ability. Though even as he tried to reassure himself, he was picturing the ethics investigation, explaining the matter to his clients, his golfing buddies, his girlfriends….
Pilsett. What an utter fool. He—
Lescroix froze. On the TV screen was a man in his fifties. Unshaven. Rumpled white shirt. An unseen newscaster was asking him his reaction to the Pilsett verdict. But what had snagged Lescroix’s attention was the super at the bottom of the screen:
It wasn’t the man who’d hired him, who’d been here in the room an hour ago to deliver his fee.
“Wayl,” the uncle drawled. “Jurry wus alwus a problem. Weren’t never doing what he ought. Deserved ever’ lick he got. Him gitting off today… I don’ unnerstand that one bit. Don’ seem right to me.”
Lescroix leapt to the desk and opened the envelope. The full amount of the rest of the fee was enclosed. But it wasn’t a check. It was cash, like the retainer. There was no note, nothing with a name on it.
Who the hell was he?
He plugged the phone in and dialed the Skyview Motel.
The phone rang, rang, rang.
Finally it was answered. “Hello?”
“Jerry, it’s Lescroix. Listen to me—”
“I’m sorry,” the man’s voice said. “Jerry’s tied up right now.”
“Who’s this?”
A pause.
“Hello, counselor.”
“Who are you?” Lescroix demanded.
There was a soft chuckle on the other end. “Don’t you recognize me? And after our long talk in court this morning. I’m disappointed.”
Cabot! It was Charles Cabot.
How had he gotten to Jerry’s motel room? Lescroix was the only one who knew where the man was hiding out.
“Confused, counselor?”
But, no, Lescroix recalled, he
“Can’t you guess?”
“No.”
But even as he said that, he understood. Lescroix closed his eyes. Sat on the bed. “Your father-in-law.”
The rich businessman. Patricia’s father.
“He hired me?”
“We both did,” Cabot said.
“To defend your wife’s killer? Why?”
Cabot sighed. “Why do you think, counselor?”
Slowly, Lescroix’s thoughts were forming — like ice on a November pond. He said, “Because there’s no death penalty in this state.”
“That’s right, counselor. Maybe Jerry’d go to prison for life but that wasn’t good enough for us.”
And the only way Cabot and his father-in-law could get to Jerry was to make sure he was acquitted. So they hired the best criminal attorney in the country.
Lescroix laughed in disgust. Why, Cabot was the one playing
Suddenly the lawyer remembered Cabot’s words:
“Oh my God, are you going to kill him?”
“Jerry? Oh, we’re just visiting right now,” Cabot said. “Jerry and I and Patsy’s dad. But I should tell you, I’m afraid he’s pretty depressed, Jerry is. I’m worried that he might do himself some harm. He’s even threatened to hang himself. That’d be a shame. But of course it’s a man’s own decision. Who’m I to interfere?”
“I’ll tell the police,” Lescroix warned.
“Will you now, counselor? I guess you could do that. But it’ll be my word against yours, and I have to say that after the trial today your stock’s none too high ’round here at the moment. And neither’s Jerry’s.”
“Sorry to cut this short,” Cabot continued. “I think I hear some funny noises from the other room. Where Jerry is. I better run, check on him. Seem to recall seeing a rope in there.”
A low, desperate moaning sounded through the line, distant.
“What was that?” Lescroix cried.
“Oh-oh, looks like I better go. So long, counselor. Hope you enjoyed your stay in Hamilton.”
“Wait!”
TUNNEL GIRL
“Sorry to bother you so early, sir.”
An alarmed Ron Badgett, in a 6:00 a.m. morning daze, blinked at the suited man on his doorstep, holding a police department shield.
“I’m Detective Larry Perillo.”
“What’s wrong, officer?”
“You own the building at Seventy-seven Humbolt Way?”
“That’s right. My company’s there.” Ron Badgett felt another jolt of concern course through him. He’d been fuzzy-headed and exhausted three minutes ago. Now he was thoroughly awake. “There been a fire or something?” The paunchy, middle-aged man, with thinning hair, pulled his beige terry-cloth bathrobe belt tight.
It was a cool September Saturday morning, and the two men were standing in the doorway of Ron’s well- worn suburban colonial house, which hadn’t quite recovered from the previous owners’ three children, who’d apparently run and jumped and pounded on every accessible surface. Ron and his wife spent most of their free time fixing it up.
“No, sir, your office’s fine. But we’re hoping you can help us. You know the old building behind yours, across the parking lot?”
“The condemned one?”
“That’s it.”
Sandra, Ron’s wife of eighteen years, appeared in the doorway, frowning. She wore a blue quilted robe and slippers. Her hair was mussed, and she had a sleepy, morning look that Ron still found appealing, even after eighteen years of marriage. “What’s the matter, honey?”
“There’s some problem with an old building behind the office.” He introduced her to the policeman.
“Oh, that one they’re going to tear down?” Sandra, at the moment working only occasional freelance jobs, had spent a week helping Ron move into the building. One day, at the back loading dock, she’d commented that the old building looked dangerous.
“That’s right, ma’am.” Perillo then added, “It seems that yesterday evening a coed from City College was taking a shortcut through the courtyard back there. Part of the building collapsed. She’s trapped in one of those old delivery tunnels that used to connect the factories and warehouses in the neighborhood.”
“My God,” Sandra whispered.
“But she’s alive?” Ron asked.
“So far. We can hear her calling for help but she doesn’t sound very strong.”
His wife shook her head. Ron and Sandra had a seventeen-year-old daughter, currently in school in
