The Anonymous Client

16

District Attorney Harry Dirkson shifted his bulk in his chair, ran his hand over his bald head, and frowned. Jesus Christ, what a fucking mess. First Phillip Harding getting murdered, and now Marilyn Harding mixed up in the murder of a blackmailer. The media always loved to see rich and powerful people in trouble, but not Dirkson. Rich and powerful people had connections. They could stir things up, make waves, put pressure on you. And you always had to step lightly. If you let someone big off the hook, the press and the public would scream bloody murder. And if you went after them, and they were big enough, there was no telling who you might offend.

Still, Phillip Harding was dead, and Marilyn was just a kid, too young to have any significant political connections. So the situation shouldn’t have been that bad. Except for one thing. Steve Winslow.

Steve Winslow. The name haunted Dirkson like a death knell. Steve Winslow. Dirkson had had only one case against Steve Winslow, but that had been enough. Steve Winslow was young and inexperienced, probably didn’t even know that much law, but Jesus Christ. The man was a clown, that was the problem. An actor, a showman, a jury-grandstander. After the things Winslow had done in court, Dirkson had been lucky to escape with his political career. And here he was, popping up again to taunt him. Steve Winslow discovered in the dead man’s apartment. Steve Winslow interviewing Marilyn Harding at her mansion.

And now this. Now this young woman sitting before him. The young woman who had been apprehended attempting to enter the dead man’s building. The young woman who’d told a few unconvincing lies to the police and then clammed, refusing to talk and demanding to call her attorney. And who was that attorney?

Steve Winslow.

Dirkson glanced over at Sergeant Stams, stolid and impassive as ever. Then at the stenographer, waiting, pen poised, for something to take down. And finally at the young woman, the girl, really, who might well be a college student for all he knew, sitting there in blue jeans, sweater, and glasses, her jaw set in an angry pout as if she’d just been called into the Dean’s office and was refusing to name the names of the students to whom she’d slipped answers on the final exam.

Dirkson sighed. “Now, Miss Garvin, let’s try this one more time. What were you doing at that apartment building?”

Tracy said nothing.

“There’s no reason to keep you here,” Dirkson said. “If you would just tell us what you were doing, I’m sure you could go home.”

“I have nothing to say. I want to call my lawyer.”

“We called your lawyer. He’s not home.” A fact for which Dirkson was grateful.

Tracy set her jaw again.

“You must understand, Miss Garvin,” Dirkson said. “I don’t think you had anything to do with this murder. I think the whole idea’s absurd. But you must see, your refusal to answer questions and demanding to see a lawyer is suspicious. It’s more suspicious than your going to that building. So you’re really only making trouble for yourself.

“Now then,” Dirkson said, with a glance at the stenographer, “I would certainly not want to violate your constitutional rights, and I would be the first person to suggest that you are entitled to a lawyer should you want one. But as a reasonable man, I have to ask myself, why in the world would a decent young woman such as yourself want a lawyer?”

The door opened. Dirkson frowned. The sergeant who had been standing guard in the outer office came in.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said to Dirkson. “But there’s a man here says you sent for him.”

“What?” Dirkson said.

“Yes, sir. He says he’s a witness and you called him in. He says you want to question him and-Hey!”

Steve Winslow stepped in front of the sergeant, took in the scene at a glance, and said, “Hello, Dirkson.”

Tracy Garvin gasped and relief flooded over her features like a drowning person who’s just been thrown a lifeline. Sergeant Stams’s jaw dropped open, and his face darkened, murderously.

Only Dirkson kept his cool. Dozens of thoughts flashed through his head-my god, he hasn’t changed a bit; he’s still a clown; same hair, same clothes who the hell would dress that way? how the hell’d he find us?; who’s this damn sergeant, and how stupid can he be, and who the hell assigned him, anyway? some heads are going to roll for this-but his face reflected none of them. Instead he matched Steve’s smile and said, calmly, “Mr. Winslow. And how did you get in here?”

Steve smiled. “Being a private citizen, I just walked in. You, I believe, had to be elected.”

The sergeant, fearful he was in deep shit, said, “He’s not a witness? He said you sent for him, and-”

“I’m sure he did,” Dirkson said. “Don’t worry about it. But if you would just go see that no one else gets in here.”

“There’s another man out there,” the sergeant said.

Dirkson looked at Steve. “Oh? You brought reinforcements? And who might he be?”

“Mark Taylor.”

“Of the Taylor Detective Agency?”

“That’s right.”

Dirkson exchanged a glance with Stams. “Well, that’s mighty interesting.” Dirkson turned to the sergeant. “Tell the gentleman to stick around.”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant gave Steve Winslow an aggrieved look, and went out, closing the door.

Dirkson turned back to Steve. “Well, Mr. Winslow. I wasn’t expecting you, but I’m sort of glad you’re here. We have a little situation here.”

“And what is that?”

“This young woman,” Dirkson said, indicating Tracy Garvin, “was apprehended attempting to enter the scene of a crime. We’ve been trying to question her about it, but she’s being most uncooperative. At first she tried to give the cops some song and dance about visiting some friend in the building. When she saw they weren’t buying it, she clammed. I haven’t been able to get a word out of her.”

“That’s not true,” Tracy said. “All I said was I wouldn’t answer any questions except in the presence of my attorney.”

Steve Winslow grinned. “And did you tell them I was your attorney?”

“Of course.”

Steve’s grin grew broader. He looked at Dirkson. “I see. And the minute she told you that, you and Stams figured you’d hit the jackpot, and instead of letting her contact me, you’ve been grilling her ever since.”

Dirkson stole a look at the stenographer. “Not at all. We let her call you right away. You weren’t there.”

Steve grinned. “I’m sure that broke your heart.”

“And I don’t see why this young woman needs a lawyer to begin with. She’s not a suspect, she’s a witness.”

“A witness? Witness to what?”

“I don’t know. She won’t talk.”

Steve laughed. “You’re really going about this ass-backwards, aren’t you?”

“Not at all. But your being here simplifies things. She says she won’t talk except in the presence of her attorney. All right, young lady, now your attorney’s here. You can talk. Unless, of course, you’re going to advise her not to answer questions.”

Steve Winslow shook his head. “I’m not going to do that.”

Dirkson smiled. “Well, that’s a refreshing change. All right, Miss Garvin, your attorney’s here and he’s not advising you not to answer questions. So let’s have it. What were you doing in that apartment house?”

“The reason I’m not advising her not to answer questions,” Steve put in, “is because she’s not my client. Miss Garvin happens to be my confidential secretary, and as such, all matters regarding my clients are considered to be confidential communications, and she is under no obligation to discuss them.”

Dirkson blinked. “This woman is your secretary?”

“That’s what I just said.”

Dirkson turned to Tracy. “Why didn’t you tell me you were his secretary?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Yes, but-”

“Come on, Dirkson,” Steve said. “I’d drop it if I were you. She told you she wanted to consult me before answering your questions. She couldn’t reach me, and you kept questioning her, so she kept quiet. Now you’re crabbing because she didn’t tell you something?”

Dirkson took a breath and blew it out again. “All right, Winslow. I’ll ask the questions of you.”

“I may not be of much help either.”

“I know. But if it’s going to be like that, I’d like to have your refusal to answer in the record.”

“Put it in the record, then. I’m not answering any questions.”

“I can take you before the grand jury, you know.”

“You still can’t make me testify.”

“About confidential communications, no. But this is something else. You yourself are actively involved. You’re a witness. More than that, you’re a suspect. At least with regard to tampering with evidence. I must tell you frankly, Sergeant Stams thinks you took something out of that apartment.”

Steve gave Stams a look. “Sergeant Stams is entitled to his opinion.”

“He is also of the opinion that Marilyn Harding is your client, and that she told you Bradshaw was dead and asked you to remove some incriminating evidence from that apartment.”

Steve shook his head. “That’s the trouble with Sergeant Stams. He’s the type of cop who jumps to a conclusion, and then won’t listen to anything else.”

“It’s funny you should say that.”

“Oh?”

“I just happened to be thinking the same thing.”

“About Sergeant Stams?”

“No, no,” Dirkson said quickly, before Stams could protest. “No, about jumping to conclusions. Now take our present case, for instance. Stams, here, finds you in Bradshaw’s apartment. He has you searched and finds nothing. From this he concludes that you managed to ditch the evidence.”

“And you don’t?”

“I don’t rule out the possibility. But to my mind, an equally logical explanation is that instead of removing evidence, you were actually planting evidence.”

“May I quote you on that? I may have a cause of action here. You consider planting evidence to be an activity I would logically be engaged in?”

“Let’s not quibble,” Dirkson said. “I’m making no accusations. I’m exploring possibilities. Now, I have no idea how long you were actually in that room with the body before the police arrived. And I don’t know what you did in that room. And,” Dirkson said, casting a look at the stenographer, “I am certainly not accusing you of searching Bradshaw’s body. However, I wonder if you are aware that a rather large sum of money was found on the body.”

Steve carefully avoided looking at Tracy. “A sum of money?”

“Yes. Ten thousand dollars in one thousand dollar bills.”

“That’s rather a large sum of money for a person to be carrying around with him.”

“Isn’t it? Now, without making any accusations, I’m just wondering if there is any chance you planted that money on the body?”

“Why in the world would I do that?”

“I don’t know. But if you did, and I can prove it, I promise you that you will find yourself disbarred.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Don’t take it lightly. There’s a good chance you could find yourself indicted as an accessory to murder.”

Steve yawned.

“All right,” Dirkson said. “I’m through playing games. I’ve told you what the score is, so you’re completely aware of the seriousness of the situation. This is a murder case. I want the name of your client.”

Steve shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

Dirkson took a breath. “I could have you charged with obstruction of justice.”

“Make up your mind. A minute ago you were going to charge me as an accessory. If you do, you could hardly charge me with obstructing justice for refusing to answer questions. In fact, it would be your duty to inform me I didn’t have to answer questions and anything I said might be used against me.”

With that, Steve Winslow pulled up a chair next to Tracy Garvin, sat down, and said, “How’s it going?”

Tracy looked at him, blinked, found herself unable to speak.

Dirkson turned to Stams. “Bring in Taylor.”

Stams nodded, went out, and returned escorting Mark Taylor into the room.

Dirkson rose to meet him.

“Mr. Taylor, is it? Please sit down.”

Dirkson indicated a chair. Taylor sat in it. He did not look happy.

Dirkson sat down again, settled in. “Well now, your name is Mark Taylor?”

“That’s right.”

“Of the Taylor Detective Agency?”

“Yes.”

“What brings you down here at this late hour, Mr. Taylor? Come to renew your license?”

Mark Taylor shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“You heard him, Mark,” Steve said. “He’s threatening to go after your license. Go ahead. Talk. Tell him everything you know.”

Mark Taylor took a breath. “Well, Tuesday morning Steve Winslow called me into his office-”

“This Tuesday?”

“Yes.”

“What time?”

“Around ten-thirty.”

“Go on.”

“He gave me a list of serial numbers he wanted traced.”

Dirkson sat up in his chair. “He what?”

“He gave me a list of serial numbers to trace.”

“What kind of serial numbers?”

“The serial numbers off of thousand dollar bills.”

Dirkson looked at Stams. Neither man could quite believe what he’d just heard.

“How many bills?” Dirkson said.

“Ten.”

“And you traced the bills and located the bank from which they had been withdrawn?”

“That’s right. The bills had been withdrawn from the First National Bank on Monday morning. The withdrawal was unusual enough that the teller took the precaution of writing down the numbers.”

“And you learned the identity of the person who made the withdrawal?”

“Yes,” Taylor said, looking at the floor.

“Who was it?”

“David C. Bradshaw.”

“Well, now, isn’t that interesting. Do you by any chance still happen to have that list of numbers?”

“No.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I gave it back to Steve Winslow.”

“Is that so? And just when did you give it back to Mr. Winslow?”

“This evening.”

“This evening? And how did you come to give it back to him this evening.”

“Well, Steve called me, and-”

“What time?”

“Around ten-thirty.”

“And asked you about the list?”

“Well, he asked me to meet him for dinner.”

“And did he ask you specifically to bring the list with you?”

“Yes.”

“And you met him for dinner and gave him the list?”

“Yes.”

“And that was just before you came here?”

“That’s right.”

“So, to the best of your knowledge, Winslow still has the list on him?”

Taylor hesitated. “Well?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“That’s purely a conclusion on his part,” Steve said.

“You keep out of this,” Dirkson said. “I’ll get to you in a minute. All right, Taylor. Let’s go back a little. What did you do after you traced the money to Bradshaw?”

“I placed Bradshaw’s apartment under surveillance.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to find out all I could about Bradshaw. I hadn’t had much success with the normal routine lines of inquiry.”

“What had you found out?”

“Not much. I learned he rented his apartment two months ago, that he paid his rent in cash, but that no one seemed to know where he came from or what he did for a living.”

“So you put his apartment under surveillance?”

“That’s right.”

“And you did this purely of your own initiative?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“Were you specifically instructed to put his apartment under surveillance?”

“Yes.”

“Who instructed you to do so?”

“Steve Winslow.”

“Ah. So Steve Winslow instructed you to put Bradshaw’s apartment under surveillance?”

“Yes.”

“Did he tell you why he wanted this done?”

“He wanted to get a line on Bradshaw.”

“I could have assumed that. Why did he want to get a line on Bradshaw?”

“Because Bradshaw was the person who withdrew the ten thousand dollars.”

“And why was he interested in the person who withdrew the ten thousand dollars?”

“I don’t know,” Taylor said, choosing his words carefully. “I presume it was because he was retained in the matter.”

Dirkson pounced on that. “He told you he was retained by a client?”

“Yes.”

“Who was the client?”

“I don’t know.”

“Winslow didn’t tell you the name of the client?”

“No.”

“You expect me to believe Winslow instructed you to trace the list of bills, and to put Bradshaw’s apartment under surveillance, and yet he never once mentioned the name of his client?”

“That’s right.”

Dirkson frowned. “Mr. Taylor, I’d like to remind you that this is a murder investigation. Now, you’re not under oath, so there is no question of perjury here. However, I am asking these questions in my official capacity as District Attorney, and a stenographer is taking down your answers. If those answers should be incorrect in any way, you would be in a position of obstructing justice, compounding a felony, and conspiring to conceal a crime.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Steve said. “Come on, Dirkson, we know the law for Christ’s sake. You don’t have to threaten us. Just ask your questions. The guy’s telling the truth.”

Dirkson wheeled around to confront Steve, about to start an argument. He glanced at the stenographer and thought better of it. He turned back to Taylor.

“All right, we’ll let that pass. At any rate, you put Bradshaw’s apartment under surveillance on Tuesday afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“How many operatives?”

“Four.”

“Four? Wasn’t that a bit excessive?”

Steve grinned. “I hope the stenographer got that Mark. He asked you that in front of a cash customer. You may have cause of action.”

Dirkson paid no attention. “Why four operatives.”

“I wanted to tail anyone who called on Bradshaw.”

“Why?”

“I told you. I was drawing a blank. I couldn’t get any information the easy way, so I was trying the hard way.”

“At any rate, you used four men?”

“Yes.”

“And what did they report?”

“A young woman called on Bradshaw early Tuesday afternoon. She was in there approximately fifteen minutes. She was shadowed when she left, and later identified as Marilyn Harding.”

“How long was she followed?”

“Only until she was identified.”

“How long was that?”

“Actually, quite a while. First she went shopping. Then she went to dinner and was joined by a couple who turned out to be Douglas and Phyllis Kemper. Phyllis is Marilyn’s stepsister. They all left together and drove to the Harding mansion. By that time my men had an identification so they dropped them.”

“Is that the only time you’ve had Marilyn Harding under surveillance?”

“Yes.”

“And the only significant thing your men learned from following her was her name?”

“No.”

“No? What else?”

“They discovered that Marilyn Harding was being followed by two operatives from the Miltner Detective Agency.”

Dirkson and Stams exchanged glances.

“All right,” Dirkson said. “So much for Marilyn Harding. What about Bradshaw?”

“Bradshaw left his apartment immediately after Miss Harding. He took a cab uptown and proceeded to ditch my shadows.”

“How?”

“Fairly routinely. Walked into a hotel and out another door.” Taylor shrugged. “It happens.”

“Did they pick him up again?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In Steve Winslow’s office.”

“What?!”

“They picked him up in Steve Winslow’s office.”

“When?”

“About a half hour later.”

Dirkson was staring at Taylor with great suspicion. “And just how did this happen?”

“Winslow called me and told me Bradshaw was in his office. My men picked him up there and followed him home.”

“Then what?”

“Then Winslow called me into his office and had me dust his desk for fingerprints. I found a perfect set where someone had leaned heavily on the desktop. I ran them down and identified them as belonging to one Donald Blake, a convicted felon with a history of larceny and extortion.”

Dirkson prided himself on having a good poker face, but he couldn’t conceal his surprise. He frowned and thought that over. “I see. So what happened then?”

“Bradshaw left his apartment shortly after six.”

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“He ditched my shadows.”

“Again?”

“It was not one of my better days.”

Dirkson’s face darkened. “Look here, are you giving me a run around?”

Before Taylor could reply, Steve jumped in. “No he’s not, Dirkson. I told you. This man is telling you the simple truth. Just ask your questions.”

Dirkson took a breath and blew it out again. “All right. Did you pick up Bradshaw again?”

“Yes.”

“When and where?”

“At his apartment. My men staked it out, and Bradshaw returned about nine.”

“That evening?”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“After that, Bradshaw stayed put and had no further visitors.”

“Until when?”

“Until Wednesday morning when I pulled my men off the job.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Steve Winslow called me into his office on Wednesday and had me dust the combination of his safe for fingerprints. I found a thumbprint that matched the right thumbprint of Donald Blake. At that point, Winslow instructed me to pull my men off the case.”

Dirkson digested that information. “All right. What did you do next?”

“Nothing. I’d been ordered off the case.”

“What about tonight?”

Taylor shrugged. “Winslow called me and asked me to meet him for dinner.”

“And told you to bring the list?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose he just casually asked you to bring it along?”

Taylor frowned. “You’re asking me for my opinion of his tone of voice?”

“No. We’ll let it pass. The fact is he asked you to bring it?”

“Yes.”

“The same list you received from him Tuesday and traced to Bradshaw?”

“Yes. The same list.”

Dirkson nodded grimly. He turned to Steve Winslow. “All right, Winslow. You’ve refused to answer questions. That’s one thing. Concealing evidence is another. Now, I want to know right now if you have that list.”

“Yes, I have the list,” Steve said. “But as far as I know, it has nothing to do with the murder.”

“Well, I’m telling you that it does,” Dirkson said. “I am hereby informing you that that list of numbers is a valuable piece of evidence in a murder case, and I am asking you in my official capacity as District Attorney to turn it over to the police. Now then, do you intend to do so?”

“Certainly,” Steve said. He produced the list and passed it over to Stams. “I’d hate to make Sergeant Stams go to the trouble of having me frisked again.”

Sergeant Stams whipped a notebook from his pocket and began comparing numbers.

“Now then,” Steve said. “You’ve got what you wanted. Tracy and I aren’t talking, and Taylor’s made his statement. I think this is where we came in.”

Dirkson shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Winslow. I warned you what would happen if I connected you with those thousand dollar bills.”

“You can’t hold me without a warrant,” Steve said.

Dirkson shook his head sadly. “I’m trying to give you a break. If you cooperate, I might be able to save you the embarrassment of a formal arrest. But if you want me to swear out a warrant, I will.”

“You don’t have the grounds to issue a warrant.”

“I didn’t before, but I sure do now. Those serial numbers clinch the case. Bradshaw withdraws the bills from the bank Monday. You get the numbers Tuesday. Bradshaw gets bumped off Wednesday. The bills are found in his pocket, and you’re found in his apartment. Now put all that together and tell me if I can get a warrant.”

Sergeant Stams cleared his throat. “Excuse me, but-”

“Just a minute,” Dirkson said. “I just want to make sure Winslow knows where he stands. Now then, Winslow, you’re not leaving here until you answer some questions. We can do it the easy way or the hard way. It’s entirely up to you.”

Stams cleared his throat again.

“Yes, what is it?” Dirkson snapped.

“I’m sorry,” Stams said. “But there’s been some kind of flimflam here. The numbers on the list don’t match.”

“What?”

Stams shook his head. “That’s right. None of the numbers match. Winslow must have switched lists.”

Dirkson’s face began to purple. “Son of a bitch!” he hissed. “By god, Winslow, if you switched lists-”

“You’ll have a hell of a time proving that,” Steve said, “after the bank teller gets through testifying that the numbers are genuine.”

Dirkson hesitated a second, trying to gauge if Winslow was bluffing. He figured he couldn’t be. Not if he expected the bank teller to back him up. “Damn it,” Dirkson said, “if you didn’t switch lists, then you switched the bills themselves.”

“That’s a fine theory,” Steve said, “if you can find any way to prove it, be sure to let me know. In the meantime, I’ve done all I can here. Tracy, Mark. I think we’ve taken up enough of these gentlemen’s time. After all, they have a murder to solve.”

Steve bowed to Stams and Dirkson, and ushered Tracy and Mark Taylor out.