But he did return it, with no wavering, no doubt. Which answered the unasked question: yes, Sergeant Stams had meant for the Lieutenant to concern himself with this, and still did, despite the inquiring look.

Lieutenant Farron turned his gaze to the girl. Blond, pretty, twenty-two, twenty-three, he guessed. What could there possibly be in the life of a girl like this that would warrant blackmail, if this was, indeed, a blackmail letter? Or, more important, what could there possibly be that could merit his attention?

Lieutenant Farron looked at the letter again. “I KNOW ALL ABOUT YOU.” Damn skimpy for a blackmail letter. Most blackmailers weren’t so reticent. So what the hell was it?

Farron looked back up at the girl.

“This came in the morning mail?”

“That’s right I drove my friend to the airport to catch a nine twenty-five plane. The letter was there when I got back.”

“I see. And what do you make of it?”

“What do you mean?”

“What does it mean to you?”

“Nothing.”

“You think it might be a prank?”

“It might.”

“So why bring it to us?”

“I know it seems stupid. I wasn’t going to. But then I got the phone call.”

“The phone call?”

“Yes.”

Farron frowned. This was like pulling teeth. He looked at Stams. The Sergeant’s expression had not changed, but still, somehow he looked smug.

Farron turned back to the girl. “Tell me about the phone call.”

“It was a man’s voice. That’s all I know. I’d never heard it before. I’m sure of that.”

“Old? Young?”

“Not old. Not young. Just a voice. A deep, male voice. That’s all I can tell you.”

With just a trace of irony in his voice, Farron said, “Could you tell me what it said?”

Sheila caught the irony. “Oh,” she said. She smiled in an “aw shucks” way that men usually found endearing, but which was utterly wasted on Lieutenant Farron. “I’m sorry. The same thing. He said the same thing.”

“What do you mean, the same thing?”

“The same as the letter. ‘I know all about you.’”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah.”

“No ‘hello,’ no ‘who is this?’”

Sheila shook her head. “Nothing. I said, ‘Hello.’ The man said, ‘I know all about you’ and hung up.”

Farron frowned. “I see. When did you get the phone call?”

“Just now. Just before I came here.”

Farron rubbed his forehead. “All right, let me reconstruct this. You went to the airport, you came back and got this letter.”

“That’s right.”

“You opened it at once, right? As soon as you got home?”

“That’s right. In fact, I opened it in the foyer. I picked up the mail on my way in.”

“Okay. And then you went right into your apartment?”

“That’s right.”

“And how soon after that was the phone call?”

“Not long.”

“How not long?”

“Right away. Maybe five minutes.”

Farron stole another glance at Stams, as if to say, “Is that what you think is significant?” Of course, he got no response.

“You have any enemies?” he asked the girl.

She shook her head. “No. And I don’t know anyone who’d want to blackmail me, either.”

Farron looked at her. “You think this is a blackmail note?”