The Baxter Trust

12

“It stinks.”

Sheila Benton frowned. “What?”

Steve Winslow shook his head. “Your story stinks.”

That bothered her. Sheila had spent the whole time she was waiting for him working on her story, and she thought she’d done a pretty good job. She’d told him everything. That is, she’d told him more than she’d told the cops. She hadn’t told him about the cocaine-she couldn’t bring herself to do that. He was a lawyer and all, and he was supposed to be on her side, and everything she told him was a confidential communication, and all that, but still.

But she’d told him everything else. In particular, she told him the times everything had happened, times she actually knew, but had felt she shouldn’t tell the cops. Somehow the times things happened had seemed incriminating to her.

And for good reason. Because it included the time she had taken out of her schedule to buy cocaine.

Sheila was seated on the couch. Steve was standing. He had been pacing back and forth in front of her as she told her story. He hadn’t been looking at her though, aside from an occasional glance. For the most part he was thinking, just staring off into space. That bothered her. She was accustomed to being looked at.

For his part, Steve was distracted, but not so much that he hadn’t heard her story. And not so much that he couldn’t tell that it was a story with significant gaps. But still.

Maxwell Baxter, that was what was distracting him. Jesus Christ. This girl was Baxter’s niece, for Christ’s sake. It was like saying she was a Rockefeller. Which meant this was not just a murder case, this was a sensational murder case. For someone who’d been out of work just hours before, it was a lot to take in.

Glamour. Publicity. And a whopping retainer. Twenty-five thousand at least. It was wrong to be thinking that now, Winslow knew, but he was only human, and what human being could hear what he had just heard and help thinking that?

“What’s wrong with my story?” Sheila asked.

That brought him back to earth. The job was only his if he earned it, and that was very much in doubt. Stop fantasizing and get down to brass tacks. Show her how her story won’t stand up.

He looked at her then, and she immediately wished he hadn’t. Because somehow the look in this strange man’s eyes frightened her, more than the policeman’s had, or even the district attorney.

It was as if he knew she was lying. As if he could see right through her.

And of course he jumped right on the time element.

“You left your uncle’s at eleven forty-five. You didn’t get home until almost one-thirty.”

“I was window-shopping.”

“For an hour and forty-five minutes? That’s a long time to be window-shopping.”

Sheila smiled at him. She raised her eyebrow ironically. “Mr. Winslow, take a look at this apartment. I am not a rich girl. I can’t afford nice things. But I happen to like nice things. So I window-shop.”

“They’ll trace the cab you took back here. They’ll find out when it picked you up, where it picked you up, and what time you got back here.”

“So?”

“So if the time the cabbie says he dropped you off here is much earlier than the time you called the cops, nothing I can do is going to save you.”

“But if the times check, I’m in the clear?”

“No. He could have been waiting for you when you returned. You could have killed him, then dashed out to call the police.”

“But what if the doctor can prove he’d been dead longer than that?”

Steve thought a moment. “If he was killed before noon you’re all right. You couldn’t have gotten back from your uncle’s before then. If he was killed after noon and before one-thirty, they’ll claim you killed him, then rushed out to Fifth Avenue by bus or subway so that you could build up an alibi by taking a taxicab back.”

Sheila frowned. “You talk as if I were going to be arrested.”

“Of course you’re going to be arrested. Your story stinks. You were being blackmailed. The man who is presumably the blackmailer is found in your apartment, stabbed with your knife. If you were a cop, who would you arrest?”

“When will they arrest me?”

“Probably as soon as they identify the body. They may wait till they find out what he had on you, but I doubt it.”

“He had nothing on me.”

Steve shrugged. “Yeah. Sure. He probably just wanted to sell you insurance, or something.”

Sheila looked at him. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“I told you, your story stinks. It’ll never stand up under cross-examination.”

“Why not?”

Steve turned his back on her, paced away then turned back.

Sheila suddenly realized what was coming.

A cross-examination.

“All right,” he said. “You say you were window-shopping?”

“Yes.”

“On Fifth Avenue?”

“Yes.”

“Which stores?”

“Well, Bloomingdale’s.”

“That’s Lexington, but I’ll take it. That’s one store. Did you spend an hour and a half at that one store?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, what about Saks Fifth Avenue? How did you manage to miss that?”

“I didn’t miss that.”

“You window-shopped it?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Fine. Now tell me one item you saw in the window at Saks Fifth Avenue.”

Sheila tossed her head and gave him her most endearing smile. “Aw, come on.”

He bored right in. “No. You come on. You tell me window-shopping is important to you, you love rich things, it’s a big deal in your life, so this is not a casual thing and you’re going to pay attention to what you see. So tell me one thing you saw in the window at Saks Fifth Avenue.”

“Well…”

“Yes?”

“Damn it, I’m thinking.”

“Good plan.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Keep thinking.”

“Damn it-”

“Thought of it yet?”

“Yes!” She practically screamed it at him.

“Good,” he said calmly. “What was it?”

“A swimsuit.”

“What kind?”

“A bikini.”

“What color?”

“Blue.”

Steve smiled, shook his head and locked his eyes onto hers.

“The reason I asked about Saks,” he said gently, “is that I passed by there this morning. The window display is devoted to evening wear.”

Her eyes faltered. “Well, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it was Bloomingdale’s where I saw the swimsuit. Yes, I’m sure it was Bloomingdale’s.”

He smiled again. “You see. Your story won’t stand up. Not under cross-examination. And that’s just a sample of what the D.A.’s gonna throw at you. He’ll eat you up.”

“No fair,” Sheila said. ‘That’s just dumb luck. If you hadn’t happened to know what was in the window at Saks-”

Steve laughed. “Are you kidding me? You think I have the faintest idea what’s in the windows at Saks Fifth Avenue? You think that’s something I would really notice? That was a bluff, and not a very good one at that. The DA’s gonna fire a million questions at you, and sometimes he’ll be bluffing and sometimes he won’t, and you’re not gonna know which is which.”

Sheila bit her lip.

“Now,” Steve said. “I certainly don’t want to advise you, but if I were you and I were going to tell that story, the first thing I would do would be get my ass over to Fifth Avenue and find out what’s in the goddamned windows.”

Sheila hadn’t realized it, but she’d made a decision. She realized it now. She realized it from the sense of loss she felt when she heard him say, “I certainly don’t want to advise you.” The decision, of course, was to have him act as her attorney. She wanted him. Strangely enough, she felt comfortable with this unconventional man who made her feel uncomfortable. There was something reassuring in the way he distrusted her. Something about him she liked. She took his statement to be a rejection of her case, and from her disappointment, she realized she wanted him.

“You don’t want to advise me?” she said.

He smiled and shook his head. “I don’t want to suborn perjury, compound a felony or conspire to conceal a crime.” He looked at her and said, pointedly, “That’s why I’m not advising you to look in those windows, and if you should look in those windows, it would certainly be without my knowledge. That advice I can’t give you. I’m perfectly willing to advise you on legal matters.”

“Then you’ll be my attorney?”

“Just as soon as you give me a retainer.”

Sheila bit her lip. “You’ll have to get that from Uncle Max.”

“All right. Get your purse.”

Sheila looked at him. “We’re going to see Uncle Max?”

“I’ll call on him later. Right now I want you to take me to Fifth Avenue and show me where you were window-shopping.”

Sheila looked at him, and a light dawned. “You mean you want me to-”

“I want to get the time element straight,” he interrupted, pointedly. “The time element’s going to be very important.”

She stared at him, blinked. “Yes,” she said, slowly. “I can see that it is.”