The Baxter Trust

11

District Attorney Harry Dirkson was worried. He was worried because of what had happened and because of what hadn’t happened. What had happened was Sheila Benton, niece of Maxwell Baxter, had gotten involved in a murder. What hadn’t happened was Maxwell Baxter’s attorneys hadn’t called him and/or the commissioner, raising merry hell and demanding that the situation be cleared up as quickly and quietly as possible, keeping Sheila Benton’s name out of it.

If that happened-and Dirkson was sure that it would-then he would be in a no-win situation. If he kept Sheila Benton out of it, which would be a pretty impossible job, and it got out, as it surely would, the press would crucify him. By the time the media got finished with him, his chances for re-election would be virtually nil.

On the other hand, if, god forbid, he should end up having to prosecute the girl, it was even worse. He would have Maxwell Baxter, the commissioner, and maybe even the mayor on his back. No one would condone his actions. He would be the fall guy, pushed out front with no room to maneuver, and no expectations except to take grief from all sides until his head was finally, mercifully, chopped off.

Dirkson sat and stewed.

There were only two ways out, he figured. The first was the best. Clean it up. Exonerate the girl. Find conclusive proof that she wasn’t involved. In short, find the murderer.

The second was terrible. Nail the girl. Prove she did it. Prosecute her and prove her guilty in a court of law.

It was a frightening proposition, but, Dirkson realized, it was something he just might have to do. It would be messy. He would take a lot of grief over it from all sides. But if she were guilty, really guilty, and he proved it, he just might survive. More than just surviving, he might emerge a hero, a fearless, crusading DA, who forged ahead regardless of political pressure and personal interest, believing in equal justice for all.

Dirkson thought of that image a while, and he liked it. It scared the hell out of him, but he liked it. Prove the girl guilty. Done right, it could be quite a coup.

But too risky. Dirkson came back to reality. Jesus. Too damn risky. A last resort, and nothing more. You don’t proceed against the girl unless it’s an ironclad case. A sure thing.

You don’t proceed against the girl unless you have no choice.

Having made that decision, Dirkson immediately felt better. Yeah, that was the ticket. The burden of proof was on the police department. They had to come up with it all. And it had to be airtight. Motive, means, opportunity. It all had to be there.

Well, the means was already there. The knife. It was presumably from the rack on the wall, which made it the girl’s knife. Not good, but not bad. The knife was there at hand. Anyone could have used it.

Opportunity? That would depend on the autopsy report and the testimony of that damn cab driver, if the cops ever found him.

Shit, why the hell hadn’t they found him yet? How the hell long could it take the damn cops to run a simple procedure like that? Dirkson realized it probably didn’t matter. The preliminary report indicated that the victim had been killed not long before the police arrived on the scene. So, unless something spectacular and unforeseen showed up in the autopsy report, there was no reason why she couldn’t have come home, stabbed him and run out and called the cops.

Dirkson was starting to feel slightly queasy. Shit. Means and opportunity were falling into place just fine.

Which left motive.

There, on his desk, sat the blackmail note. That’s what it was, Dirkson conceded. Despite what some clever defense attorney might argue, despite its vagueness, despite the lack of any hint of violence or any demand for money, this was a blackmail note.

If it should tie up to the dead man.

The dead man. Another sore point. Who the hell was he? Why hadn’t he been carrying any identification? Why hadn’t the police been able to track him down yet?

If there should be anything to tie him to the girl…

Dirkson chuckled, in spite of himself. That was kind of funny. Tie him to the girl, indeed. He was found in her living room with the key to her apartment in his pocket, but, if there was anything else to tie him to the girl.

To Sheila Benton.

Maxwell Baxter’s niece.

Shit.

Dirkson grabbed up the phone, pushed the intercom button and buzzed his law clerk

“Sir?”

“Reese, who are Maxwell Baxter’s attorneys?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Find out.”

“Yes sir.”

Dirkson hung up the phone, frowned, looked at the clock.

Damn. It was getting late. Something should have happened by now. Either the police or Baxter’s lawyers or-

Shit! Late. This was the afternoon he was scheduled to play golf. Two of the guys in the foursome were heavy campaign contributors. And the main reason they were was because they liked the prestige of being able to hobnob with the bigwigs, to be able to say in passing, “Oh, not tomorrow, I’m playing golf in D.A. Dirkson’s foursome.” Jesus Christ, he was due to tee off in fifteen minutes. And this was an election year.

Dirkson lunged for the phone.

“Reese.”

“Yes, sir, I’m working on it.”

“Never mind that. Get me Dunwoody Golf Course.”

“Sir?”

“Now.”

Dirkson slammed down the phone.

Hell. What should he do now? Wait for the phone call? Or hop in a cab and leave it to Reese to explain? How the hell long would it take to get up to Yonkers, anyway? A lot more than fifteen minutes. Can’t let Reese explain, he’s an idiot. Gotta wait for the call, explain the emergency, meet ’em for cocktails at the nineteenth hole and-

The phone rang.

Dirkson lunged for it “Reese. You got the golf course?”

“No, sir. The police lab. Kramer.”

“Shit.” Dirkson pushed the button. “Yeah, Kramer, what you got?”

“I’ve got good news and bad news.”

Dirkson sighed. Shit. Everyone was a fucking comedian. “Yeah. Let’s have it.”

“I classified the victim’s fingerprints and ran them through the computer. There’s no record on him.”

“Great What’s the good news?”

“The girl’s prints are on the knife.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Dirkson hung up. He put his elbows on the desk, put his head in his hands and rubbed his forehead. He seemed to be getting a terrible headache.

Yeah, sure, he told himself.

Good news.