“Why not?”
“I’m Sheila Benton’s attorney. I handle her affairs. I can’t take any other case unless I’m sure there won’t be a conflict of interest.”
“Why would there be?”
“I have no idea. But until I know for sure, I can’t accept this retainer.”
Tracy couldn’t believe it. Or didn’t want to believe it. “But that’s ridiculous,” she said. “There isn’t the slightest chance in the world this has anything to do with Sheila Benton. It would be an incredible coincidence.”
“Even if that were true, I couldn’t discount the possibility. But it’s not.”
“Why not?’
“Think about it,” Steve said. “I have no law practice what-so-ever. No one knows about me. The only people who know I’m practicing law at all are people connected with Sheila Benton.”
Tracy’s face clouded. “Oh. But …”
“But what?”
“Oh,” she said in helpless frustration. “You can’t give it back.”
Steve smiled. “Now there you are absolutely right. I don’t know who it came from, so I can’t give it back. Which puts me in a hell of a position. I can’t keep it, and I can’t give it back.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Well,” Steve said. “First thing, let’s find out where it came from. Tell you what. Call the Taylor Detective Agency and see if you can get Mark Taylor on the phone for me.”
“Right away,” Tracy said. She turned and headed for the outer office.
“Hey, where you going?” Steve said.
She turned back in the doorway. “To look up the number on the Rolodex.”
After the hard time Tracy had been giving him, Steve couldn’t resist the shot. “Della Street never had to look up Paul Drake’s number,” he said.
Tracy made a face. “Hey, fuck you,” she said.”
“She never said that either.”
3
Tracy ushered Mark Taylor into the inner office.
“Hi, Mark,” Steve said. “Come in. Sit down. This is my secretary, Tracy Garvin. Mark Taylor.”
Mark Taylor cast an appreciative eye over her. “Pleased to meet you,” he said.
“Don’t get too attached to her,” Steve said. “She just gave two weeks’ notice.”
“I don’t blame you,” Taylor said to Tracy. “The guy’s a slave driver. He’s been overworking you, huh?”
“That’s right,” Steve said. “She can’t stand the pace.”
Taylor nodded, and slumped his bulk in the overstuffed clients’ chair. Mark Taylor was Steve Winslow’s age; in fact, they’d been roommates in college. But while Steve was tall and thin, Taylor was all beef. At six feet, 220 pounds, he had had professional football aspirations, before an injury cut short his career.
“So what’s up?” Taylor said.
“I want you to locate a client.”
“You have a client?”
“I will if you find him.”
“Skipped out?”
“No.”
“Police?”
Steve frowned. “No, but it’s an idea.”
“So who’s the client?”
“I don’t know.”
Taylor looked at him. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m serious.”
“You don’t know your own client?”
“No.”
Taylor ran his fingers through his curly red hair. “Now wait a minute. Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. You want me to find a client for you, but you can’t tell me who the client is?”
“That’s right.”
“Could you give me a hint?”
Steve grinned and passed the envelope with the money over to him.
“What do you make of this?” Steve said.
Taylor opened the envelope and pulled out the thousand dollar bills. He riffled through them and whistled.
“Well?” Steve said.
“Well,” Taylor said. “This seems to be ten thousand smackers of genuine U.S. currency. The bills are old and are not in sequence.”
“That’s right,” Steve said. He handed him the note. “And what do you make of this?”
Taylor read it and looked it over.
“Well, this is your basic anonymous letter. It appears to have been written on a non-electric typewriter, with elite type. The
“Not bad. I don’t suppose you could tell me the make?”
“No, but I got an expert who could, if you want to pay the freight.”
“O.K., send it along,” Steve said. “And then start tracing the numbers on those bills. Cover all the banks. Today’s Tuesday, so the withdrawal was probably made yesterday.”
“Hell, Steve, you don’t have to tell me how to do that. With a withdrawal of that size it should be a snap.” Mark hefted the envelope. “I suppose you’d like me to take these along with me.”
“I don’t think so,” Steve said, grinning. “Tracy?”
Tracy, who had been watching wide-eyed, was startled at being addressed. “Yes?”
“If you could type up a list of the serial numbers on these bills.”
“Sure.”
Tracy took the envelope from Taylor and hurried to her desk.
Mark Taylor watched her go.
“Nice looking girl,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Why’s she really leaving?”
Steve shrugged. “Bored. Says I’m never here and there’s nothing for her to do.”
“Now where would she get an idea like that?” Mark Taylor said. He leaned back in his chair and yawned. “You know, when I got you an office in my building, I figured I might run into you now and then.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“So how come you never come in to work?”
Steve shrugged. “I just can’t bring myself to come in here when there’s nothing to do.”
Taylor nodded. “Makes sense.” He grinned and jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the outer office. “But I suppose you find her attitude unreasonable.”
Steve grinned. “Of course I do. She’s young and impressionable. She wants everything to be exciting and fun. I, on the other hand, am a cynical old fogy-just on the near side of senile-and I happen to know that nothing is exciting and fun, and I’d be happy to settle for interesting.”
“An anonymous ten thousand dollar retainer’s rather interesting.”
“It is for a fact. It’s also a pain in the ass.”
“Maybe for you,” Taylor said. “I can always use the work.”
