Caper (17 page)

“I think that's true.”

“You're qualifying your answer? Is that because you're not sure he hired some other attorney, or you think the guy might possibly be good.”

“Richard—”

“I thought I made myself clear. When they arrest
you
for a homicide. Not every moron who comes down the pike. He's got an attorney. I can't act in his behalf. It wouldn't be ethical. I don't care what the situation is. I can't do a damn thing for him.”

“I don't expect you to do anything, Richard. I just needed a legal opinion. If you want to suggest someone who'd know better …”

“Oh, very clever. Play to my vanity. Is that what you're doing?”

“No, Richard. I just need some advice.”

“Why? You weren't arrested. You're free and clear.”

“True, but if I'm not careful I might be, and then I'd have to bother you, and it'd be more than just a phone call. It would be coming down to the police station and getting me out of the hoosegow, and maybe going to trial.”

I shouldn't have said that. Richard likes to go to trial. But it was all right. A hypothetical courtroom battle couldn't outweigh hours of drudgery, sifting through layers of legal bullshit. “What's your damn question?”

“What can the police arrest him on?”

“They arrested him at the service?”

“They hauled him out in handcuffs. Basically just for being there.”

“Was there a restraining order?”

“I bet there will be now.”

“But there wasn't then?”

“Not that I know of.”

“How can I answer the question if I don't know the facts?”

“All right, there wasn't.”

“How do you know?”

“Because no one would have thought of it.”

“That's not legally binding.”

“No, but you can take it to the bank. Hell, I bet no one expected the guy to make bail.”

“That's thin, Stanley.”

“Why are you arguing a technicality?”

“That's what lawyers do.”

“Fine. Take the hypothesis there was no restraining order in place. The guy was out on bail. What law was he breaking by going to the memorial service?”

“That would depend.”

“On what?”

“On what he did there.”

“He didn't do a damn thing. He got in line to see the widow. The minute he got close enough for her to recognize him, she started screaming.”

“Did he make a move toward her?”

“He took a step back. At which point he was wrestled to the ground by a good samaritan.”

“Define good samaritan.”

“Jock-type friend of the family with more brawn than brains. Cops came, arrested the defendant for provoking an altercation.”

“Oh. So you
do
know what he was arrested for.”

“No, I don't. That was a surmise on my part. Just a generalization.”

“Do you expect me to offer legal advice based on surmises and generalizations?”

“Come on, Richard, I need some help. I can't talk to MacAullif.”

“And your wife's too smart for you.”

“Exactly.”

“I was kidding.”

“Then you don't know my wife. Come on, help me out.”

“With what? Much as I hate to admit it, you seem to have a fairly good grasp of the situation. From what you tell me, the guy was within his legal rights, was arrested on no provocation whatsoever, and may have a case of false arrest. I would be stunned if his attorney doesn't file one. But it's got nothing to do with me. And it's got nothing to do with you. I'm still not sure what you're asking.”

“Okay, say this guy was your client.”

“Yeah?”

“How would you go about getting him off?”

“And there it is! Backed into a corner, you finally ask the question you've been avoiding the whole time. You want a defense strategy.”

“It's not that I
want
one.”

“No, of course not. You just want to know that one exists. So you won't feel like you dorked the poor son of a bitch.”

“It's worse than that, Richard.”

“Really? How can it be worse than that?”

“I want to do something.”

“Of course you want to do something. It's the least logical course of action for anyone with any sense of self-preservation. Naturally, that's where you'd want to go.”

“All right. Let's suppose I was
not
a totally self-destructive flaming asshole. What can I do that doesn't utterly jeopardize my life, liberty, and pursuit of new clients for the law firm of Rosenberg and Stone?”

“Well put. You been saving that up? Because you rattled it off like you had it memorized.”

“That doesn't make it any less true. Look, I got a situation here where I can't approach the parties in the case without fear of exposure of having been at the scene of the crime. The only one I met in person is the ADA in charge, and I did such a good job of convincing him to give me a wide berth that I can't really go back. So, say you were defense attorney in this case. Aside from slapping a subpoena on me, what would you do?”

“I would get a cash retainer.”

“Richard.”

“Guys like this, you do a lot of work and the check bounces.”

“Anytime you're through having fun.”

“All right. Never mind what an attorney would do. Let's talk about what you could do.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's a ticklish situation. Why don't you go over your relationship with the principals in this case, and let me know which ones of them you can actually approach.”

“So you can advise me?”

“No, I just think it will be amusing.” When I said nothing, he added, “Yes, of course, so I can advise you. The fact it's amusing is just an added perk. Okay, let me have a whack at it. You can't see the defendant because he might recognize you as the guy he saw leaving the building. That goes double for the doorman, who thinks you're an amorous flower delivery boy. Plus another doorman who wouldn't let you look at the surveillance video when the congressman drove the girl into the garage.”

“Actually, that would be okay, since I told the ADA about it.”

“That was the ADA who you
can
see, unless he gets the bright idea of putting you in a lineup for some of his witnesses.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I have no idea. But if you keep nosing around in this case the way you're threatening to, it would seem entirely likely. Then you got the girl herself. Whom you accosted on the street and later drugged and abducted. That would seem like a no to me. How does it seem to you?”

“You're not helping, Richard.”

“The girl's parents are probably also nonstarters. How about the jock who tackled the guy at the memorial service? You ever meet him?”

“No, I didn't.”

“How about his wife?”

“Her either.”

“They've never seen you in the course of this case?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“So, you'd be safe contacting them.”

“Ahh …”

“Ahh?” Richard groaned. “What have you done this time?”

“I haven't done anything. It's just you say would I be safe contacting them. Probably. I never met either one of them. Only thing is, their daughter's friends with the other girl. I've seen the two of them together. I don't think she saw me.”

“Why not?”

“I was conducting clandestine surveillance.”

“Oh, God! We can assume she has your name, address, phone number, and your picture on Facebook. Fine. For safety's sake, say you can contact them without the girl. That would seem a logical course of action.”

“Why?”

“Why? Good Lord. You want advice, or you want me to think for you? Macho Man tackled the defendant. Either he's a dumb jock who just likes violence, or he had a reason. What reason might a brawny young man have for impressing a recently widowed woman?”

“You think he was hitting on the congressman's wife?”

“Wanted to hit. Was hitting. Had hit. Say he was her lover and he knocked hubby off. Isn't that a typical film noir plot? Say he did, and then the dingbat construction worker stumbles on the body and gets arrested for the crime, and lover boy's delighted to see a scapegoat take the rap. Only at the service, rude surprise, here's the guy, free as air, showing up to protest his innocence. Macho Man snaps, and attacks him in a furious rage.”

“You think that happened?”

“How the fuck should I know? Jesus, you want a lot for your money. Considering you're not paying any. You wanted someone you could approach and something you could investigate. There you are.”

“I suppose.”

“You don't sound happy.”

“Hell, Richard. The guy's rather peripheral.”

“Peripheral? Good Lord. Only a total asshole would ask for free advice and then complain that it's peripheral. Okay, you want something a little less peripheral? Would that satisfy you?”

“Like what?”

Richard cocked his head.

“Ever meet the widow?”

37

I'
M NOT BIG ON WIDOWS.
I
DON
'
T KNOW THE RIGHT THING
to say. I don't know the right thing to do. I know I shouldn't look at their breasts, but beyond that …

I'm not talking memorial service, of course. I know the protocol there. You take their hand, mumble something unintelligible, and move on.

But afterward, once a young woman is launched out into the world with a big W on her forehead, what then? Do you compliment her clothes, her hair? I suppose it depends on what she's wearing. If she isn't wearing all black, is she fair game? I don't mean to make advances, I mean to talk to like a normal person.

Approaching attractive women of Alice's age—and here we must tread lightly, for anything I say I am in deep shit. In fact, I am in deep shit for merely mentioning Alice. But I am talking about a woman old enough to have a teenage son. A hot mom, if you will. And, therefore, a hot widow. Gee, good thing I reminded myself not to look at her breasts, I could have gotten lost in a whirlwind of sexist thought.

Aside from the protocol, there was the plausible lie. What the hell reason did I have for talking to this woman? I mulled it over and the best I could come up with was none. I had no reason whatsoever for bothering the woman. It occurred to me I needed Dortmunder and the rest of Donald Westlake's comic crooks to plot the thing for me.

I called Alice, asked her to Google Valerie Blake, widow of Congressman Blake. I didn't mention any idle speculation over the widow's age.

Alice looked it up while I held the phone. Valerie was a graphic designer for Farrel and Lynch, 675 Madison Avenue.

I had hung up before it occurred to me to ask Alice what Farrel and Lynch was. I considered calling back. The amount of abuse Alice would subject me to for forgetting to ask wasn't worth it.

I drove over to Madison Avenue, lucked into a parking meter, and went in. The office building had a doorman at a desk. In some of them you had to sign in, but not here.

“Farrel and Lynch,” I said.

He jerked his thumb. “Seventh floor.”

“What kind of firm are they?”

He looked surprised. “Good firm.”

Well, it was worth a shot. I got in the elevator, rode up to seven. The sign on the glass door read:
FARREL AND LYNCH, GRAPHIC DESIGN
. So, Valerie was not a graphic designer at an ad agency. She worked for an agency that specialized in graphic design.

The reception area was large for the number of people in it. There was a couch, a few chairs, none occupied. It had a stainless steel, glass, and leather look, or whatever synthetic material was fashionable for the leather look these days. It occurred to me I was rather ill prepared for this interview.

Behind a circular plexiglass desk, a woman with too much makeup was chewing gum and reading a fashion magazine. Granted, I'm a novice, but I'd have designed her differently. On the other hand, she was perfect for my purpose. I walked up, stood in front of the desk.

She finished the paragraph she was reading, looked up, and said, “Yes?”

I flashed her a smile. “Valerie Blake?”

Her face fell. Not a good poker player. “Is she expecting you?”

“I believe so.”

“What's your name?”

“Steve Harrison.” I read in some detective story when giving a phony name to use your initials so no one will notice you have a different monogram. The fact I have nothing monogrammed hasn't persuaded me to break the habit.

The receptionist consulted a ledger on her desk. “I can't find your appointment. Did you confirm it with her?”

“No. Actually, her husband is the one who set it up. He said she'd call if there was any problem, otherwise just come by.”

“Her husband.”

“Yes. I'm sure he told her about it. I guess she didn't tell you.”

The receptionist made a face, shook her head. “I don't think he did.”

“He wouldn't forget. He's very good at those things.”

“Mr. Harrison. Congressman Blake is dead.”

“What!”

“He was killed. A couple of days ago. In his apartment. Surely you must have seen. It was on all the news.”

“I've been out of town. Killed. Do you mean … by someone? You mean he was murdered?”

“Yes.”

“Do the police know who did it?”

“Some contractor. Someone he had dealings with.”

“When did this happen?”

“Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?”

“Tuesday afternoon. The police arrested the killer in his apartment.”

“Oh, my God. I just spoke to him that morning. About the appointment. No wonder he didn't tell her. Except he was going to call her on the phone.”

“I don't think so.”