But she hadn’t done that.
Dutton hefted his suitcase, trudged toward the information desk.
He saw at once that Sheila wasn’t there. On the other hand, neither were the cops, not even anyone who looked like a plainclothes cop. He walked up to the desk.
“You paged John Dutton?” he asked.
A man stepped up to him. “John Dutton.”
Dutton turned, and his first thought was plainclothes cop. The thought was immediately dispelled. No cop would dress like that.
“Yes?”
“Steve Winslow,” said the man. “I’m Sheila Benton’s attorney.”
Dutton stared at him. Sheila had told him on the phone she’d hired an attorney, but really. This slovenly dressed young man with bloodshot eyes looked more like a Bowery bum than a lawyer.
“Sheila couldn’t make it,” Steve said. “So I came to pick you up. I’ve got your car. It’s in the short-term parking lot.”
Steve clapped him on the shoulder and guided him toward the door. Dutton walked along beside him as if in a daze.
“So,” Steve said. “You’ve been in Reno the past two days?”
“That’s right.”
“And you called Sheila last night?”
“Yes.”
“And she told you about the murder?”
“Of course.”
“What do you make of it?”
“I don’t know what to make of it. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Yes. Everyone seems to agree on that. What about the blackmail letter?”
“What about it?”
“Who could blackmail Sheila?”
“No one.”
“No one?”
“No one at all. Sheila’s not that type of girl.”
“What type of girl is she?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Whatever you take it to mean. What’s she like?”
“Don’t you know?”
“I know what I think. What do you think?”
“She’s a very straightforward girl. No one could blackmail Sheila. She’d laugh in their face.”
“Spoken like a gentleman.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it’s what I expected you to say.”
Dutton gave him a look. Dutton instinctively disliked Winslow, and would have even if Winslow’d been properly dressed. Winslow was the type of guy that irritated the hell out of him. Because Dutton saw himself as a winner. And even in that innocuous little conversation, Dutton was left with the feeling he’d lost the exchange.
For his part, Steve didn’t like Dutton much either. Dutton was too much of a pretty boy. And the thing was, Dutton knew it. He had that certain something in his manner that many pretty boys have, that attitude of I’m-god’s-gift-to-women-so-the-world-is-my-oyster. He was the type of guy men hated, and women loved. In Steve’s estimation, Sheila couldn’t have done much worse.
They reached the car. Steve unlocked the trunk, and Dutton put the suitcase in.
“I’ll drive,” Steve said, and climbed in.
Dutton didn’t like that either, didn’t like the way this guy was just taking charge. He stood there a few seconds, wondering if he should make an issue out of it. He decided to let it go, and climbed into the car.
Steve pulled out of the lot and got onto the Van Wyck.
Dutton was waiting for Winslow to ask him some more questions, but there weren’t any.
The silence became uncomfortable.
“So,” Dutton said.
“Yes?”
“About the murder.”
“Yeah?”
‘Tell me about it.”
“Oh, you’re interested in the murder?”
Dutton gave him a look. “Give me a break, will ya?”
“Okay. What do you want to know about it?”
“Who did it?”
“That’s the sixty-four dollar question, isn’t it? The police are going to say Sheila did.”
“That’s absurd. Sheila couldn’t kill anyone.”
“Oh, good,” Steve said dryly. “Why don’t you tell the police that so they can save themselves the trouble of arresting her?” Before Dutton could think of a comeback, Steve added, “By the way, do you have your ticket stub?”
Dutton, startled by this change of gears, said, “What?”
“Your plane ticket. Have you got the stub?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Is there anybody who can prove you were actually in Reno?”
“Why?’
“I want to cross you off the list. If the police get tough about it, can you prove you actually went to Reno?”
“Of course I can.”
“Who saw you there?”
“My wife.”
Steve’s head twisted around. “Your what? ”
“My wife,” Dutton said. “I went out there to see my wife’s attorney about the divorce papers, and-”
Dutton’s head snapped back and the car rocketed forward as Steve stamped the gas pedal to the floor.
21
“Why didnt you tell me he was married?”
Sheila Benton looked at Steve Winslow though the wire mesh in the visiting room at the lockup.
Steve had to admire her. In spite of her predicament, she wasn’t crying, and she wasn’t rolling over and dying either. Unhappy as she must be, scared as she must be, she was a fighter, and she was still scrapping.
“It was none of your business,” she said defiantly.
“It was all of my business,” he said. “It’s the last link the police need to convict you of murder. Greely was a blackmailer. You have a trust fund that you lose if your name is connected to any scandal. Being named a correspondent in a divorce case would just fill the bill.”
“I know that.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think of it.”
“Bullshit.”
“All right, damn it,” Sheila said. “I’m not stupid. What you just said-about losing my trust fund-you think I didn’t know that? About being named correspondent. I know. It’s the motive. It’s all the cops need.” Sheila shrugged helplessly. “I thought if the case looked too black, you wouldn’t take it.”
“I’m a lawyer,” Steve said. “It’s not my job to judge you. It’s my job to take the facts and present them to the jury in the best possible light. But I have to know what they are first.”
“Then you won’t quit on me?”
“Of course I won’t quit on you.”
“That’s good, because, well, there’s something else I have to tell you.”
“What is it?”
“I was lying about the window-shopping.”
“So, what else is new? What were you really doing?”
“Buying cocaine.”
Steve looked at her. “What?”
“I was buying cocaine.”
He just stared at her for a moment. Then he began laughing. He shook his head and laughed, mirthlessly.
Sheila, who had been working herself up to this particular confession, and who had thought she had girded her defenses against any sort of reaction, was totally unprepared for this. She stared at him in irritation.
“What’s so damn funny?” she said.
Steve waved apologetically, but continued to laugh. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just my luck, somehow. I mean, how bad can things get? Now I’ve got a cokehead for a client in a hopeless murder case. You’ve made my day.”
“What do you mean, hopeless murder case?”
“Well, I said if the cops found any grounds for blackmail you’d be sunk. Wait’ll they find out about the coke.”
“They won’t.”
“Don’t count on it.”
“So, what if they do? They already have a motive for blackmail. What difference does it make if they have two.”
“Wake up,” Steve said. “I don’t know if you’re aware of it or not, but there’s been a tremendous backlash against drugs lately, and particularly against cocaine, what with crack and all. Not only will this give the prosecution a motive for blackmail, it’ll turn the whole jury against you.”
“So?”
“So that changes our whole strategy. Before, we could stall around, buy some time, get a few postponements and continuances. Now I gotta rush this thing to trial before anyone figures out you’re a junkie.”
“I’m not a junkie!”
“Sorry. Cokehead.”