Dirkson sighed. “All right,” he said. “Pick her up.”
20
John Dutton stood in the arrivals building at JFK Airport and looked around. Where the hell was Sheila? This wasn’t like her. She had his flight number. She knew his arrival time. So where the hell was she? Sheila was dependable. She’d be here come hell or high water.
Unless…
There was a newsstand at the far end of the terminal. Dutton walked over to it.
There was nothing on the front page of the Post or the Daily News. That seemed odd. Dutton didn’t know it, but Sheila had Marston, Marston, and Cramden to thank for that.
Dutton bought the Daily News. He stood in the terminal and riffled through it.
It was on page eight.
The body of a man had been discovered yesterday afternoon in an apartment on the Upper West Side. The man was identified as Robert Greely, fifty-two, of Brooklyn. The apartment was rented by a young woman identified as Sheila Benton.
Sheila Benton was described simply as an aspiring actress. There was no mention of any trust fund, no mention of any connection to Maxwell Baxter.
The police were investigating.
Dutton read the article twice. His mind was reeling. Yes, Sheila would be here to pick him up, unless…
Could the police have established a connection? Could they have tied this in to Sheila?
Could Sheila be under arrest?
As if in a daze, Dutton plodded mechanically down to the baggage claim. He was so distracted his suitcase went by him twice on the carousel before he recognized it and picked it up.
“John Dutton to the information desk, please,” came the voice over the loudspeaker. “John Dutton to the information desk, please.”
A chill ran down his spine. His first thought was, “Christ, the cops.” Then he realized that was just paranoia. Sheila was late, so she’d paged him.
But that wasn’t like Sheila, either. For all her kookiness, she was quite practical. If she were late, she’d go right to baggage claim.
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?”
