“Such as?”
“Such as,” Taylor said, watching Steve narrowly, “after you called me to tell me Bradshaw was dead, you raced out to the Harding mansion to talk to Marilyn. I don’t know whether she told you anything or not, but after you were there a little while, Sergeant Stams showed up to question Miss Harding. That was probably just before you called me the second time to send me out here, which would be around ten-thirty. The first report of Bradshaw’s murder was on the nine o’clock news. Someone gave Sergeant Stams the tip-off to pick up Marilyn Harding. Marilyn Harding was being followed by Miltner’s men. Now, if Miltner or one of his men saw the nine o’clock news broadcast, and if he knew that Marilyn had been to Bradshaw’s apartment sometime this afternoon, and if he felt he had to report that information to the police in order to keep from losing his license, it would place Sergeant Stams’s arrival at the Harding mansion somewhere around ten-thirty.”
Steve frowned. “You’re making a lot of deductions, Mark.”
“I’m not through yet. Let’s go a little further. If Stams got a tip from Miltner and went to see Marilyn Harding, and if you were there when he arrived, and if shortly after he arrived a Mr. Fitzpatrick showed up claiming to be Marilyn Harding’s attorney-and if Stams suspected you of having a client who had asked you to remove evidence from Bradshaw’s apartment and whose identity you were attempting to conceal-then Stams would probably assume that Marilyn was the client, that after you left Bradshaw’s apartment you dashed out to talk to her, that you advised her that under the circumstances the fact that you were her attorney would absolutely crucify her, and that therefore on your suggestion she immediately called in Fitzpatrick to act as a cat’s-paw so that you could fade into the woodwork.”
Steve Winslow said nothing.
“Well,” Taylor said, cutting off another piece of steak, “look who’s lost his appetite now.”
Steve picked up his knife and fork and began mechanically slicing off a piece of steak.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Mark said. “If they can ever prove that you took anything out of that apartment, Dirkson will throw the book at you.”
“Don’t worry, Mark. They can’t prove it.”
“You mean you didn’t do it, or they can’t prove it?”
“I told you there were certain things I couldn’t tell you.”
Mark Taylor’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth, “Jesus Christ, Steve, don’t even suggest you did that. If you did, I don’t want to know it.”
“Then stop asking questions I have to refuse to answer on the grounds that an answer might tend to incriminate me. For a guy who doesn’t want to know the answers, you do ask the damnedest questions.”
“It’s the detective in me. I can’t help it.” Taylor wolfed down the last bite of steak. “All right. It’s been a fun dinner and all that, but being out of touch is getting me a little crazy. When can I get back to the office?”
“You could go back now if it weren’t for that new evidence. That’s got me worried. I’d like to know what it is before the cops talk to you.”
“Let me call in again. Maybe the reporter’s managed to turn up something.”
“Do that. And while you’re at it, call information and see if Tracy Garvin’s number is listed.”
“Her home number?”
“Yeah.”
“No problem. I got it.”
Steve grinned. “Oh? Like that, eh?”
Taylor chuckled, shook his head. “No. Not like that. When I got the news about the Harding autopsy, I called your office trying to catch you. You’d already left, but Tracy was still there. When I told her she got all excited. Said she’d stay there, keep the office open, wait for more reports.” Taylor stopped and looked at Steve. “I don’t know what your problem is with that girl, but in my book she’s quite something, you know?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Steve said impatiently. “So?”
“So, I knew you didn’t want her doing that, so I tried to talk her out of it. It took some doing. Finally, she agreed, but only after she gave me her home number and made me promise if anything broke I’d call her, so she could come back and reopen the office.” Taylor chuckled. “This case may be a big pain in the ass for us, but for her it’s like she won a trip to Disneyland.”
“And you didn’t call?”
“I forgot.”
“She’s gonna be pissed. Well, call her now, tell her to hop in a cab, and come join us.”
“Not the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” Taylor said. “But I’m sure the only reason you’re doing it is so you can tell her what she knows.”
Taylor pushed back his chair and went off to telephone. Steve sat and looked at the half-eaten steak in front of him. He’d missed dinner, but he wasn’t a bit hungry. Christ, what a fucking mess. All right, he had to admit he’d been bored. Tracy was quite right in complaining that nothing ever happened. But he’d liked that, at least at first. After a whole life of scratching out a living, first as an actor, then as a lawyer, it had been nice to sit back, not worry about the rent, and watch the monthly check from Sheila Benton roll in. Yeah, it was a little monotonous. And yeah, after three months of leisure he could have stood a case of some kind.
But not this.
Not two homicides, the cops on his case, and him not knowing who the fuck his client was.
No, not this.
Mark Taylor came back and sat down.
“Well?”
Taylor shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing,” he said. “Everything at the station is very hush-hush. Dirkson is closeted with someone, apparently either a witness or a suspect, but no one on the force seems to know who it is.”
“Well, the officers who made the arrest know,” Steve said impatiently.
“Sure, and Sergeant Stams knows too. But the officers who made the arrest are nowhere to be found. In fact, no one seems to know who the arresting officers are. Of course, Sergeant Stams is taking the credit. Stams is very much in evidence, and about as helpful as you would expect. He’s willing to pose for pictures, and he modestly admits that it was his investigative brilliance that cracked the case, but that’s about it.” Taylor sighed. “So I guess I’m stuck here for a while. You gonna finish that steak?”
“No.”
“Then pass it over. If I gotta sit here, I might as well eat.”
Steve shoved his plate toward the center of the table, and Taylor speared the piece of meat.
“So, what about Tracy?” Steve asked.
Taylor shook his head. “I struck out there too.”
Steve’s head snapped up. “What?”
Taylor shrugged. “No answer. I let it ring ten times, just in case she was asleep.”
“Oh shit!” Steve jumped to his feet. He whipped out his wallet, flung money on the table. “Let’s go!”
“What?” Mark Taylor said, but Steve was already halfway to the door. Taylor lurched his 220 pounds into gear and followed.
By the time Taylor caught up, Steve was out in the street trying to hail a cab.
“Steve! What the hell’s going on?”
“It’s Tracy, damn it! Where the hell’s a fucking cab?”
“What?”
“Stams set a trap. No wonder he’s so happy. He must figure I sent her back to get the evidence I ditched.”
“What evidence? What are you talking about?”
“Tracy said she’d be waiting for your call.”
“So? Maybe she had a date.”
“Not that girl. She wouldn’t have missed your call for the world.
No, she heard it on the radio and went out there. Damn it, where the hell’s a cab?”
“Steve. What the hell are you talking about?”
“There’s one. Taxi!” Steve turned back to Taylor as the cab swerved in to the curb. “Don’t you get it? Shit, Mark. She’s the mystery witness!”
16
District Attorney Harry Dirkson shifted his bulk in his chair, ran his hand over his bald head, and frowned. Jesus Christ, what a fucking mess. First Phillip Harding getting murdered, and now Marilyn Harding mixed up in the murder of a blackmailer. The media always loved to see rich and powerful people in trouble, but not Dirkson. Rich and powerful people had connections. They could stir things up, make waves, put pressure on you. And you always had to step lightly. If you let someone big off the hook, the press and the public would scream bloody murder. And if you went after them, and they were big enough, there was no telling who you might offend.