Mrs. Stafford blanched, and her husband’s composure began to slip.
“What do you mean? Now, see here. I…”
“Before you say anything, Mr. Stafford, I have to advise you concerning your constitutional rights.”
“My rights! Are you insane? Now, I’ve cooperated with you and let you into my home. What nonsense is this? What am I being arrested for?”
Crosby looked at Stafford, and Ortiz watched for a reaction.
“I am arresting you for the murder of Darlene Hersch.”
“Who?” Stafford asked, his brows knitting in puzzlement. Mrs. Stafford’s hand flew to her mouth, and Ortiz heard her say, “My God.” Crosby began reciting Stafford’s Miranda rights.
“You have a right to remain silent. If you choose to-”
“Wait a second. Wait a second. Who is Darlene Hersch? Is this a joke?”
“Mr. Stafford, this is no joke. Now, I know you’re an attorney, but I am going to explain your rights to you anyway, and I want you to listen carefully.”
Mrs. Stafford edged over to her husband with a slow, sideways, crablike movement. Stafford was beginning to look scared. Crosby finished reciting Stafford’s rights and took a pair of handcuffs from his rear pocket.
“Why don’t you change into a pair of long pants and a long-sleeved shirt?” Crosby said. “And I’m going to have to cuff you. I’m sorry about that, but it’s a procedure I have to follow.”
“Now, you listen to me. I happen to be an attorney-”
“I know, Mr. Stafford.”
“Then you know that as of right now you are going to be on the end of one hell of a lawsuit.”
“Getting excited is not going to help your situation, Mr. Stafford. I’d suggest that you keep calm and have your wife contact an attorney.
“Mrs. Stafford,” Crosby said, turning his attention to the lawyer’s wife, “you had better contact an attorney to represent your husband. He will be at the county jail within the hour.”
The woman acted as if she had not heard Crosby. Stafford started toward her, stopped, and looked at Crosby.
“May I talk to my wife in private for a moment?”
“I can send most of my men out, but someone will have to stay in the room.”
Stafford started to say something, then stopped. He seemed to be back in control.
“That would be fine.”
Stafford waited to go to his wife until all but one policeman had left. She looked confused and frightened.
“Larry, what’s going on?”
Stafford took her by the shoulders and led her to the far corner of the room.
“This is obviously some mistake. Now, call Charlie Holt. Tell him what happened and where I am. Charlie will know what to do.”
“He said murder, Larry.”
“I know what he said,” Stafford said firmly. “Now, do as I say. Believe me, it will be all right.”
Stafford changed his clothes and his wife watched in silence. When Stafford was finished, Crosby put on the handcuffs and escorted the prisoner downstairs. Ortiz watched Stafford closely. He said nothing as they led him to the car. He walked with assurance, his back straight and his shoulders squared. Mrs. Stafford stood alone in the open doorway. Ortiz watched her shrink in the distance as they drove away.
2
“There’s a Mr. Holt to see you, Mr. Nash,” the receptionist said. “He says it’s urgent.”
David looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty. He had been at the office since seven working on a brief that was due in two days, and he was only half-done. He was tempted to tell Charlie to come back, but Charlie would not be at his office this early unless there was an emergency. He sighed.
“Tell him I’ll be right out.”
He finished editing a paragraph and carefully moved his work to one side. He placed an empty legal pad on his blotter, straightened his tie, and put on his suit jacket.
Charlie Holt was pacing in front of the bar that separated clients from the well-endowed redhead who served as the receptionist at Banks, Kelton, Skaarstad and Nash. Only Charlie was not looking at the girl. His eyes were straining toward the swinging doors that opened onto the lawyers’ offices. Charlie was a tall, balding securities lawyer who had never lost the military bearing he had acquired in the Marines. His movements were always sharp and jerky, as if he were on parade. It was an exhausting experience spending time with Charlie: you always felt like a passenger in a sports car driving on a winding mountain road at top speed.
David pushed through the swinging doors and Charlie rushed toward him.
“Thanks, Dave,” Holt said quickly, pumping David’s hand. “Big trouble. Sorry to interrupt so early.”
“That’s okay. What’s up?” David asked as he led Holt back down the corridor to his office.
“Larry Stafford, one of our associates. Do you know him?”
“I think I met him at the bar-association dinner last month.”
Charlie sat down without being asked. He looked at the floor and shook his head like a man who had given up hope.
“Really shocking.”
“What is?”
Holt’s head jerked up. “You didn’t read it in the papers?”
“I’ve been here since seven.”
“Oh. Well, it’s front page. Bad for the firm.” He paused for a moment and thought. “Worse for Larry. He’s been arrested. Wife called me last night. In tears. Doesn’t know what to do. Can I help? I went out to the jail, but I’m no criminal lawyer. Hell, I’d never even seen the jail before this morning. Your name naturally came to mind, if you’ll take it.”
“Take what, Charlie? What’s he charged with?”
“Murder.”
“Murder?”
Holt nodded vigorously.
“They say he killed that policewoman. The one who was pretending to be a prostitute.”
David whistled and sat down slowly.
“He’s very upset. Made me promise to get you out there as soon as I could.”
Holt stopped talking and waited for David to say something. David started to doodle on the legal pad. A lawyer. And that murder. That was a hot potato. Lots of press and TV coverage. A good investigation, too. The police were not going to go off half-cocked and look bad later. They would make damn sure they had a good case before they moved. And it would be better than damn good before they arrested an associate from the biggest and most influential law firm in the city. Hell, half the politicians in town had received sizable contributions from Seymour Price.
“Who’s footing the bill, Charlie? This will cost plenty.”
“Jennifer. Mrs. Stafford. They have savings. She has family. I asked her and she said they could manage.”
“What do they have on him, Charlie?”
Holt shrugged. “I don’t know. I told you, I’m no criminal lawyer. I wouldn’t even know who to ask.”
“What do the papers say?”
“Oh, right. Something about an eyewitness. Another policeman. Jennifer says they searched the house and took some of Larry’s shirts and pants.”
“That’s right,” David said, remembering one of the newspaper stories he’d read. “Bert Ortiz was working with her and got knocked unconscious. But I didn’t know he’d seen the killer.”
“You know this Ortiz?”
