'Oh? How do you figure that?'
'I plan to consolidate the two murders. This'll be a very long trial. I hope your client has a gazillion dollars.'
'Which two murders are you talking about?' Alexander asked.
'First off, the murder for hire of Mrs Keating's father . . .'
'Oh, I see, murder for hire.' He turned to Cynthia and said, 'Murder for hire is first-degree murder.'
'Tell her what she's looking at, Todd.'
'Why waste my breath? Is that what you're charging her with? Murder One? If so, do it.'
'What's your hurry? Don't you want to hear me out? I can save your life,' Nellie said, turning to Cynthia. 'I can also save you a lot of money.'
'Thanks,' Cynthia said, 'but my life's not in danger ...'
'Don't kid your . . .'
'. . . and I'll be rich once Jenny's . . .'
'The penalty for Murder One is lethal injection,' Nellie said. 'I'm offering you a real bargain discount.'
'What exactly do you think you have?' Alexander asked.
'I've got an old man standing in the way of what your client perceives as a fortune. I've got a bird brain in London who looks at it the same way. The two conspire to . . .'
'Mrs Keating and somebody in London, are you saying?'
'A specific somebody named Gerald Palmer. Who also stands to make a fortune if this show is a hit.'
'And they conspired to kill Mrs Keating's father, are you saying?'
'That's our surmise, Todd.'
'A wild one.'
'The Brits have been known,' Nellie said.
'Sure, Richard the Second.'
'Even more recently.'
'You're saying . . .'
'I'm saying the pair of them found a Jamaican hit man named John Bridges, brought him here to America . . .'
'Oh, please, Nellie.'
'The Metropolitan Police are checking his pedigree this very minute. Once they get back to us . . .'
'Ah, Sherlock Holmes now.'
'No, just a detective named Frank Beaton.'
'This is all nonsense,' Cynthia said.
'Fine, take your chances,' Nellie said.
'What do you want from her?'
'Her partner and the hit man.'
'That's everybody.'
'No, that's only two people.'
'What do you give her in return?'
'Is this me you're talking about?' Cynthia asked.
'Just a second, Cyn,' Alexander said.
'Never mind just a second. If she had anything, she wouldn't be trying to strike a deal here.'
'You think so, huh?' Nellie said.
'What can you give us?' Alexander asked.
'She rats them out, I drop the charge to Murder Two. Twenty to life as opposed to the Valium cocktail.'
'Go to fifteen,' Alexander said.
'Twenty. With a recommendation for parole.'
'Come on, at least give me the minimum.'
'Fifteen can come and go without parole,' Nellie said. 'And then twenty, and thirty, and forty, and still no parole. Before you know it, your lady's in there for the rest of her life. Take my advice. Twenty with a recommendation.'
'She'd be sixty when she got out!'
'Fifty-seven,' Cynthia corrected.
But she was thinking.
'On the other hand, you can always roll the dice. Just remember, you're looking at the death penalty. You'll sit on death row for five, six years while you exhaust all your appeals—and that'll be it.'
'Recommend parole after fifteen,' Alexander said.
'I can't do that.'
'Twenty just isn't sweet enough.'
'How sweet is the cocktail?' Nellie asked.
Chapter Ten
It is Palmer who makes the first contact, toward the end of September.
He tells Cynthia on the telephone that he's had a transatlantic call from Norman Zimmer, who's producing a musical based on Jenny's Room, is she familiar with . . . ?
'Yes, he's been in touch,' Cynthia says.
'I hate to bother you this way,' he says, 'but from what I understand, the project may be stalled because of your father's intransigence.'
'Yes, I know.'
'It does seem a shame, doesn't it?' he says. 'All these people who'd stand to earn a little money.'
'I know,' Cynthia says.
'Couldn't you talk with him?'
'I have,' she says. 'He won't budge.'
'It does seem a pity.'
'He's protecting Jessica, you see.'
'Who's that?'
'Jessica Miles. The woman who wrote the original play. He feels she wouldn't have wanted the musical done again.'
'Really? Why's that?'
Id McBain
'Because it was so awful.'
'Oh, I don't think so, do youl I've read my grandfather's book, and I've also heard the songs. It's really quite good, you know. Besides, they're having new songs written, and a new book, and—well, it's truly a shame. Because I think it has a really good shot, you know. I think we can all become quite rich, actually. If it's done.'
There is a crackling on the line.
She tries to visualize London. She has never been there. She imagines chimney pots and cobblestoned streets. She imagines men with soot-stained collars and women in long hour-glass gowns. She imagines Big Ben chiming the hour, regattas on the Thames. She imagines all these things. And imagines going there one day.
'Couldn't you please talk with him again?' Palmer says.
It is she who makes the next call, sometime early in October. He has just come home from work, it is seven o'clock there in London, only two in the afternoon here in America. He tells her he works for 'the last of the publishers in Bedford Square,' a line she surmises he has used often before. In fact, there is something about the
