Desperate Measures

43

Muldoon woke up Calabrese. “Come on,” he said.

“Where are we going?”

“To arrest Donald Trask for the murder of Priscilla Scott.”

“Have we got some new evidence I don’t know about?”

“Nope.” They got to the car. “You drive.” Muldoon gave him a new address.

“What is that place?”

“Trask’s office.”

“He actually works? How much did he get from his wife?”

“Eight or nine million, I hear.”

“He said she had a will leaving everything to him.”

“He may believe that, but it ain’t so.”

“And you know this, how?”

“I spoke to her attorney in the divorce; he drew a new will for her immediately after she hired him, and he let Trask’s attorney know it.”

“Then that removes the will as a motive for her murder,” Calabrese pointed out.

“Only if he didn’t know about the new will. By the way, his attorney’s office is in the same building with Trask’s. We’ll have a word with him.”

They showed their badges at the front desk, and after a phone call, they were escorted to a conference room where a man in his shirtsleeves was working at a table filled with stacks of documents.

“Terry Barnes?” Muldoon asked.

“One and the same. What can I do for you, and make it fast.”

“You represented Donald Trask in his divorce?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember Herbert Fisher mentioning to you on a phone call that he was drawing up a new will for Priscilla Scott?”

Barnes screwed up his forehead. “Jesus, I don’t know. I’ve got four hot cases running — just look at this stuff.” He waved an arm at the tabletop.

“Try and remember,” Muldoon said.

“Oh, yeah, I think he did mention it.”

“And did you mention it to your client?”

Barnes thought and took a breath to answer, then stopped himself. “That’s privileged information — attorney-client communication, you know?”

“It’s a real easy question.”

“It’s still privileged.”

“You know about Priscilla Scott’s murder?”

“I own a TV.”

“Are you representing Donald Trask in that matter?”

“No, just the divorce and a later real estate transaction.”

“Well, the question pertains to the murder, not the divorce, so the communication between you wouldn’t be privileged, right?” Muldoon held his breath. He could see Barnes’s mind working.

“Nice try,” Barnes said finally. “I mean, really nice. A lot of guys would have fallen for that. I might have fallen for it, if I had a cold or a hangover. Now, beat it.”

They beat it. They got back into the elevator and rode up a couple of floors and found the Trask Fund. They had to back up at the door to let a couple of moving men get a desk into the hallway. The reception desk looked as though it had been pushed to one side, out of the center of the room. Muldoon went through the drill. They were shown into Trask’s office, where he was packing files in moving boxes. There were no extra chairs in the room, so Muldoon leaned against the wall.

“What is it?” Trask asked. “As you can see, I’m busy.”

“Moving offices?”

“Shutting it down.”

“Ah, that’s right, with your newfound wealth from your ex-wife’s will, you’ve no need to work anymore, have you?”

Trask shrugged. “So what? If I want to be a gentleman of leisure, that’s my business.”

“Just out of curiosity, what did her estate amount to? I mean, with the death of her wealthy mother, followed a year later by the death of her wealthy father, her inheritances must have been considerable.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“How much is her estate worth?”

“Beats me. I haven’t seen any paperwork yet. Probate takes time.”

“A lot more than you got in the divorce settlement, right? Want to take a stab?”

“No, I don’t. I have no idea.”

“Fifty million? A hundred million?”

“Could be, who knows?”

“You must have a pretty good idea, or you wouldn’t be retiring, would you? I mean, eight or nine million gets knocked down by the purchase of your new apartment; that must be two, three million, and I expect you’ve got some debt, right? And you have to give your clients their money back from the fund — and the market’s way up.”

“I’ll manage,” Trask said smugly.

“Look we can call down to the probate court and get a number; why put us to that bother? Are you trying to annoy us?”

“Nope. I don’t give a shit whether you’re annoyed or not.”

“It looks like you’re going to be in a bind pretty soon, doesn’t it?”

Trask managed a small smile. “Not much chance of that.”

Muldoon stood up straighter. “Then you haven’t heard about the will?”

Trask stopped packing files and looked straight at him, something he hadn’t done before. “What are you talking about?”

“The new will that Cilla made before the divorce.”

Donald Trask’s face went slack, but his eyes were still fixed on Muldoon. “What?”

Before Muldoon could respond, the phone on Trask’s desk rang and he picked it up. “What? Hey, Terry, what’s up? Funny you should mention that, they’re here now.” Trask listened intently for a minute. “Thanks, Terry,” he said. Then he hung up and turned back to Muldoon. “You were saying?”

Muldoon’s heart sank. “I was asking if you knew about the new will,” he said.

“Oh, sure, I knew about that before the divorce. Her lawyer told my lawyer. Anything else?”

“I got a question,” Calabrese said. “Why’d you lie to us?”

“When was that?” Trask asked.

“When you gave us an account of your actions on the night of Cilla’s murder. You said you walked home from P. J. Clarke’s in the rain, but your coat wasn’t very wet. The reason for that is, you hired a car service to pick you up at Bloomingdale’s, then you went to Château Madison, and from there you walked over to Cilla’s place and shot her, then you knifed her.”

“Not me, pal,” Trask said. “You can call my car service, Carey, and ask them.”

“No,” Calabrese said, “you didn’t use them. You called Phoenix Limos and paid cash. Your driver recognized your description.”

Trask shook his head. “Not me. A case of mistaken identity.”

“And no one at Clarke’s could put you there for a burger and a beer,” Muldoon added. “Not a single person. Imagine that.”

“All of which means nothing,” Trask said. “Now, I’m all through with this. If you want to speak to me again, call my attorney. Goodbye.” He went back to packing his files.

Back in the car, Muldoon let loose on Calabrese. “Listen, numbnuts, you just blew everything in about a minute. Now Trask knows everything we’ve got!”

“Did you see his face when you told him about the will? He had no idea. His world just fell apart.”

“Yeah, but the look on his face is not admissible evidence that could help us. Now we’re back where we started! And that was Terry Barnes on the phone, telling him he forgot to tell him about the will being changed. So we won’t get another shot at him on that!”

Calabrese’s face was red, and he turned his attention back to his driving. “I like Barrington for it, anyway,” he said.

“I’m caring less and less about what you like,” Muldoon said. “Until you get a fresh idea, keep it to yourself, and if you get one, tell only me.”

“Yes, boss,” Calabrese replied acidly.

“You’re goddamned right!” Muldoon said.