Kiss - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора Ed McBain (12.) #12

12.

Forget the veined and bulbous nose, forget the razor nicks on his chin and cheeks, forget even the ill-fitting and somewhat rumpled suit. There was something more than his disheveled appearance that told you Frank Unger had long ago lost touch with anything more meaningful than alcohol. Lowell had not called him as a witness because he'd felt there was nothing positive he could add to their case.

Santa Claus Addison was clearly taking a chance by calling him now. The man seemed bewildered at finding himself here in a courtroom, the center of attraction at this moment in time. Watching him as he was sworn in that Monday morning, Carella couldn't imagine anyone on the jury believing a word he had to say.

"Mr. Unger," Addison said, "can you tell me where you live, please?”

"At 7828 Harrison Street, apartment 24.”

"How long have you lived in that neighborhood?”

"Fourteen years now. Be fourteen years in April," Unger said.

His voice was whiskey-raw, he had on his face an intense look of concentration, as if the very act of listening was difficult for him. Carella noticed that his fingers were nicotine-stained.

"Are you familiar, sir, with a liquor store called Empire Wines and Spirits at 7832 Harrison Street?”

"I am.”

"Do you occasionally shop at that store?”

"I do.”

"Mr. Unger, I ask you to think back to the night of July seventeenth last year, it was a Tuesday night, Mr. Unger, do you think you can recall back that far?”

"I think so.”

"A very hot night, we were having a hot summer, do you recall that night?”

"Yes, I do.”

"Mr. Unger, did you go to Empire Wines and Spirits that night at any time?”

"Yes, I did.”

"Would you happen to remember what time it was that you went there?”

"Around nine o'clock.”

"You recall that, do you?”

"Yes. I'd just given the cat some dry food -I like to make sure she's got food in her bowl all the time, there's just the two of us, you see -and I thought I'd have myself a little nightcap while I watched the ten o'clock news. What I usually do, I give the cat her dry food, and then I have a little nightcap while I watch the news. I usually go to sleep at eleven. That's my usual routine.”

"But that night you say you went down to the liquor store.”

"Yes. Because there wasn't anything in the house.

I'd run out, you see. So I decided I'd go down for some. To the liquor store. I knew they'd be open till ten.”

"And you say you went down at about nine.”

"Around then. It's just a few doors up the street, you see.”

"On the same side of the street as a bakery shop, isn't it?”

"Well, the shop's not there anymore.”

"But there used to be a shop at 7834 Harrison, didn't there?”

"Yes.”

"Called the AandL Bakery, isn't that right?”

"Yes.”

"Right next door to the liquor store.”

"Yes.”

"Mr. Unger, how long would you say you were in the liquor store?”

"Oh, fifteen, twenty minutes.”

“You got there at what time?”

"Five after nine? Ten after?”

"Well, which would you say?”

"Ten after, I guess.”

"And you were there for ... well, how many minutes?

Fifteen? Twenty?”

"I'd say twenty. I like to talk to people.

There's just me and the cat, you see.”

"So you conducted your business there ...”

"Bought a fifth of bourbon, yes.”

"And talked to ... well, who'd you talk to?”

"Ralph. The man who owns Empire.”

"And you say you left about twenty minutes after you got there.”

"Yes.”

"Which would make it about nine-thirty.”

"Yes, sir. Just about that time.”

"You came out onto the street at nine-thirty, did you?”

"Yes.”

"Did you hear anything at that time?”

"I heard shots.”

"How many.”

"Three.”

"Where were they coming from?”

"The bakery shop next door.”

"Did you see anyone coming out of the bakery?”

"I did. Almost knocked me over, in fact.”

"Who almost knocked you over?”

"The man coming out of the bakery.”

"You saw a man coming out of the bakery ...”

"Running out of the bakery.”

"And you say he almost knocked you over?”

"That's right. And told me to get the hell out of his way.”

"Are you sure you didn't see two men running out of the bakery?”

"Positive. It was just the one man.”

"Do you see the man sitting there at the defense table?" Addison said, and pointed to where Sonny Cole was sitting erect with his hands folded in his lap.

"Yes, I see him," Unger said.

"Is he the man you saw running out of the bakery shop at 7834 Harrison Street last July seventeenth at nine-thirty P.M.?”

"No, he is not," Unger said.

Addison walked to the defense table, picked up what to Carella-from where he was sitting -looked like a black-and-white photograph, and carried it back to the witness stand.

"Your Honor," he said, "I would like this marked for identification.”

"Mark it Exhibit A," Di Pasco said.

"May I show it to the witness, Your Honor?”

"Yes, go ahead.”

"Mr. Unger, I show you this, and ask if you recognize the man in the photograph?”

"Yes, I do.”

"Who is he?”

"I don't know his name. He's the man I saw running out of the bakery shop.”

"When?”

"On July seventeenth last year.”

"At what time?”

"At nine-thirty P.M.”

"Your Honor, I would like this photograph moved into evi ...”

"Just a minute, please," Lowell said at once. "Objection, Your Honor. There's no foundation for admitting that picture as evidence. I don't know where it came from, I don't know who took it, I don't even know who the subject ...”

"Let's approach," Di Pasco said.

Both attorneys went to the bench.

"Where'd you get that picture?" Di Pasco asked.

"From the New Orleans PAID," Addison said.

"Who's it a picture of?”

"Desmond Whittaker. It's the mug shot taken at the time of his arrest.”

"Well, really, your Honor," Lowell said, "I don't know if this came from New Orleans or Timbuktu. I don't know if it's a mug shot or a graduation picture. Without corroboration ...”

"You don't really doubt its authenticity, do you, Mr. Lowell?”

"Well, Your Honor, all I know is it's a photograph. Where it came from, whose picture it is ...”

"It came from arrest files in the New Orleans PAID," Addison said. "And it's a picture of ...”

"So you tell me. But until someone from the New Orleans PAID can testify to that effect ...”

"I can supply such a witness if the district attorney insists, but ...”

"Well, yes, I do insist.”

"... but that would require an adjournment,”

Addison said. "And, of course, a subsequent waste of the court's time.”

"Do you really want him to provide that witness, Mr. Lowell? I can understand bringing someone all the way up from New Orleans if you sincerely doubt the picture's authenticity. But I must tell you, if you're doing this just to break Mr. Addison's chops ...”

Addison smiled.

"... and mine as well, you might do better to let that picture move in unchallenged.”

Lowell looked at him.

"What do you say?" Di Pasco asked. "Do we stipulate?”

"Sure," Lowell said, and sighed heavily.

"Good," Di Pasco said, and turned to the jury. "The parties have stipulated that Exhibit A may be moved into evidence," he said. "Mark it," he told the clerk, and then nodded to Addison.

"Let the record indicate," Addison said, walking back to the witness stand, "that Exhibit A is a photograph of Desmond Albert Whittaker, alias Diz Whittaker, taken by the New Orleans Police Department at the time of his arrest in Louisiana six years ago. Now, Mr. Unger," he said, "I'd like you to take another look at this photo, if you will.”

Unger studied the picture again.

"Are you absolutely certain that Desmond Albert Whittaker is the man you saw coming out of the bakery shop at 7834 Harrison Street last July seventeenth at nine-thirty P.M.?”

"It is.”

"Did he have a gun in his hand?”

"He did.”

"And you say he was alone?”

"He was alone.”

"Thank you, no further questions.”

Lowell took his time rising. When at last he approached the stand, he appeared thoughtful and a trifle sad.

"Mr. Unger," he said, "you say you live alone, just you and your cat.”

“That's right.”

"Have you always lived alone?”

"No, I'm a widower.”

"I'm sorry to hear that. When did you lose your wife?”

"Six years ago.”

"Ah. I'm sorry," Lowell said.

He did, in fact, seem genuinely sorry, and Carella wondered why in hell he was garnering sympathy for a witness who-if the jury believed him-had just shot down their entire case. If Desmond Whittaker had been operating alone that night ...

"Just you and the cat now," Lowell said.

"Yes.”

"And you feed the cat his dry food every night before the news.”

"Yes. Around nine.”

"What time do you eat, Mr. Unger?”

"Well, that depends.”

"Dinner, I mean. What time do you normally eat dinner?”

"Depends.”

"Do you eat when you get home from work? Well, first ... do you work, Mr. Unger?”

"No, I'm retired.”

"Ah. Then you're home all day, is that it?

Just you and the cat.”

"Yes.”

"How do you spend your time, Mr. Unger?”

"I have hobbies.”

"Like what?”

"I clip things from the newspapers. I send away for things. I have hobbies.”

"Do you drink, Mr. Unger?”

"Drink?”

"Alcohol. Do you drink alcohol?”

"Objection, Your Honor.”

"Overruled. Answer the question, please.”

"Yes, I drink alcohol. Everyone drinks alcohol.”

"Well, no, everyone does not drink alcohol.”

"Objection!" Addison shouted.

"Argumentative, harassing the ...”

"Sustained.”

"Tell me, Mr. Unger," Lowell said, "just how much alcohol do you drink?”

"One or two cocktails a day.”

"Cocktails.”

“Yes.”

"Mixed drinks, do you mean?”

"Yes.”

"What'd you mix your bourbon with that night of July seventeenth last year?”

"I'm sorry, I don't understand the question.”

"You said you bought a fifth of bourbon at Empire ...”

"Oh. Yes, I did.”

"To drink with the ten o'clock news. Did you, in fact, drink any of that bourbon when you went back upstairs?”

"Yes, I did.”

"Well, with what did you mix it?”

Unger looked at him.

"Mr. Unger? Will you answer my question, please?”

"I didn't mix it with anything.”

"Ah. So you drank it straight.”

"Yes.”

"So then you don't mix your drinks, do you?

You drink your whiskey straight, isn't that more like it?”

"Sometimes I mix it, and sometimes I drink it straight.”

"When you mix it, Mr. Unger, with what do you mix it?”

"A little water, usually.”

"And that's what you call a mixed drink, hmm?

Bourbon and a little water.”

"Yes, that is a mixed drink. If you mix the bourbon with a little water, that's a mixed drink, isn't it?”

"But on the night of the seventeenth, when you went upstairs after having seen this man come out of the liquor store, you did not mix your bourbon with a little water, you drank it straight, didn't you?”

"Yes.”

"How many drinks did you have when you went back upstairs, Mr. Unger?”

"I usually have a little nightcap when I'm watching the ten o'clock news.”

"Yes, how many drinks?”

"One or two.”

"Which?”

"Two.”

"How many ounces?”

"Just a little nightcap.”

"Well, what's just a little nightcap? A jigger? Two jiggers? A water tumbler - ...”

"No, no, certainly not a water tumbler.”

"Then what? A juice glass?”

"More like a juice glass, yes.”

"So after you saw this man in the street, and before you went to bed, you drank two juice glasses full of bourbon.”

"Yes. Something like that.”

"How many drinks did you have before you saw this man in the street?”

"I really don't remember.”

"But you did have something to drink, isn't that so?”

"Yes, I usually have a little drink in the afternoon.”

"Do you usually have a little drink in the morning, too?”

"Sometimes I'll have a little eye-opener.”

"What time in the afternoon did you have your little drink on July seventeenth last year?”

"I don't remember.”

"Was it just one little drink? Or was it two little drinks?”

"It may have been two.”

"Bourbon?”

"Yes. I usually drink bourbon.”

"Two juice glasses full of bourbon?”

"With a little water.”

"I see, with a little water. Mixed drinks then.”

"Yes.”

"Did you have these drinks before dinner? With dinner?

After dinner?”

"Well ...”

"Or tell me, Mr. Unger, did you have dinner at all that night?”

"I don't remember.”

"Well, do you sometimes go without dinner?”

"Sometimes.”

"I see. Mr. Unger ... before you saw this man or men coming ...”

"Objection, Your Honor! Witness has stated he saw only one ...”

"Sustained.”

"Mr. Unger, can you tell me how many drinks you'd had during that morning and afternoon and evening and night of July seventeenth last year before you saw this man coming out of the bakery shop?”

"No, I can't tell you exactly.”

"Can you estimate how many drinks you had?”

"No, I can't do that, either.”

“Had you been drinking all day long, Mr.

Unger?”

Unger said nothing.

"You're under oath, Mr. Unger. Had you been drinking all day long?”

"Yes.”

"And that was when you saw this man coming out of the bakery shop. After you'd been drinking all day long.”

"Yes.”

"Mr. Unger, when Detectives Wade and Bent first interviewed you ... you do remember them talking to you, don't you?”

"Yes, I do.”

"Didn't you tell them you'd seen two men coming out of that bakery shop?”

"I don't remember what I told them.”

"Well, let me refresh your memory. Would you take a look at this, please?" he said, and handed him a sheaf of papers. Unger read the pages silently. When at last he looked up, Lowell asked, "Can you tell me what you've just read?”

"It's a report on the conversation I had with the detectives.”

"Is the report dated?”

"It is.”

"What is the date on that report?”

"July eighteenth last year.”

"And do you now recall stating that on or about nine-thirty the night before, you'd seen two black men running out of the AandL Bakery Shop toward you. Did you say that, Mr. Unger?”

"I guess I did.”

"And did you further state that one of those men was carrying a gun?”

"I guess so.”

"Yes or no, Mr. Unger? Did you make those statements?”

"Yes.”

"But you now say there was only one man?”

"Yes. Anyway, I told them later ...”

"Yes, what did you tell them later?”

"That I couldn't remember. When they were showing me all those pictures and the artist's sketches, I told them I couldn't remember.”

"Yes, so you did. But now, all at once, you do remember. No further questions, Your Honor.”

"Mr. Addison?”

“Yes, Your Honor, if you'll indulge me," Addison said, and approached the witness stand. "Mr. Unger," he said, "just two quick questions. Were you drunk when you saw that man coming out of the bakery shop?”

"I was not!”

"Thank you. And can you tell me why you're now so certain it was only one man you saw and not two?”

"Because I've given it a lot of thought since that night. And it's bothered me all this time that I might have been mistaken ... that an innocent man might suffer for what somebody else did.”

"Thank you, Mr. Unger.”

Lowell came at him again.

No preamble, no politesse.

Just a tiger lunging out of a cage.

"Have you ever been drunk?”

"Yes.”

"How many drinks does it take to make you drunk?”

"That varies. Inebriation depends on body weight, and I've weighed ...”

"Five? Six? Eight? Twelve? A fifth? A quart? A half-gallon? How much liquor does it take to make you drunk?”

"I would say ... I really don't know.”

"How many drinks did you have that day?”

"I don't remember.”

"Then how do you know you weren't drunk?”

"I know I wasn't drunk.”

"You were drinking all day long but you weren't drunk?”

"I have a great tolerance for alcohol.”

"I'll bet," Lowell said under his breath.

"Your Honor ...”

"Strike that.”

"Who's this innocent person you're feeling so sorry for?" Lowell asked.

"I don't understand the question.”

"You said an innocent man might suffer for what someone else ...”

"Oh. The accused.”

"Samson Cole? The man being tried here for the murder of Anthony Carella?”

"Yes.”

"You're afraid he might suffer for what his partner did?”

"Objec ...”

"Are you aware that if both of them were in that bakery shop together, it doesn't matter who pulled the trigger, they'd both be ...”

"Your Honor, I object!”

"I'll instruct the jury as to law when the time comes, Mr. Lowell.”

"I apologize, Your Honor. And I have no further questions. But before Mr. Addison calls his next witness, and while Mr. Unger is still in the courtroom, may I ask that Dominick Assanti be recalled at this time?”

"For what purpose?" Di Pasco asked.

"Solely for identification, Your Honor.”

"Call Dominick Assanti," Di Pasco said.

Carella watched as he was sworn in. He was wondering whether Lowell had made his point clear about the unreliability of Unger as a witness.

He was also wondering why he hadn't hounded him on the fact that he'd changed his mind yet again on exactly whom he'd seen that night. Addison had tried to make it seem he'd come forward now for purely altruistic reasons. But wasn't it possible that he was identifying a dead man so that if the live one got off, he wouldn't come back to hurt him? Shouldn't Lowell at least have mentioned the fear of reprisal?

"... ask you to look at Mr. Unger now, and tell me if he's the man you saw coming out of Empire Wines and Spirits on the night of July seventeenth last year?”

"He is," Assanti said.

"And is he the man who almost got knocked over by the two men you saw running from the bakery shop?”

"He is.”

"How close to him were they?”

"Two feet? A foot? They almost knocked him over.”

"Where was this?”

"On the sidewalk.”

"Where on the sidewalk?”

"Under the street lamp.”

"Brightly lighted, was it?”

"V.”

"Could you see all three of them clearly from where you were standing?”

"Plain as day.”

"And of course they could see each other.”

"Objection!”

"Sustained.”

“Well, were they facing each other?”

"They were standing face to face, yes.”

"Looking at each other?”

"Looking each other dead in the eye.”

"Thank you, no further questions.”

"Mr. Addison?”

"No questions. I would like Doris Franceschi to take the stand, please.”

They were lunching at a little place across the bridge in Calm's Point. Bowles had chosen it because he was certain none of his clients or colleagues would be caught dead in a little Italian restaurant in a shitty neighborhood like this one. The restaurant was on the second floor of a clapboard building painted green, white, and red on the outside to resemble a gigantic Italian flag flapping in the wind. In the good old days, the people living in this neighborhood enjoyed the sight of that big flag announcing their heritage. Now the neighborhood was black and nobody cared what the green, white, and red represented. They only knew that some wops named Mariano ran a restaurant upstairs on the corner of Berris and Twelfth, and the stink in the air was garlic.

Bowles was in a very good mood. Perhaps because he'd consumed two gin martinis before lunch and was now working on the bottle of Pinot Grigio Santa Margherita he'd ordered for both of them. Andrew was wondering if perhaps Bowles's bimbo had accompanied him out of town this past weekend, which also might have accounted for the extremely fine mood he was in. Andrew was here to tell him that he wanted him to go out of town this coming weekend as well. Andrew was here to tell him that he planned to kill Emma this Friday night.

But for now, all was conviviality and camaraderie. Two good old buddies eating pasta and drinking good wine. Andrew wondered if Bowles had even the slightest suspicion that he'd spent the entire weekend with his wife, fucking her silly. Didn't leave the apartment until late yesterday, after Emma had called Boston to ascertain from her husband that he'd be catching a five o'clock plane. He wondered how Bowles might react to such news. Would he even care? Andrew doubted it.

"Did you have a good weekend?" Bowles asked.

"Yes, very nice, thank you," Andrew - said.

"So did I," Bowles said, and winked.

Actually winked. Andrew thought What a shmuck.

Shoveling another forkful of pasta into his mouth now. Picking up the glass of wine, washing the pasta down. "Have you ever been in love?" he asked suddenly.

"Never," Andrew said.

This was a lie. He'd loved Katie Briggs with every fiber in his being.

"Pity," Bowles said. "You're missing a lot. I can't tell you what it's like to be with a woman who fills my days and nights with joy ...”

Oh boy, Andrew thought.

"... whose every glance is like a beam of sunshine ...”

Boy oh boy oh boy, Andrew thought.

"... whose very presence sets me tingling.”

Linguini was hanging from the tines of his fork. He sucked it into his mouth. Andrew watched him chewing. Tall, slender man with dark hair and brown eyes, the handsomest man Emma had ever seen in her life, or so she'd said. He wondered if she'd changed her mind about that since the weekend.

"... down on it like a peppermint stick," he was saying now. "Can't get enough of it. Emma doesn't know how to do it, or doesn't care to do it ...”

That's what you think, Andrew thought.

Bowles picked up his wineglass and drained it. "I'll be happy when she's gone," he said, and signaled to the waiter to fill both glasses again. The waiter poured for them, put the bottle back into the bucket, and walked off. Bowles leaned forward. Lowering his voice, he said, "Do you know what I'm going to do when I'm free?”

"No, what?”

"Really free, I mean. I'm talking about months later. When I'm no longer a suspect. Maybe a year later, I'll have to play it by ear.”

"If this works the way I want it to, you won't be a suspect at all," Andrew said.

"Well, just to be sure.”

"I don't think you need to worry.”

"Even so. Let's say six months, to play it safe. Six months afterward, I'm going to marry Liddy, that's her name ... well, Lydia, actually, but I call her Liddy. Do you know what Lydia means in Greek?”

"No, what does it mean?”

"It means cultured.”

"I see.”

"And she is, too. Cultured," he said, and nodded, and picked up his glass again, and drank from it. It occurred to Andrew that his speech was becoming somewhat slurred. He hoped the man wouldn't get drunk. He wanted him to understand all the arrangements.

"Are you familiar with the Raines family in Chicago?" Bowles asked.

"No," Andrew said.

"I thought you were from Chicago.”

"I am. But I don't know anyone named Raines there.”

"Very wealthy banking family. Raines.

Geoffrey Waincroft Raines was her father.”

"I still don't know the name.”

"Powerful family. Well, that was how we got onto you. Lydia made a few calls to Chicago, asked a few discreet questions, and voilá. Fait accompli." He accompanied this last with a little gesture of his fork, as though waving a magic wand. "The rich and the powerful," he said, nodding and digging into the linguini again. "We'll make a good team. Her money, my money. Lots of money.”

Exactly the words Emma had used.

Lots of money.

The same words now.

"I'm plenty rich as it is, you understand ...”

"So I understand.”

"But it never hurts to have more, does it?”

"Never does," Andrew said. "Maybe I should raise my price.”

"Nosirree," Bowles said, and cocked a finger at him. "A deal is a deal.”

"Just kidding," Andrew said.

"What was I saying?”

"Lots of money.”

"Before that.”

"Six months later ...”

"Right, six months later I'll marry Liddy. And we'll go on a honeymoon to the South Pacific. I've always wanted to go to the South Pacific. Bali, Sumatra, Bora Bora ...”

"Me, too," Andrew said.

"... Samoa ... really? Is that one of your dreams?”

"Yes.”

"All those girls in nothing but grass skirts," Bowles said, and grinned. "Well, not on my honeymoon, anyway," he said, and winked again, and again drained his glass.

"Better go easy," Andrew said, "we've got a lot to discuss.”

"I'm fine, don't worry about it," Bowles said, waving away his caution. "Who was it went down there? Gauguin, wasn't it? Emma would know, she used to be an art student. Got himself a harem down there, surrounded himself with all those young native girls. Little dusky girls in sarongs.

You ever had yourself a little dusky girl?”

"Not in the South Pacific," Andrew said.

"But you had one, huh?”

"Several.”

"Are they as good as people say?”

"I don't know what people say. Women are women," Andrew said flatly. "Let's talk about your wife.”

Bowles looked around as if someone had fired a pistol.

"It's all right, the place is almost empty,”

Andrew said.

"The waiter's standing right there.”

"He barely understands English.”

"Barely is enough if people are talking about ...”

Bowles lowered his voice. "About what we're about to talk about.”

Andrew looked him flat in the eye.

"Want to go for a walk then?”

"In this neighborhood?”

"You're the one who chose it.”

"No, I'd rather stay here.”

"Then let's get some coffee," Andrew said, and signaled again to the waiter.

Bowles commented on the fact that the cappuccino was frothy and lukewarm, not scalding hot the way some restaurants served it. Apparently he was a cappuccino expert. Andrew was drinking regular coffee, so he really couldn't appreciate what Bowles was saying. He hoped only that the lukewarm cappuccino with its milky white froth would help clear Bowles's head. He didn't want any mistakes here. Not with the timetable so tight. Not if this thing was going to work.

"Are you planning any other weekend trips?”

he asked. Bowles was now on his second cup of lukewarm cappuccino. His eyes seemed clearer.

His speech was no longer halting.

"When did you have in mind?" he asked.

"I thought this coming weekend might be a good time,”

Andrew said.

Their waiter was standing at the bar, talking to the bartender. There were only two other people in the place, sitting over near the entrance door. He and Bowles were virtually whispering; Andrew felt certain they could not be overheard.

"When exactly?" Bowles asked.

"Friday afternoon sometime. I just don't want you there on Friday night.”

"Is that when you plan to ...?was "I think it'd be best if you weren't in the apartment on Friday night.”

"We're talking about the Friday that's coming up, are we?”

"The eighteenth," Andrew said, and nodded.

"Well, yes, I think I may have some business in Miami that weekend.”

"Good, go to Miami. Make sure you let someone know where you can be reached.”

"I'll leave word with Emma.”

Andrew looked at him.

"Oh," Bowles said. "Well, I'll ... uh ...”

All at once startled by the thought that this thing was really going to happen, someone was really going to kill his wife.

"... make sure my secretary knows where I'll be staying. In case ... uh ... anyone needs to reach me.”

"Go alone," Andrew said.

"What?”

"Don't take the bimbo.”

"What?”

"Leave precious Liddy home. You won't need your little ray of sunshine in Miami. Now listen and listen carefully, because this is the last time we'll be talking until it's over and done with.

I'll wait for you to get back, wait till the cops are through with you, wait till I get your call. Then I'll meet you at the pay locker, and we'll open it together.”

"I still wish you didn't have to go into that safe.”

"Do you want protection or don't you?”

"It's just ...”

"If it looks like a burglar did it, you're home free.”

"I just think meeting you afterward is risky. In case they're still watching me or something.”

"Look, you can't have this both ways," Andrew said, his voice rising. "Either you trust me or ...”

"Shhhh, shhhh," Bowles said, and glanced toward the couple sitting by the door.

"If you trusted me," Andrew whispered, "it'd be a different story. I'd leave the stuff in a locker, and get out of town the same night I did it, even before the police knew anyone was dead!”

"Shhh, come on," Bowles said again.

"But you want to make sure I won't stick you with a bunch of shit from the five-and-dime ...”

"Well, no, but ...”

"... which is okay, I'd do the same thing. Just tell me where you want me to stash it. Name a place where there are lockers, anyplace you know where there are pay lockers, and I'll put the stuff there and meet you with the key as soon as I hear from you.”

Bowles thought for several moments.

Then he said, "The Mayfair Building. There are helicopters that leave from there for Franklin, if you want to fly out right afterward. The pay lockers are on the forty-sixth floor.”

"Good," Andrew said. "You have my number.

I'll be waiting for you to call as soon as you're sure the cops are done with you.”

He was lying.

The idea, of course, was to dress her so that she looked like the sort of woman who could turn a man's mind to mush. Calling her a woman was a stretch in itself in that Doris Franceschi-or Frankie, as Addison insisted on calling her -was but a mere sixteen years old, and entertaining lewd or lascivious thoughts about her could easily have landed a grown man in jail. But Addison's ploy was to treat her like a femme fatale, emphasizing the male name while advertising the contradictory femaleness of the witness sitting up there crossing and uncrossing her long, splendid legs.

Frankie was wearing a short, tight black leather skirt, and black stockings, and black high-heeled pumps, and a tight red silk blouse that was bursting with adolescent jewels. Every time she uncrossed her legs, the jury was afforded a quick forbidden glimpse of satin or silk, obliterated in the very next instant when once again she crossed them. Matching the black leather skirt and black stockings was long black hair that cascaded on either side of a pale white face with eyes the color of rich dark loam.

Her mouth was full and sensuous, adorned with lipstick the color of the blouse. You could imagine Dominick Assanti losing himself in that mouth, imagine him getting dizzy with thoughts of Frankie as he remembered what they'd done together in her hallway.

Watching her, Louise Carella was thinking that if her daughter had ever dressed that way when she was sixteen, she'd have broken her head.

Sitting beside her, Angela was thinking that after delivering twins, she herself would never look that way again-if ever she had. Carella was thinking that dressing her like an Ainsley Avenue whore wasn't going to help Addison's case-he hoped.

"Can you tell us," Addison said, "about what time it was when you and Mr. Assanti were in your hallway together?”

"It was sometime between a quarter to nine and twenty after nine.”

"What were you doing during that time, do you remember?”

"Yes," Frankie said.

"Tell us," Addison said, and swung one arm wide to the jury, virtually bowing in her anticipated testimony. Nine men on that jury, three of them white, four black, and two Hispanic, all of them ogling young Frankie regardless of race, creed, or color. The three women watched her, too, thinking God only knew what.

"I guess we were necking," she said.

"By necking, do you mean ..." Withdraw that.

Frankie, tell us what you mean by necking?”

"Well, you know. Kissing.”

"Were you doing anything else besides kissing?”

"Yes.”

"And what was that?”

"Well, petting, I guess.”

"How would you define petting?”

"Well, you know.”

"If it wouldn't embarrass you, could you please tell us exactly what you mean by petting?”

"Well, it would embarrass me, actually.”

"In which case I withdraw the question. As I understand it, then, you were necking and petting in your hallway for at least forty minutes.”

"Yes.”

"What happened then?”

"My father called me to come upstairs, so I went up.”

"Where did Mr. Assanti go?”

"Home.”

"How would you describe his condition at that time?”

"At what time?”

"When he left you.”

"He was excited, I guess.”

"He has testified that he was dizzy with thoughts of you. Did he seem dizzy?”

"Yes, he seemed very excited.”

"Can you think of any other words that might describe his condition?”

"Agitated. Upset. Very excited.”

"Upset about what?”

"Well, that I wouldn't let him ... well ... you know.”

"So when he left you, he was excited, agitated, and upset.”

"I'd say that's what he was, yes.

Extremely excited.”

"Did you see him again that night?”

"I did.”

"When?”

"He came back about ten minutes later.”

"Back to your house?”

"Yes.”

"Was he still agitated at that time?”

"He was even more agitated.”

"How do you mean?”

"Well, he was, you know, like babbling.”

"Babbling?”

"Yes.”

"In his excited state, did he tell you he saw two men coming out of the AandL Bakery?”

"No. All he said was he saw some guy with a gun.”

"Were those his exact words?”

"Yes. Some guy with a gun.”

"Thank you, no further questions.”

Lowell rose slowly, nodding as he did, still nodding as he approached the witness stand.

Frankie uncrossed her legs and then crossed them again. Lowell kept nodding.

"Miss Franceschi," he said, "am I correct in assuming that you were only fifteen years old in July of last year?”

"Almost sixteen," she said.

"Nonetheless, not yet sixteen.”

"I was sixteen in November.”

"So you were still three, four months away from your sixteenth birthday on that night of July seventeenth, is that correct?”

"Yes.”

"You were fifteen years old, and you were necking and petting in your hallway for half an hour, forty minutes, whatever it was ...”

"Yes.”

"Which excited Mr. Assanti, you say ...”

"Objection, Your Honor.”

"Overruled.”

"You've described him as becoming dizzy ...”

"Yes.”

"And agitated.”

"Yes.”

"And upset.”

"Yes.”

"Did you become any of these things?”

"No.”

"You weren't dizzy?”

"I wasn't dizzy, no.”

"Even though you were only fifteen years old, and you'd been petting for some thirty, forty minutes?”

"We weren't petting that long. First we were just necking.”

"How long had you been petting, would you say?”

"Only fifteen minutes or so.”

"Only fifteen minutes. Was this a usual thing for you? Petting in hallways?”

"No, it ...”

"Objection, Your Honor!”

"Where are you going, Mr. Lowell?”

"Directly to Miss Franceschi's state of mind at the time, Your Honor.”

"That had better be where you're going.

Proceed.”

"So petting in hallways wasn't a usual thing for you?”

"If you're trying to say ...”

"Just answer the question, please. Was petting in hallways a usual thing for you, or - wasn't it?”

"It was not. I was going steady with Dom, that's the only reason ...”

"But even though this wasn't a usual thing for you, it didn't get you as excited as it seemed to get Mr. Assanti, is that right?”

"Well ...”

"Is that right, Miss Franceschi?”

"I wasn't as excited as he seemed to be, that's right.”

"How excited were you?”

"I was excited, but I certainly knew what I was doing.”

"Were you very excited, as you testified Mr.

Assanti was?”

"I suppose you could say I was very excited.

But I still ...”

"Were you extremely excited, as you further testified Mr. Assanti was?”

"No, I wasn't extremely excited.

And, anyway, however excited I was, by the time Dom came back, I was completely in control of myself again.”

"Had you not been in control of yourself earlier?”

"Yes, I was in control of myself earlier, too.”

"Then why did you have to regain control of yourself?”

"I didn't say I ...”

"You said you were completely in control again.”

"Yes, but ...”

"Which indicates you'd earlier lost control, isn't that right?”

"Only in that I was excited.”

"Excited enough to have lost control, but not excited enough to be extremely excited.”

"I didn't know there were different levels of excitement," she said, and nodded to the jury in prim satisfaction.

"Well, apparently you think there are,”

Lowell said. "There's just plain excited, and there's very excited, and there's extremely excited, and there's also agitated and upset. Those are all your words, all of them used by you to describe different levels of excitement. I ask you now, Miss Franceschi, isn't it possible that you yourself were in such a high state of excitement that ...?was "Objection, Your Honor. Anything's possible. It's possible that the roof of this - courtroom could fall in at any moment, it's possible that ...”

"Yes, yes, Mr. Addison, sustained.”

"Miss Franceschi, were you so excited that you misunderstood what Mr. Assanti was telling you?”

"No, I understood him completely. He said he saw some guy with a gun.”

"What did you say to him when he told you that?”

"I said he should go to the police.”

"And did he?”

"I don't think so. I think they found him later. On their own.”

"After what you'd told them, isn't that right?”

"Yes.”

"About him having witnessed the aftermath of the shooting.”

"Yes.”

"Now tell me, when Detectives Wade and Bent questioned you, did you know they were looking for two men?”

"No, I didn't know that.”

"You do remember talking to them on the night of July seventeenth last year, don't you?”

"Yes, I remember talking to them.”

"Well, didn't they ask if you'd seen two black men running from the direction of the bakery shop?”

"They may have asked me that, I really don't remember.”

"Well, perhaps this will refresh your memory,”

Lowell said, and handed her a sheaf of papers.

"Could you read these please? Take your time, study them carefully." He waited while she read the papers he had handed her. When she looked up at last, he asked, "Can you tell me what it is you just read?”

"It looks like a report on my conversation with the detectives.”

"Yes, and do you now remember them asking if you'd seen two black men running from the direction of the bakery shop?”

"Yes, I suppose they asked me that.”

"Did they or didn't they?”

"They did.”

"Well, did you correct their misapprehension?”

"What misapprehension?”

"Did you tell them it wasn't two men running from the direction of the bakery shop, - it was only one?”

"No, I didn't tell them that.”

"You didn't feel it was necessary to correct them?”

"I told them what Dom told me, that's all.”

"They asked if you'd seen two men coming this way ...”