“Motive,” I said, “where’s the motive?”
“Money, Counselor, money. I don’t know how the judge was fixed, but he took out an insurance policy only one month ago, five hundred thousand buckeroos, half a million. How does that grab you for motive?”
“Who’s the beneficiary?”
“I haven’t seen the policy, but who do you think?”
“It complicates matters,” I said.
“No, sir, it simplifies them. Okay, Counselor, I’m talking too much. The lieutenant says I suffer from a loose Up. So no more conversation. Fini. You’re on the other side now. You want more conversation, talk to the district attorney. It’s his baby now. So please get your educated carcass over here on the double. The judge’s widow is hollering bloody murder. She wants her lawyer.”
The receiver clicked and the line went dead.
Laura Bolt had not yet been processed and was still at the precinct house. She had been politely and judiciously handled, advised that she was entitled to counsel from the inception of custody, and she had refused all dialogue. She knew enough to keep her tongue disconnected, but in those surroundings she was out of her element, pale and strained. They allowed me a brief private session. My eyes encompassed the room in a broad sweep, searching for bugs, but of course nothing was obvious.
“Keep your voice low,” I said. “What do you know about the gun?”
“I don’t know anything about the gun.”
“You knew the judge had one.”
“Yes.”
“Where did he keep it?”
“In the drawer of his bedside table.” She shook her head, whispering fiercely. “But I didn’t take it, I didn’t use it, and I didn’t hide it.”
“Did your husband mention a new insurance policy?”
“Yes. He had borrowed heavily on his old one and there wasn’t much equity in it. He wanted a new policy and he wanted to give Clive Denby the business.”
“You know the amount?”
“Half a million dollars. He thought Clive could use the commission.”
“Who is the beneficiary?”
“My husband’s estate.”
“Does he have a will?”
“Of course. He drafted it himself and Andy Stock typed it.”
“Is it in his safe-deposit box?”
“I don’t think so. I remember he told me that he kept most of his important papers locked in a file in his chambers at the courthouse. Just as safe as a bank, he said, and more easily accessible.”
In a way, he was right. It was unlikely anyone would break into a federal courthouse to ransack a judge’s chambers. Too, if he needed an important document at night, it would be available.
“If your husband named you as executrix in his will, would you want me to handle the probate?”
“Yes.”
I took out a piece of paper and a pen, wrote out a brief retainer and had her sign it. She returned the pen and plucked at my sleeve.
“Are they going to lock me up for the night?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to remain in custody until the preliminary hearing.”
“Then what happens to me?”
“You’ll be bound over for action by the grand jury.”
“Will they grant bail?”
“Not on a murder charge, I’m afraid.”
Her eyes swam in quick moisture. “Oh, what are they trying to do to me?”
“Whatever it is,” I said, “I’ll try to stop it. But I have to get out in the field to help you. Now, you know the script. No statements. Button up and stay buttoned. Am I clear?”
She nodded, gulped and smiled like a woman suffering from an attack of mumps.
A phone call to Judge Bolt’s chambers caught Andrew Stock just as he was leaving for the day. I asked him if he remembered who had been appointed executor in the judge’s will. He remembered. The judge’s wife. I told him that she had retained me to handle probate. He had not yet heard about the arrest.
“Can you open the judge’s confidential file?” I asked.
“Yes. I have a key.”
“Good. I’d like to see the will and perhaps file it with the surrogate tomorrow morning. Please bring the will home with you and I’ll pick it up later.”
He said he would and he gave me his address. He seemed pitifully eager to cooperate with me.
Ira Madden, I knew, was out on bail. Naturally; only money was involved. Money can be replaced, but the big crime, murder, could never be undone. I realized that an attempt to see Madden, insulated by union retainers and isolated in a special apartment atop union headquarters, would be futile. The judge’s demise, I suspected, had probably initiated festivities. They would be celebrating the declaration of a mistrial. Union lawyers knew that the longer a trial can be delayed, the harder it gets to convict.
So I decided on an alternative. A telephone directory gave me the address of Floyd Oster, Madden’s hireling. I found it to be a renovated brownstone near Lincoln Center. By osmosis, perhaps, Floyd Oster might absorb a faint trace of culture. As I climbed to his apartment on the second floor, I realized that I had devised no approach, no campaign. I would have to play it by ear.
He answered the bell, a carp-faced, sulphurous and savage little man in a white T-shirt, holding an empty whiskey bottle like a club.
“Mr. Oster?” I said.
“Who wants to know?”
“You probably never heard of me. The name is Jordan, Scott Jordan. I’m a lawyer, you see.”
“I heard of you.” From the sound it seemed as if someone had permanently ruined his larynx.
“Could we talk in private?”
“About what?”
“Ira Madden and Judge Edwin Marcus Bolt.”
The carp face suddenly closed up completely; it went utterly blank. “The judge is dead.”
“True. But Ira is still alive.”
“And just where do you fit in?”
“The judge’s widow has retained me.”
“To do what?”
“Defend her in court. They think she killed her husband.”
He smiled, if the mechanical distortion of that blade-thin mouth could be called a smile. “How about that?”
“I thought you might help.”
“Yeah? How?”
“The judge’s widow will have to get up a decent fee. I’d like to know where the money is.”
“What money?”
“The money you paid Judge Bolt to throw Madden’s trial.”
He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “You lost your marbles, Counselor? You off your rocker, making an accusation like that? You know what the penalty is for bribing a federal judge?”
“Not as heavy as the penalty for killing one.”
“That’s no skin off my nose, buster. Go defend your client.”
“She’s innocent.”
“So prove it in court.”
“I intend to, by showing who really did it.”
It got through to him and a muscle started throbbing in his temple. “Get lost. If we bought the judge, why would we knock him off? You can’t have it both ways. You can’t—”
He clamped down on the rest of it because we suddenly had a pair of visitors mounting the stairs behind me. Two clean-cut, brush-cut, muscular all-American types joined us and politely inquired, “Floyd Oster?”
I pointed. “Him.”
“And you, sir, who are you?”
“Just a visitor trying to get some information.”
“Afraid you’ll have to get in line, sir. We have a warrant for Floyd Oster’s arrest.” He flashed his wallet. “Federal Bureau of Investigation. The charge is bribery and corruption of a government official.”