“Thank you very much.” That's my second sentence in a row, so I'm feeling pretty chipper.
“What do you want? I'm a busy man.”
I had been planning to talk to him about the Miller case, but he's made it clear that the only way I'll get any answers about that is to take his deposition under oath. I smoothly switch to plan B, taking out the photograph and laying it on his desk. “I was curious about when and where this picture was taken.”
For the first time, I see a human reaction. I can't tell what it is, maybe a gas pain, but something has gotten through his outer crust. A moment later it's gone, and he's back in control.
“Where did you get that?”
“My father had it.”
“Who are those people?”
“The second one from the left is you.”
He shakes his head a little too hard, and doesn't bother to look at the photo again. “That's not me.”
I'm surprised, because it is clearly him. “You're saying it's not you? That's the position you're taking?”
This annoys him; human reactions are rapidly becoming commonplace to Victor Markham. “Position? I don't have to take a position. It's not me.”
“Did you know my father back around … oh, thirty-five years ago?”
“No. Now if that's all, my girl will show you out.”
“Your girl is older than you are.”
He is already on his intercom, calling for Eleanor.
I keep at him. “Why are you so upset that I have this picture of you?” I look at the picture again and then at Victor. “Maybe it's because you've had a few snacks since then.”
He doesn't answer, pretending to no longer be paying attention. The door opens and the ominous Eleanor arrives. I can either follow her out the door or she'll throw me through the glass wall.
“By the way, Victor. I will be deposing you about the McGregor killing. You can do it the easy way, or I can get a subpoena. Let me know.”
I wink at Eleanor and keep talking to Victor. “Have your girl call my girl.”
I go downstairs, taking out my annoyance on Victor by refusing to converse with the elevator. I call my office from a pay phone in the lobby, catching my girl, Edna, with her mouth full, and I wait while she swallows to get my messages.
“Mr. Calhoun from a company named Allied called. He says it's about your car.”
I'm terrible paying bills; they sit on my desk until collection agencies call with reminders.
“Forget it. He's from a collection agency. I'll take care of it later.”
“My cousin Shirley's husband, Bruce, worked for a collection agency. He could tell you-”
I interrupt her. “Edna, did anyone else call?”
“Cal Morris.”
“Who?”
“Cal Morris from the newsstand. He said if you don't recognize his name, I should tell you that they're hanging really low today.”
Cal has never called me before; I didn't even realize he knew my full name. “Did he say what he wanted?”
“He wouldn't tell me,” Edna says, “but he said it was urgent, and he sounded really upset.”
I stop off at the newsstand on the way back, and sure enough, Cal has been anxiously waiting for me to contact him. He closes up the stand and takes me to the diner next door for a cup of coffee. We sit at a booth, and he lets it spill out.
“It's my daughter, Andy. She's been arrested. You got to get her off, there's no way she could have done this.”
“Take it easy, Cal. Start at the beginning.”
Cal doesn't know much, just that his only daughter, Wanda, has been arrested on prostitution charges. She's only sixteen, and until today Cal has assumed she's a virgin. In fact, he still does.
Cal knows that I have contacts in the local justice system. He is desperate, and he offers to pay me whatever it will take. Since money is not my biggest problem these days, I shrug it off, mumbling something about free newspapers and magazines. I don't mean it, though, since paying for the papers is part of my superstition.
I've got about an hour before I'm supposed to meet with Laurie, so I tell Cal that I'll stop off at the police station and see what I can do. He's so grateful I think he's going to cry, and it makes me feel good to be able to help. That's if I'm able to help.
I go down to the station and am lucky enough to run into Pete Stanton. Not only is Pete a pretty good friend of mine (we play racquetball together), but he is a lieutenant, and he owes me a favor. That doesn't mean he won't give me a hard time, it just means he'll eventually give in.
By a coincidence, Pete was the detective originally assigned to the Willie Miller case, and he ran the investigation. He assumes that is what I'm here to see him about, and is surprised when I tell him about Cal's daughter, Wanda.
Though Pete does not have anything to do with Wanda's case, he tracks down her file and looks through it. I tell him that Wanda Morris is a troubled kid, but after a quick read he dismisses her as a hooker.
I correct him. “An alleged hooker.”
“Who do I look like?” he sneers. “John Q. Jury? She allegedly propositioned a cop. Vice has allegedly got it on tape.”
“An obvious case of entrapment.”
Pete laughs and shows me his nameplate on his desk. He points to the word “Lieutenant.” “See that?” he says. “That means I'm hot shit around here.”
I nod. “You're a goddamn legend, a combination J. Edgar Hoover and Eliot Ness. Which means you spend your time walking around in a dress looking for alcohol.”
He ignores that. “Come on, Andy, why are you talking to me about a hooker? I deal in big stuff, like homicides. If this hooker screws a guy to death, come talk to me.”
“You owe me.” I didn't want to have to use my ace this early in the conversation, but I don't want to be late again for my meeting with Laurie. I represented Pete's brother on a drug charge in a nearby town. I got him off and kept Pete's name out of it. His brother is doing well now, turned his life around, and Pete remembers. Pete's the type who will remember it until the day he dies, and maybe even a few years afterward.
That doesn't mean he'll cave easily. “You calling in your chit on this? A hooker case? You know as well as I do she'll be back on the street in a day anyway.”
“Her father's my friend.”
Pete nods; no more explanation is necessary. Pete is a guy who understands friendship.
“I'll call McGinley,” he says. “I'll get him to plead it out to probation. She stays clean and it comes off her record.”
“Thanks. Now, on to more important business.”
He's surprised. “There's more? You got another friend whose kid is a bank robber? Or an arsonist? Why don't you just give me a list of your friends and we won't arrest anybody with those last names?”
I haven't met the sarcasm that can stop me, so I push on. “What do you know about Victor Markham?”
“He's a rich scumbag.” He reflects for a moment. “That might be redundant.”
As a rich person, I'm offended, but I don't show it. “What did Markham have to do with the Miller case?”
“You want me to tell you what you already know? The victim was his son's girlfriend. They were out together when it happened.”
“Were you aware of any special connection between Victor Markham and my father?”
Pete shows me a flash of anger. “Your father did not have special connections. Except to the truth.”
“Don't you think I know that?”
He nods. “Yeah, of course you do. Sorry.”
I wait for him to continue, to tell me what he knows. I don't have to wait long.
“Markham's son, Edward, was a loose cannon,” he says. “I had the feeling that Victor was pulling his strings, like he was worried what the kid might say or do on his own. No big deal, just a feeling I had.”
I take this very seriously. Pete is an outstanding cop; there are a lot of people making license plates and
