The Baxter Trust

13

Dirkson grabbed up the phone.

“Yes,” he hissed.

“Maxwell Baxter’s attorneys are Marston, Marston, and Cramden,” Reese told him.

“Great. And could you tell me why it took so long to get that information?”

“Because I’ve been on the phone with the Dunwoody Golf Course.”

“Oh, yes. And?”

“The gentlemen in question are not pleased. They seemed to take the attitude that I was preventing you from keeping your golf date.”

“Yes, yes,” Dirkson said impatiently. “How did you resolve it?”

“They’ll meet you in the clubhouse after the round. They didn’t mention future campaign contributions.”

“Fuck you, Reese.”

“Yes, sir. And Lieutenant Farron just came in.”

“Send him in.”

Farron didn’t look happy, but then Dirkson wouldn’t have expected him to. After all, Farron was pretty much in the doghouse over this one.

“What now?” Dirkson asked.

Farron shook his head. “We still haven’t traced him.”

“You came here to tell me that? Come tell me when you have traced him.”

“You know the girl’s prints are on the knife?”

“Yesterday’s news. Anything else?”

Farron held out a paper. “Autopsy report.”

“Why didn’t you say so,” Dirkson said irritably. He snatched it from him and looked it over.

“The only thing significant is the time element,” Farron said.

Dirkson looked. “Twelve-thirty to one-thirty.”

“That’s right.”

Dirkson looked at Farron. “Wasn’t her call logged at one thirty-eight?”

“Sure was.”

Dirkson frowned. “Well, that’s sure cutting it a little thin. Can’t we do any better than that?”

“Don’t look at me. Talk to the medical examiner. Those are the times during which he says it could have happened.”

“What time did she get home?”

Farron shook his head. “We haven’t found the cab driver yet.”

Dirkson looked at him. “Then what the hell are you doing here?”

Farron gave him a look, turned and walked out the door.

The phone rang. Dirkson scooped it up. “Yeah, what is it?”

“Yes, sir,” Reese said. “There’s a Mr. Marston, of Marston, Marston, and Cramden on the phone.”

“Oh, shit.”