“I went to see him. Last night, at his apartment. Just between you and me, the man is a royal pain in the ass. But that doesn’t concern you. As far as you’re concerned, I’m your client You leave Maxwell Baxter to me.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Taylor said. He didn’t seem terribly convinced, but he let it drop.
“So what have you got?” Winslow asked.
“Well, if you’re representing the girl, nothing good. Of course, we got nothing on the dead man yet, ’cause they just made the I.D. Which leaves us with the physical evidence.”
Taylor reached for a yellow legal pad on his desk. It was covered with what appeared to be indecipherable scrawl marks. Taylor proceeded to decipher them.
“Autopsy report. According to the medical examiner, the guy died between twelve-thirty and one-thirty. That is not good because…” Taylor ran his finger down the page, located another scrawl. “… the police located the cab driver who drove her back to her apartment. The guy picked her up on Madison Avenue and Fifty-eighth Street at a little after one o’clock and dropped her off in front of her apartment at around one-twenty. So even if she happens to have an alibi from twelve-thirty on-which no one can confirm she has, by the way-it’s still no good, ’cause she could have got home at one-twenty, found the guy in her apartment, killed him and then called the police.”
Steve frowned and digested the information.
“The saving grace,” Taylor went on, “is that the cab driver’s recollection is hazy, at best. He doesn’t give receipts. He doesn’t write down the exact times on his trip sheets. So you can probably make mincemeat of him on the witness stand.”
“For all the good that would do,” Steve said. “What about the identification?”
“There you’re in trouble,” Taylor conceded. ‘The identification will probably stick. The way I get it, the cabbie’s a young guy, fancies himself something an ass-man. I understand this Sheila Benton is something of a dish. I don’t think there’s a chance in hell you’re going to make a jury believe this guy didn’t take a real good look at her.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway. The police are going to have no problem proving she was in the apartment.”
“Her alibi’s no good?”
“I didn’t say that. What else you got?”
“Fingerprints. The girl’s fingerprints are on the murder weapon.”
“Figures. It was her knife. Naturally her prints would be on it.”
“Try telling that to a jury.”
“I will. What else?”
“Well, as you said, it was her knife. Came from a rack on her kitchen wall. There were three other knives in the rack. Different sizes. Same make. Not much question that it was her knife.”
“I could raise the point.”
“Sure,” Taylor said flatly.
“What else?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“You mean that’s all you got?”
Mark Taylor stared at him. “What the hell do you want? I just got on the job today. The police identified the body about a half hour ago. Must have rousted some poor cleaner out of his bed and shook him down for his records. As soon as I get the name, I’ll start working on it, but, for your information it’s three in the morning and there’s not going to be that much I can do.”
“What about the girl?”
“What about her?”
“What have you got on her?”
Taylor stared at him. “Shit, Steve, you didn’t say anything about the girl. You said find out everything I could about the dead man. And why the hell would you want to hire me to investigate your own client?”
Steve smiled and shook his head. “You’d know if you met her.”
The phone rang. Taylor scooped it up.
“Taylor… Yeah… Great. Thanks.”
He hung up. “Okay. We got it The name is Robert Greely.”
“Mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing. I'll go to work on it.”
Taylor snatched up the phone again and started to dial.
“Another phone I can use?” Steve asked.
Taylor pointed to a desk in the corner. Steve went over, pulled out his address book, picked up the phone and dialed.
The phone rang six times before the groggy voice of Sheila Benton said, “Hello?”
“Hi, Sheila. Steve Winslow.”
“What?”
“It's Steve Winslow. You know. Your lawyer.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“No. Steve Winslow. The cops identified the dead man. Just thought you'd like to know.”
“What? What's that? They identified him?”
“That's right. The name is Robert Greely. That mean anything to you?”
“No. Who did you say?”
“Robert Greely. You sure you never heard of him?”
“Sure I'm sure. What the hell time is it, anyway?”
“Three o'clock.”
“Jesus Christ. Couldn't you have waited till morning?”
“If you're lying to me about knowing Greely it won't make any difference.”
“Why?”
“’Cause you'll be arrested within the next hour.” Steve hung up the phone.
18
Sheila Benton came down the stairs and checked her mailbox. As expected, the mail had not come yet. Damn, she thought. She really could have used a hit of coke, what with how things were, what with how much sleep she'd gotten.
At least Johnny would be back. God, she needed him. He'd been so strong and understanding on the phone last night, when he'd called her. And so sorry about the mix-up about the hotel. Though that wasn't really like him, to make a mistake like that. He was usually so precise about everything, which was surprising, considering how much he liked to kid around. Well, it just showed he was human. Told the wrong hotel to her and to his secretary. Because he'd stayed there before, and he'd confused the names. Could have happened to anyone. And he was a real brick on the phone. Not to worry about anything. He'd be there and he'd take care of it.
Sheila couldn't wait to see him.
She came out the front door, started for the car and stopped.
Steve Winslow was coming up the street. He was wearing the same clothes he'd worn the day before. He'd shaved, but his hair was poorly combed, his eyes were bloodshot and his jacket looked as if he'd slept in it.
He raised a hand in greeting. “Good morning, Miss Benton.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I was in the neighborhood, I just thought I’d drop by.”
“You look like hell.”
“I don’t feel so hot either. It happens that I’ve been working while you’ve been getting your beauty sleep.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. This guy Greely. The guy you don’t know. The dead guy. Well, it happens the police don’t know him
