murderer?”
“Who knows, it might even improve my business.”
“I don’t think you’d like your new customers.”
“Don’t you think I could plan the perfect crime?”
“Did you ever watch the old TV series
“Sure. I bet I saw all of them.”
“Well, every week, Columbo solved a murder that was supposed to be the perfect crime. The series was a weekly lesson in how many ways there are to screw up when you’re trying to commit the perfect crime. And that was before DNA and fiber analysis, and all that stuff.”
“What would be my chances of getting away with it?”
“Have you ever met any homicide detectives?”
“One or two, I guess, at parties.”
“They looked pretty ordinary, didn’t they?”
“
“Your usual homicide detective is a guy in a suit who looks like a businessman or a high school teacher or an insurance salesman. Of course, there are those who look like bums, but my point is, they share one thing in common.”
“What?”
“They’re smart. They get assigned to homicides because they’re the best detectives. They also have a lot of experience at solving murders. Sometimes they get it wrong, and sometimes they don’t solve it at all, but year in and year out the NYPD solves close to two-thirds of all homicides. Now, you may think that gives you a one-in-three shot at getting away with it, but it also gives you a two-out-of-three shot at getting caught.”
She slapped him on the ass. “Turn over.”
He turned over. “Most murders are committed by someone the victim knows-family member, lover, next-door neighbor. Most of the unsolved murders are committed by someone the victim doesn’t know-mugger, rapist, like that. If Devlin is murdered by someone who knows him, like, say, you, then your chances of getting caught go way up, just because you’re known to know him. In fact, because you lived together and were lovers and had a sometimes violent relationship, you would instantly be the chief suspect in the eyes of the police.”
“Okay, suppose I got caught and sent to trial. Wouldn’t I have a good chance of getting off when the jury learned that he had been violent toward me for a long time?”
“You really want to take a chance on the opinions of twelve ordinary citizens?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay, let’s say you go down to Devlin’s studio, pick up another one of his small sculptures and coldcock him. One blow might not do the trick; you might have to hit him until his brains are on the floor, and in that case, you’d better show signs of his trying to kill you-bruises on your neck, maybe even his fingerprints on your throat, something like that. And even if he is smaller than you, you’d be taking a chance on whether you could win the fight.”
“Suppose I wait until he attacks me, then shoot him.”
“Again, you might lose; he might take the gun away from you and shoot you. Also, the cops are going to want to know where you got the gun, if you had a license for it and why you took it to his studio. You could go to prison for just possessing the gun.”
She massaged his scalp and his face. “You make it sound awfully difficult.”
“It’s not just difficult, it’s very nearly impossible to kill somebody you know and just walk away.” She began rubbing the back of his neck. “And if I thought you really had it in you to murder somebody, I don’t think I’d want your hands where they are right now; they’re too close to my throat.”
“Suppose I hire someone to kill him and I’m in, say, San Francisco on the day.”
“Your chances of getting away with the actual killing go way up, but now you’ve got another person in the picture who might be a very great liability. Do you know any contract killers?”
“No, but I bet I could find one.”
“Okay. You walk into a bar in a not-so-hot neighborhood, strike up a conversation with some guy who looks like he’d do anything for money, and you make the deal and give him half. He could just start drinking at another bar and keep your money; in fact, if he’s smart, that’s exactly what he’d do. But let’s say he goes through with the deal, commits a clean murder, leaves no evidence, collects the rest of his fee and goes away. All of this is unlikely, of course, because he’d probably make mistakes that would get him caught, and then, to get a light sentence, he gives you to the D.A. on a platter. The D.A. will find witnesses in the bar who saw the two of you together; you’re the kind of girl who’s not easily forgotten. Or suppose, a year or two down the line, your hit man gets arrested for some other crime, something petty, like burglary. He doesn’t want to do time, so he does a deal where he gets immunity for Devlin and you get the death penalty. In short, you can’t rely on a person who will kill for money.”
She laughed and dropped his head. “All right, I won’t kill him. What should I do?”
“Unless you want to leave town or spend the next few years as a kind of fugitive in your own city, you have to confront him. Legally, I mean. Would you like for me to visit him and tell him what you can do to him in court? That might cool his ardor.”
“What a good idea!” she enthused. She kissed him lightly on the penis. “Now, how about that breakfast in bed?”
20
Stone made it through breakfast without having to perform again, which was just as well, because he was nearly too sore to walk properly. He saw Celia to the front door, and she took an invitation from her purse and handed it to him.
“Devlin has a show opening tomorrow night at this gallery in SoHo. It might be a good time to speak to him.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Stone said. “How about lunch at La Goulue, Sixty-fifth and Madison at one o’clock the day after?”
“See you there,” she said, planting a serious kiss on his kisser.
Stone disengaged with reluctance and limped to his office.
Joan came in, bearing the
“Thanks for not asking,” Stone said, accepting the newspaper, which was open to Page Six. Four excellent photographs of Bernie Finger and Marilyn the Masseuse adorned the upper quarter of the page, and tiny strips of black covered only their most private parts. “Wow,” Stone breathed, as he read the story, which made mincemeat of Bernie’s slander suit.
The phone rang, and Joan picked it up. “The Barrington Practice,” she said in her best secretarial tones, then she listened and covered the phone with her hand. “It’s Henry Stead, from Page Six.”
Stone had had one previous conversation with Stead a few months before. He pressed the speakerphone button. “Good morning, Mr. Stead.”
“Good morning, Mr. Barrington. I trust you’ve seen Page Six today.”
“Mr. Stead, I know this will come as a crushing disappointment, but I am not a regular peruser of either your newspaper or your page.”
“And yet you managed a timely riposte to Bernie Finger’s account of your luncheon at the Four Seasons.”
“My secretary’s taste in newspapers is not so lofty as mine, and, from time to time, she may share some tidbit with me, particularly if it takes my name in vain. Today, so far, she seems to actually be doing her work, so she has shared nothing. Care to give me the short version?”
“Well, yesterday we ran a mention of Bernie’s current extramarital affair. Bernie, of course, sued us immediately, so today we ran the corroborating photographs, featuring a naked Bernie on a penthouse terrace with an equally naked masseuse named Marilyn. Tomorrow, we expect to report that Mrs. Finger has filed for divorce. In fact, I believe the story is already set in type.”
