yeah, after three months of leisure he could have stood a case of some kind.
But not this.
Not two homicides, the cops on his case, and him not knowing who the fuck his client was.
No, not this.
Mark Taylor came back and sat down.
“Well?”
Taylor shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing,” he said. “Everything at the station is very hush-hush. Dirkson is closeted with someone, apparently either a witness or a suspect, but no one on the force seems to know who it is.”
“Well, the officers who made the arrest know,” Steve said impatiently.
“Sure, and Sergeant Stams knows too. But the officers who made the arrest are nowhere to be found. In fact, no one seems to know who the arresting officers are. Of course, Sergeant Stams is taking the credit. Stams is very much in evidence, and about as helpful as you would expect. He’s willing to pose for pictures, and he modestly admits that it was his investigative brilliance that cracked the case, but that’s about it.” Taylor sighed. “So I guess I’m stuck here for a while. You gonna finish that steak?”
“No.”
“Then pass it over. If I gotta sit here, I might as well eat.”
Steve shoved his plate toward the center of the table, and Taylor speared the piece of meat.
“So, what about Tracy?” Steve asked.
Taylor shook his head. “I struck out there too.”
Steve’s head snapped up. “What?”
Taylor shrugged. “No answer. I let it ring ten times, just in case she was asleep.”
“Oh shit!” Steve jumped to his feet. He whipped out his wallet, flung money on the table. “Let’s go!”
“What?” Mark Taylor said, but Steve was already halfway to the door. Taylor lurched his 220 pounds into gear and followed.
By the time Taylor caught up, Steve was out in the street trying to hail a cab.
“Steve! What the hell’s going on?”
“It’s Tracy, damn it! Where the hell’s a fucking cab?”
“What?”
“Stams set a trap. No wonder he’s so happy. He must figure I sent her back to get the evidence I ditched.”
“What evidence? What are you talking about?”
“Tracy said she’d be waiting for your call.”
“So? Maybe she had a date.”
“Not that girl. She wouldn’t have missed your call for the world.
No, she heard it on the radio and went out there. Damn it, where the hell’s a cab?”
“Steve. What the hell are you talking about?”
“There’s one. Taxi!” Steve turned back to Taylor as the cab swerved in to the curb. “Don’t you get it? Shit, Mark. She’s the mystery witness!”
16
District Attorney Harry Dirkson shifted his bulk in his chair, ran his hand over his bald head, and frowned. Jesus Christ, what a fucking mess. First Phillip Harding getting murdered, and now Marilyn Harding mixed up in the murder of a blackmailer. The media always loved to see rich and powerful people in trouble, but not Dirkson. Rich and powerful people had connections. They could stir things up, make waves, put pressure on you. And you always had to step lightly. If you let someone big off the hook, the press and the public would scream bloody murder. And if you went after them, and they were big enough, there was no telling who you might offend.
Still, Phillip Harding was dead, and Marilyn was just a kid, too young to have any significant political connections. So the situation shouldn’t have been that bad. Except for one thing. Steve Winslow.
Steve Winslow. The name haunted Dirkson like a death knell. Steve Winslow. Dirkson had had only one case against Steve Winslow, but that had been enough. Steve Winslow was young and inexperienced, probably didn’t even know that much law, but Jesus Christ. The man was a clown, that was the problem. An actor, a showman, a jury-grandstander. After the things Winslow had done in court, Dirkson had been lucky to escape with his political career. And here he was, popping up again to taunt him. Steve Winslow discovered in the dead man’s apartment. Steve Winslow interviewing Marilyn Harding at her mansion.
And now this. Now this young woman sitting before him. The young woman who had been apprehended attempting to enter the dead man’s building. The young woman who’d told a few unconvincing lies to the police and then clammed, refusing to talk and demanding to call her attorney. And who was that attorney?
Steve Winslow.
Dirkson glanced over at Sergeant Stams, stolid and impassive as ever. Then at the stenographer, waiting, pen poised, for something to take down. And finally at the young woman, the girl, really, who might well be a college student for all he knew, sitting there in blue jeans, sweater, and glasses, her jaw set in an angry pout as if she’d just been called into the Dean’s office and was refusing to name the names of the students to whom she’d slipped answers on the final exam.
Dirkson sighed. “Now, Miss Garvin, let’s try this one more time. What were you doing at that apartment building?”
Tracy said nothing.
“There’s no reason to keep you here,” Dirkson said. “If you would just tell us what you were doing, I’m sure you could go home.”
“I have nothing to say. I want to call my lawyer.”
“We called your lawyer. He’s not home.” A fact for which Dirkson was grateful.
Tracy set her jaw again.
“You must understand, Miss Garvin,” Dirkson said. “I don’t think you had anything to do with this murder. I think the whole idea’s absurd. But you must see, your refusal to answer questions and demanding to see a lawyer is suspicious. It’s more suspicious than your going to that building. So you’re really only making trouble for yourself.
“Now then,” Dirkson said, with a glance at the stenographer, “I would certainly not want to violate your constitutional rights, and I would be the first person to suggest that you are entitled to a lawyer should you want one. But as a reasonable man, I have to ask myself, why in the world would a decent young woman such as yourself want a lawyer?”
The door opened. Dirkson frowned. The sergeant who had been standing guard in the outer office came in.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said to Dirkson. “But there’s a man here says you sent for him.”
“What?” Dirkson said.
“Yes, sir. He says he’s a witness and you called him in. He says you want to question him and-Hey!”
Steve Winslow stepped in front of the sergeant, took in the scene at a glance, and said, “Hello, Dirkson.”
Tracy Garvin gasped and relief flooded over her features like a drowning person who’s just been thrown a lifeline. Sergeant Stams’s jaw dropped open, and his face darkened, murderously.
Only Dirkson kept his cool. Dozens of thoughts flashed through his head-my god, he hasn’t changed a bit; he’s still a clown; same hair, same clothes who the hell would dress that way? how the hell’d he find us?; who’s this damn sergeant, and how stupid can he be, and who the hell assigned him, anyway? some heads are going to roll for this-but his face reflected none of them. Instead he matched Steve’s smile and said, calmly, “Mr. Winslow. And how did you get in here?”
Steve smiled. “Being a private citizen, I just walked in. You, I believe, had to be elected.”
The sergeant, fearful he was in deep shit, said, “He’s not a witness? He said you sent for him, and-”
