Still, Phillip Harding was dead, and Marilyn was just a kid, too young to have any significant political connections. So the situation shouldn’t have been that bad. Except for one thing. Steve Winslow.
Steve Winslow. The name haunted Dirkson like a death knell. Steve Winslow. Dirkson had had only one case against Steve Winslow, but that had been enough. Steve Winslow was young and inexperienced, probably didn’t even know that much law, but Jesus Christ. The man was a clown, that was the problem. An actor, a showman, a jury-grandstander. After the things Winslow had done in court, Dirkson had been lucky to escape with his political career. And here he was, popping up again to taunt him. Steve Winslow discovered in the dead man’s apartment. Steve Winslow interviewing Marilyn Harding at her mansion.
And now this. Now this young woman sitting before him. The young woman who had been apprehended attempting to enter the dead man’s building. The young woman who’d told a few unconvincing lies to the police and then clammed, refusing to talk and demanding to call her attorney. And who was that attorney?
Steve Winslow.
Dirkson glanced over at Sergeant Stams, stolid and impassive as ever. Then at the stenographer, waiting, pen poised, for something to take down. And finally at the young woman, the girl, really, who might well be a college student for all he knew, sitting there in blue jeans, sweater, and glasses, her jaw set in an angry pout as if she’d just been called into the Dean’s office and was refusing to name the names of the students to whom she’d slipped answers on the final exam.
Dirkson sighed. “Now, Miss Garvin, let’s try this one more time. What were you doing at that apartment building?”
Tracy said nothing.
“There’s no reason to keep you here,” Dirkson said. “If you would just tell us what you were doing, I’m sure you could go home.”
“I have nothing to say. I want to call my lawyer.”
“We called your lawyer. He’s not home.” A fact for which Dirkson was grateful.
Tracy set her jaw again.
“You must understand, Miss Garvin,” Dirkson said. “I don’t think you had anything to do with this murder. I think the whole idea’s absurd. But you must see, your refusal to answer questions and demanding to see a lawyer is suspicious. It’s more suspicious than your going to that building. So you’re really only making trouble for yourself.
“Now then,” Dirkson said, with a glance at the stenographer, “I would certainly not want to violate your constitutional rights, and I would be the first person to suggest that you are entitled to a lawyer should you want one. But as a reasonable man, I have to ask myself, why in the world would a decent young woman such as yourself want a lawyer?”
The door opened. Dirkson frowned. The sergeant who had been standing guard in the outer office came in.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said to Dirkson. “But there’s a man here says you sent for him.”
“What?” Dirkson said.
“Yes, sir. He says he’s a witness and you called him in. He says you want to question him and-Hey!”
Steve Winslow stepped in front of the sergeant, took in the scene at a glance, and said, “Hello, Dirkson.”
Tracy Garvin gasped and relief flooded over her features like a drowning person who’s just been thrown a lifeline. Sergeant Stams’s jaw dropped open, and his face darkened, murderously.
Only Dirkson kept his cool. Dozens of thoughts flashed through his head-my god, he hasn’t changed a bit; he’s still a clown; same hair, same clothes who the hell would dress that way? how the hell’d he find us?; who’s this damn sergeant, and how stupid can he be, and who the hell assigned him, anyway? some heads are going to roll for this-but his face reflected none of them. Instead he matched Steve’s smile and said, calmly, “Mr. Winslow. And how did you get in here?”
Steve smiled. “Being a private citizen, I just walked in. You, I believe, had to be elected.”
The sergeant, fearful he was in deep shit, said, “He’s not a witness? He said you sent for him, and-”
“I’m sure he did,” Dirkson said. “Don’t worry about it. But if you would just go see that no one else gets in here.”
“There’s another man out there,” the sergeant said.
Dirkson looked at Steve. “Oh? You brought reinforcements? And who might he be?”
“Mark Taylor.”
“Of the Taylor Detective Agency?”
“That’s right.”
Dirkson exchanged a glance with Stams. “Well, that’s mighty interesting.” Dirkson turned to the sergeant. “Tell the gentleman to stick around.”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant gave Steve Winslow an aggrieved look, and went out, closing the door.
Dirkson turned back to Steve. “Well, Mr. Winslow. I wasn’t expecting you, but I’m sort of glad you’re here. We have a little situation here.”
“And what is that?”
“This young woman,” Dirkson said, indicating Tracy Garvin, “was apprehended attempting to enter the scene of a crime. We’ve been trying to question her about it, but she’s being most uncooperative. At first she tried to give the cops some song and dance about visiting some friend in the building. When she saw they weren’t buying it, she clammed. I haven’t been able to get a word out of her.”
“That’s not true,” Tracy said. “All I said was I wouldn’t answer any questions except in the presence of my attorney.”
Steve Winslow grinned. “And did you tell them I was your attorney?”
“Of course.”
Steve’s grin grew broader. He looked at Dirkson. “I see. And the minute she told you that, you and Stams figured you’d hit the jackpot, and instead of letting her contact me, you’ve been grilling her ever since.”
Dirkson stole a look at the stenographer. “Not at all. We let her call you right away. You weren’t there.”
Steve grinned. “I’m sure that broke your heart.”
“And I don’t see why this young woman needs a lawyer to begin with. She’s not a suspect, she’s a witness.”
“A witness? Witness to what?”
“I don’t know. She won’t talk.”
Steve laughed. “You’re really going about this ass-backwards, aren’t you?”
“Not at all. But your being here simplifies things. She says she won’t talk except in the presence of her attorney. All right, young lady, now your attorney’s here. You can talk. Unless, of course, you’re going to advise her not to answer questions.”
Steve Winslow shook his head. “I’m not going to do that.”
Dirkson smiled. “Well, that’s a refreshing change. All right, Miss Garvin, your attorney’s here and he’s not advising you not to answer questions. So let’s have it. What were you doing in that apartment house?”
“The reason I’m not advising her not to answer questions,” Steve put in, “is because she’s not my client. Miss Garvin happens to be my confidential secretary, and as such, all matters regarding my clients are considered to be confidential communications, and she is under no obligation to discuss them.”
Dirkson blinked. “This woman is your secretary?”
“That’s what I just said.”
Dirkson turned to Tracy. “Why didn’t you tell me you were his secretary?”
“You didn’t ask.”
“Yes, but-”
“Come on, Dirkson,” Steve said. “I’d drop it if I were you. She told you she wanted to consult me before answering your questions. She couldn’t reach me, and you kept questioning her, so she kept quiet. Now you’re crabbing because she didn’t tell you something?”
Dirkson took a breath and blew it out again. “All right, Winslow. I’ll ask the questions of you.”
“I may not be of much help either.”