Caper (18 page)

“Why not?”

“She was out that morning. Most of the time. Didn't get back until after lunch.”

“Are you sure?”

“The police asked. I don't know why. They had the suspect in custody. Valerie was back shortly after lunch. Had an appointment with a client. Right here in the book. I wrote it down, and I checked it off. She had appointments all afternoon. Right up until the police called.”

“That satisfied the police?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“So her one o'clock appointment wasn't with anyone suspicious.”

“Suspicious? Huh-uh. Advertising firm. Long-standing client. So, you want me to ring her?” the receptionist said. Her manner clearly implied she hoped I didn't.

There I was at the crossroads, needing a quick decision. A poor position for one who wrestles with things in his mind. What could I learn from seeing Valerie I hadn't learned from the receptionist? All I was apt to do was blow my cover. Which seemed entirely likely, considering my knowledge of advertising graphics and my fictional relationship with her husband.

I had just talked myself into skipping the meeting when the widow herself walked out. She'd shed her morning garb, and looked good in a tan business suit. Not a pantsuit, but a tan jacket and skirt, the latter just a tad on the short side, not indiscreetly so, but enough to warrant attention.

“Oh, Ms. Blake,” the receptionist blurted. “This gentleman's here to see you.”

She frowned. “Really? Who are you?”

I couldn't remember my name. At least I couldn't remember the one I'd given the receptionist. Talk about blowing your cover! That had to win a prize. Who the fuck was I?

Just in the nick of time, I remembered the monogram.

“Steve Harrison. I'm so sorry about your husband. I had no idea. If I'd known, I certainly wouldn't have come.”

“Thank you.” She frowned, realizing nothing I'd said had answered the question. “And why are you here?”

“I'm so sorry. This is a horrible misunderstanding. Jason was going to tell you. Of course, he didn't. He suggested I see you.”

“Yes, I see.” She clearly didn't. She looked around helplessly, as if slightly overwhelmed and not sure what to do with me. “Would you mind stepping into my office for a moment. I don't have time for this meeting, but let's straighten things out.”

“I could come back later.”

“No, no. I need to tie up loose ends. Please. Just for a minute.”

“All right.”

I followed her down the hall into a small but well-lit office where a drafting table was titled up to show the layout for what appeared to be a whiskey ad. Logos and text were missing.

She saw me looking, said with exasperation, “Yes. It's due tomorrow. I'm way behind. I know they'll make allowances, but I don't
want
people making allowances, you know what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“So, what do you want?”

I gestured to the drawing board. “This. I need a layout for an ad.”

She nodded. “What venue?”

Gulp. Venue? The first thing that came to mind was, “Venue wish upon a star,” which couldn't be right.

I covered by clearing my throat. “Magazines.”

That seemed to satisfy her. “What's the product?”

“Perfume.”

“Perfume?”

“For men.”

She frowned. “Perfume for men?”

“For gay men.”

I wondered if that would red-flag it as bogus. Apparently not. She just nodded and said, “Stated or implied?”

“Huh?”

“Anything in the ad say gay?”

“We don't use the word.”

“Of course not. I mean pronouns, like
he
or
him
. ‘Will he like you in it?' ‘Wear it for him.' If it's a man's perfume, the pronoun says gay. Hell, I don't have to tell you this, right?”

“Right.”

“So what's the slogan?”

“Slogan?”

“Oh, come on. You want me to write the ad or design it?”

I put up my hand. “Sorry. I'm shaken by the circumstances. The slogan is, ‘You look good, why not smell good?'”

She winced. “I don't know. That's so bad it might be good. You know, like Oder Eaters. How soon you need this?”

“There's no rush. It isn't on the market yet.” I took a breath. I'd gotten this far, and I was on shaky ground bluffing ad copy. Might as well dive in. “Look, I can't believe Jason is dead. What happened?”

“Didn't Jeanie tell you?”

“Jeanie?”

“The receptionist.”

“She said someone killed him. I can't believe it.”

“I know. But he was a politician. They make enemies.”

“What do the police say?”

“They caught the guy who did it.”

“So the investigation's over.”

“His lawyer made a fuss and they let him go.”

“They let him go? Then they must have doubt.”

“I don't think so.”

“Well, did they hassle you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything.”

She looked at me sharply. “Don't do that. I can't stand that. Start to say something, and then decide you better not. What did you mean?”

“Nothing. It's just when the police have to let a suspect go, they start looking for someone else.”

“How do you know that?”

“Books and TV. I just wondered if they bothered you. It would be cruel, but that's how they are. Did they ask where you were at the time of the murder?”

“No. Of course not. Why would they do that?”

“No reason,” I said.

But there was. And they
had
asked, according to the receptionist. And the widow had denied it. Rather vehemently, in my opinion.

I backed my way out of the office, promising to leave my name with the receptionist, and thanked my lucky stars I'd managed to get through the meeting. Gay perfume as a cover story? What would an analyst do with that? Maybe I should market it. ‘You look good, why not smell good?' Just because I didn't have a product didn't mean I couldn't whip up a little interest. Hell, I could probably make a bunch of internet sales before anyone noticed.

I gave the receptionist a phone number that would have been unlikely to reach Steve Harrison even had he existed, and got the hell out of there, having successfully pulled off a broad-daylight, pre-frontal assault on the congressman's widow. She hadn't told me anything, but from the firm's receptionist I'd gleaned what I needed to know. Valerie Blake had gone out for a meeting, stayed out until after lunch. Perfectly innocent on the one hand, and yet it afforded her all the time needed to conspire with a killer to do hubby in.

Only trouble was, she hadn't gone into the building. At least, according to the doorman and the porter on the desk during lunch. Still, there was wiggle room. A person plotting a death would take pains not to be seen. I just had to figure out how it could be done.

I rode down in the elevator feeling pleased with myself. I nodded at the doorman at the desk who'd assured me Farrel and Lynch was a good firm.

I went out the door and nearly stopped dead.

Granted, lobby meetings mean nothing. Hey, it's an office building. People pass in the lobby, no big deal. Still, I was supersensitive having passed Leslie Hanson in the lobby of the congressman's apartment building, just before the dumb schmuck got nabbed for a killing I knew he didn't do. A killing I knew for certain happened earlier than his arrival, perhaps even as early as before Mrs. Congressman got back from lunch.

So, while the presence of two people in the lobby of an office building by no means implied they were going to see the same person, or even the same office, or even the same floor, still it was enough to register a huge blip on my oh-my-God-what-thefuck's-going-on meter.

The man coming into the office building where the congressman's widow worked was Macho Man, the superjock, who only yesterday, at Congressman Blake's memorial service, had executed a beautiful flying tackle to bring the congressman's alleged killer down.

38

R
ICHARD RAISED AN EYEBROW WHEN
I
POKED MY HEAD IN
the door. “Yes.”

“I got some more information.”

“About the congressman killing?”

“That's right.”

“Have the police charged you with it?”

“You know they haven't.”

“I don't know any such thing. You're perfectly capable of talking yourself into a murder rap.”

“Well, I didn't.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Come on, Richard. Aren't you interested? You're the one who said to talk to her in the first place.”

“You talked to the congressman's wife?”

“Yes.”

“On what pretext?”

“I was afraid you'd ask me that.”

“Your fears are justified. What did you tell her?”

I gave Richard a rundown of my gay perfume campaign. I can't say he seemed interested in investing.

“You fed her that line of crap and she didn't see through you in an instant?”

“It's a hard time for her. Her husband just got killed.”

“And what did you learn from this clever subterfuge?”

“The day hubby was killed the widow was out of the office until after lunch. The police asked her about it. She denies it.”

“She denies she was out until after lunch?”

“No. She denies the police asked her about it. Now, why would she tell me that?”

“More to the point, why would she tell you anything? Here's a moderately intelligent young businesswoman spilling her guts to the first moron through the door.”

“Yeah, but she had a reason.”

“What?”

“She was rattled, and she wanted to get me out of there.”

“Why?”

“Aha!” I said.

I told him about Macho Man.

He wasn't impressed. “The father of her son's classmate came into her office building? What a revelation! Better start fitting him for the handcuffs.”

“This is the man who attacked the man who killed her husband. More to the point, this is the man who attacked the man
accused
of killing her husband, who probably didn't do it. Which opens up a whole bunch of possibilities.”

“Are any of them going to make me money? Stanley, I got cases to file, summonses to serve. Or, rather, to have you serve. I don't have time for your theories.”

“But you sent me to her.”

“To get you out of my office. Not to have you come right back.”

“I just thought you'd be interested.”

“You thought wrong. This is all very nice, but none of it adds up to squat. You have the thinnest plot threads imaginable. You are weaving them together with wishes.” Richard paused. “Hmm. I may try that on a jury. Anyway, I can't see how anything you accomplished merits a trip to my office. From where I sit, it adds up to one thing. You've made no progress, and you're hoping for help. Well, guess what? I'm fresh out. I gave you the widow. If that's a good lead, something will come of it. If it's a bad lead, you'll work that out. But some leads don't pan out, and some cases don't get solved. That's life. But it's not your fault, and it's certainly not mine.”

The phone rang. Richard snatched it up, said, “Uh-huh … Uh-huh … Okay, okay, give me a minute, I'll be right out.” He hung up. “Sorry to cut this short, but I have a client.”

“That's okay. I think I got the gist.”

I started for the door.

“Stanley.”

“Yes?”

“If you wouldn't mind, go out the side door. I don't want you bumping into my client in case you meet up in court. Could be awkward at the voir dire. ‘Have you and the other parties ever met?' You know how it is.”

“Yeah, right. You're just embarrassed by me.”

As I went out the side door it occurred to me to wonder why
would
he care if I met a client? Was he embarrassed by me? What was that all about? As Alice and/or a good therapist would point out, when things aren't going well paranoia sets in.

On the other hand, paranoid people have enemies.

I was in the back hallway by the service elevator. I slipped down the corridor, pushed open the door to the front hall. At the far end was the glass door reading
ROSENBERG AND STONE
. Through it I could see the switchboard, manned by Janet of Wendy/Janet fame. I tiptoed down the hall, peered through the door. The waiting room was empty. Either Richard was lying about his client, or he'd shown him in the minute I was gone. I considered asking Wendy. But that was a double-edged sword. She'd rat me out to Richard on the one hand, give me bad information on the other. If I wanted to know, I'd have to wait.

I waited, and I don't know why. There was just something in his voice. The way he handled the phone call. He hadn't said “Tell him to wait.” He hadn't said, “Ask him to sit down.” In fact, he hadn't referred to a client at all. Only to me, and only after he'd hung up the phone. So what kind of a fast one was he trying to pull? Assuming he was trying to pull anything at all. And I wasn't just weaving wishes, or whatever the hell it was he expected to dazzle juries with.

I only had to wait ten minutes, and there was Richard, appearing at the front door, pulling it open, holding it for the client. Which made it one hell of a client. Richard doesn't hold doors for anyone. He points his finger as people open doors for him. So, who was this client too important for me to meet, and important enough for Richard to hold the door?

The client stepped out, and I ducked back behind the bend of the hallway.

The client wasn't a client. No surprise there. Richard's clients barely rated the time of day, and when they got it, it came from Wendy/Janet. Few clients ever met Richard. Those who did met him in court, where the sum total of his advice was to keep quiet and let him do the talking. So his claim that a client had come to his office was a dead giveaway. I quite expected him to walk out with Mayor Bloomberg, or suchlike.