the D.A. can pick it apart. If that happens, you’re through. Which is why I had you clam up and stop talking. I can’t take the risk till your story’s air-tight.” Steve exhaled. “Try and understand the concept. Right now you’re keeping quiet, but at some point I’ve got to decide do you tell your story or not. The way things stand right now, you don’t. But if you ever do, it’s going to depend on your being able to answer questions without blowing your cool. So if my questions piss you off, try to think of them as a dress rehearsal.” He smiled grimly. “And if you think I’m skeptical and sarcastic, wait’ll you hear the D.A.”
Amy glared at him defiantly for a moment. Then her eyes faltered. She shivered slightly. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.” Then her face hardened. She looked back up at him. “No, it’s
Steve exhaled. Shook his head.
“Damned if I know.”
19.
STEVE WINSLOW CALLED MARK Taylor from a pay phone on the corner. “Mark, Steve. Listen, besides Lowery and Macklin, I want you to get a line on Larry Cunningham.”
“Who?”
“Larry Cunningham. That’s the guy Amy Dearborn had dinner with before she went down there. Find him and get his story sewn up before the cops do.”
“You got it.”
“You got anything for me?”
“Nothing new from the cops. But I pegged the store owner.”
“Store owner?”
“Guy from the music store. The one who closed up the shop.”
“That was him?”
“Sure was. I got his name and address and Tracy’s there now.”
“You sent Tracy to talk to him?”
“What do you mean, sent? Like I had a choice in the matter? My man calls in the info, and while I’m still taking it down, Tracy’s on the other phone calling him up. I told her to wait for you, but she said there might not be time and she’s gone.”
“Shit. Where’s the guy live?”
“A loft in SoHo. You want the address?”
“Sure do.”
Steve copied down the address, hung up the phone and flagged a cab. He didn’t go to SoHo, however, he had the cab take him to his apartment in Greenwich Village.
He had his corduroy jacket off on the way up the stairs. He went in, hurled it on the couch and tore off his T- shirt. Cursing his cluttered studio apartment, he detoured around a pile of paperbacks he’d never managed to find shelf space for, and flung open his closet. It was crammed with junk, but at least nothing fell out like in a cartoon. He riffled through the hanging clothes, managed to find a white shirt. He tore it off the hanger, pulled it on, buttoned it up.
Next a tie. He found a brown one hanging on a hook, pulled it on and tied it. The result was sloppy at best- the knot was twisted and the narrow end of the tie hung down below the wide one, but at least it was on.
Steve plowed through the hangers again. Aha. A gray sports coat that had seen better days. He pulled that on.
What about the pants?
And noticed how badly he’d tied the tie. Hell. Should he do it again?“ Who gives a shit?” Steve said out loud. He turned and ran out the door.
20
It was a second floor loft on Spring street. The man who opened the door was indeed the man Steve had seen closing up the music shop.
“Mr. Branstein?” Steve said.
Branstein was a middle-aged man with a round face, wire-rimmed glasses, and curly hair. “Yes?” he said.
“Steve Winslow,” Steve said, pumping his hand up and down. “And I understand Miss Garvin is already here.”
Steve didn’t wait for an invitation, just pushed right by Mr. Branstein and found himself in a large open loft with guitars and banjos hanging on the walls.
Tracy Garvin sprang up from the couch. “Mr. Winslow. So glad you’re here. Mr. Branstein was just telling me all about it.”
“All about what?” Steve said.
Oliver Branstein had a slightly bewildered look on his face. “Well, now I don’t exactly know,” he said. “Miss Garvin has been asking me questions. And she hasn’t really told me what it’s all about.”
“Then I’m glad I’m here,” Steve said, “because I can explain. I’m an attorney at law. Miss Garvin is my confidential secretary. She’s been asking you questions with regard to a case I’m handling.”
“What case?”
Steve frowned. “May I be absolutely truthful, Mr. Branstein?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You have to understand that as an attorney at law, my client’s matters are confidential and I cannot divulge them. I know that’s not a very satisfactory answer, so without betraying my client’s interests, I’d like to tell you everything I possibly can.”
“I see,” Branstein said. He looked somewhat confused. He blinked twice. “Ah, won’t you sit down?”
Steve sat on the couch next to Tracy. Branstein sat in a chair opposite. “Now what is it you want to tell me?”
“Okay,” Steve said. “Now, you are the owner of the music store on West 47th Street, is that right?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Are you familiar with the jewelry store in your building- the one on the second floor?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you ever notice people going in and out of the jewelry store?”
Branstein frowned. “Now, that’s just what this young lady was asking me. I thought you were going to tell me something.”
“I am,” Steve said. “I’m trying to tell you why I’m asking these questions. It happens that I’m interested in anyone you may have seen going in or out of there tonight.”
“Why?”
Steve frowned, rubbed his head. “Well now, there I’m not sure how much the police would want me to tell you.”
“The police?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t want to step on anyone’s toes, but it seems to me you have a right to know. It appears there has been a robbery.”
“A robbery?”
“Yes.”
