Уильям Макгиверн - Summitt

Brett made a series of question marks on her legal pad and underlined each one firmly. Whatever the defense attorney had been developing that morning obviously no longer interested him. Or presented some risk he’d decided not to take. Brett wasn’t sure which. But his present questions, she felt sure, were designed only to provide a camouflage for, a diversion from, whatever he’d been digging into earlier...

Davic returned to the bench and told Judge Flood he had no further questions of the witness at that time but added, “If it pleases the court, we’re expecting further information and would like to reserve the right to talk to Mr. Selby again.”

That night Selby found the quotation, “Hell is alone...” in Bartlett’s . It was from a play, “The Cocktail Party.” The complete line read “Hell is alone, the other figures in it merely projections.”

He called Brett, but her line was busy. Upstairs, Shana’s shower was running. He took Blazer for a walk, and when he returned Shana’s shower was off and her hair dryer was humming.

Brett’s number was still busy.

Selby couldn’t imagine what it was he had brought to Summitt City that could possibly threaten anyone. But why had the reaction to him been so peculiar? The sergeant, Ledge, he’d told Selby to put the past behind him and forget it. But whose past was he warning him about? His father’s or Jarrell’s or his own?

He dialed Brett again, but got another busy signal. Shana came in and sat cross-legged on the sofa, tipping her head sideways to brush out the damp ends of her hair.

“Honey, doesn’t Brett ever get off the phone?”

“She’s probably talking to one of her sisters,” Shana said. “Kay’s the oldest and she has dogs, a pair of standard poodles. Her other sister, Nancy, is married to a doctor. They have two little daughters. Miss Brett told me she talks to them almost every night, but I think she was showing five”... she looked at him shyly, her expression strangely remote. “Anyway, she said if I needed to talk to her I’d better call her in the mornings at her office. She gets in early.”

“What do you mean, showing five?”

“It’s a signal we use, like a code.” Shana put her brush down and looked at the fire. A stillness smoothed her soft face. “When we first talked about it, about what happened to me, there were things I didn’t want to tell her. So she said to hold up my hand then, you know, show five, like taking the Fifth. That meant I wanted to skip it, or talk about it later maybe.”

“She’s showing five about calling her sisters?”

“Not about that, but about being on the phone. She’s been getting calls that bother her. Not just your neighborhood breather, even I’ve had a couple of those. But somebody’s on her case, so she leaves the phone off the hook. I heard her telling Sergeant Wilger about it. He’s trying to trace whoever it is, but they don’t stay on long enough.”

Shana pushed Blazer away and stood to kiss her father good night. When she straightened up, he held her wrist lightly. She seemed fragile and small and tenderly young in her short nightgown, but her shoulder-length hair and the gravity in her eyes created a curious duality, the girlishness merging before him into a womanly maturity.

“Are you feeling all right about tomorrow?”

“I only have to tell what happened, and I’m not worried about that. Miss Brett will help. We’ve been over and over it.”

“Do you mind that I’ll be there when you’re on the stand?”

“No...” She put a hand on Blazer’s collar and shook her head. “That’s all right, daddy.”

“I don’t have to be there. There’s no law says so. I could go out and have some coffee or something.”

“I told you it was all right.” Her voice was higher. “I want to get it over with, okay?”

“Sure, honey. But I don’t want you to be afraid of anything. I’ll help you any way I can. I love you. I’ll do anything for you. You can put that in your piggy bank.”

She smiled and held his hand tightly against her face. “I love you, too, daddy, but the last piggy bank I had I lost at a show-and-tell in about third grade.”

“Okay, okay, so time flies... good night, honey.”

He dialed Brett after Shana went upstairs. Her line was still busy. He could imagine the receivers off the hook, one on the rolltop desk, the other beside her bed, the electronic beats growing louder as the house became still, humming faintly against window panes, mingling with the crack of the dying embers. His own phone rang then. He hoped it was Brett, but it was Jerry Goldbirn in Las Vegas.

“What time is it there, Harry?”

“A little after midnight. Why?”

“Why? Mine was a loser’s question, Harry. Ever know a loser with a watch that wasn’t either slow or fast or in hock? Nobody gives a damn about time in gambling joints. They have dinner at six or seven in the morning at the crap tables, steaks, banana cheesecakes, that’s why they’re losers.”

“That’s fascinating stuff, Jerry. If you want to know the time on the east coast look at your watch and add three whole hours. That’s why you never made all-conference, Jerry.”

“A point, you got a point. Now listen.” Goldbirn’s tone changed to serious. “The girl’s name is Jennifer, like she told you. Her last name is Easton. Lives on Sutton Place South, New York City. An unlisted phone. That’s usually no problem, Harry, a cop or newspaperman can get it for us. But this time, no way. Jennifer Easton’s number had a sealed code on it. That puts it out of reach.”

“How about her address?”

“That won’t help. Nobody’s used that Sutton Place apartment for months. We checked that. I’d have to call in a big marker for that unlisted number.”

“She’s important, Jerry. Believe me.”

“Okay, pal. A big deal vice-president of New York Bell kited checks in my place last year... would you believe it? Probably got his start robbing pay phones... and I covered for him. I’ll call him tomorrow, Harry. I’ll call him collect . The rest of it’s like first down and goal to go on a sunny afternoon... they’re in a motel in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, place called the Glades... Coralee Kane, the mother, and her kid, Barby. Some friendly cops checked ’em out for us. Two sets of wheels arrived the week the Kanes checked in. First a delivery van from the local liquor store. Coralee, it seems, likes a belt of gin with her ginger ale. Then a 450-SEL from Miami. Man name of Hank Swanson spent most of the day with the Kane woman. Swanson’s with an outfit called H. and H. Rates and Escrow, Limited. H. and H. is an offshore bag company, Harry, operates out of the Bahamas, but it’s owned by a firm in London. They launder real estate mortgages, cash, any commercial paper that needs a phony birth certificate. One of our cops spent his day off at the pool at the Glades. Had some drinks with your cracker tart. After a few off-duty slugs of gin, he got this. Mrs. Kane and her intended husband have just come into some oceanfront property around Avalon, New Jersey. That’s why this Swanson came. The paperwork’s been funneled from the Jersey shore out to Nassau and back to Miami. Which means the parentage of that property is about as kosher as an Easter ham.”

“Did I miss something, Jerry? Who owns H. and H.?”

“I told you, it’s a limey outfit in London. But here’s what’s interesting. The happy bridegroom is that Jesus freak you told me to check out, Oliver Jessup. He’s leaving Pennsylvania. He’s building himself a church over in Jersey. Lucky Jersey. Now they’ll all be saved in the Garden State...”

Selby hung up and looked through the notes he’d made. With one or two assumptions, he had a fairly coherent picture... someone was paying off Goldie Boy and Coralee Kane.