The Baxter Trust

26

Lieutenant Farron stood to one side as the guard unlocked the door of the holding cell and let Steve Winslow out.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Winslow,” he said.

“Yeah, sure,” Steve said. “Are you familiar with the laws regarding false arrest?”

Lieutenant Farron guided Steve down the hall toward the main desk. “As a matter of fact, I am,” he said. “The charge of false arrest can be defended if the officer in charge acted in good faith and had reasonable grounds to make the arrest.”

“You considered that check sufficient grounds?”

“It did tend to tie you in with Greely.”

“You ever hear of a blackmailer who took checks?” Steve said.

“I admit the situation is unfortunate.”

They reached the front desk. Farron led Steve over to the counter where he had surrendered his personal possessions before being locked up.

“Winslow,” Farron told the cop at the desk, “Check him out.”

The cops reached under the desk and brought out a manila envelope.

“Sign here, Mr. Winslow.”

Steve signed his name, opened the envelope and poured the stuff out on the table. His wallet, his keys, some loose change, his watch and Sheila Benton’s apartment key.

“Where’s the check?”

“I have it here,” Farron said, taking it out of his pocket.

“Oh?”

“It was considered evidence and was examined as such.”

“I see.”

Steve folded the check and stuck it into his pocket.

“Now that you’re convinced that I’m Sheila Benton’s attorney, do you have any objection if I inspect the scene of the crime?”

“Be my guest,” Farron told him.

Steve jerked his thumb in the direction of the holding cell.

“Thanks,” he said. “I just was.”

Steve made his way out of the police station, hailed a cab and took it straight back to Sheila Benton’s apartment. He went up the stairs, unlocked the door and went in. He switched on the light and looked around. This time there was no one there.

He went over to the night table and opened the drawer. It was full of junk. Pencils, tissues, eyeliner, change, papers, buttons, string. He pawed through it, found the key. He held it up and looked at it. It was a mailbox key, all right. He sighed and shook his head.

He stuck the key into his pocket, with the feeling that just by doing that he was taking a chance. He went to the door, opened it, switched the light off and went out, locking the door behind him. He did not replace the apartment key over the sill. Instead, it joined the other one in his pocket.

He went down the stairs, not even glancing at the mailbox as he went through the foyer. He just kept on going out the door and down the front steps.

Outside, he paused for a moment, then strolled off toward Columbus Avenue.

He walked slowly around the block. As far as he could tell, no one was paying any attention to him. No one seemed to be paying any attention to the apartment house either. Of course, there was no way to be sure. He was worried about Lieutenant Farron and Sergeant Stams. Either one of them could be having the apartment watched. Farron because he was smart, smart enough to figure Steve might be up to something. And Stams because he was dumb, dumb enough to watch the apartment in the vain hope of vindicating himself from looking stupid, even though that was now a useless exercise.

It was a hell of a situation to be in. Just when he’d finally gotten his retainer, too. Steve chuckled. What had he said to Lieutenant Farron? “You ever hear of a blackmailer who took checks?” Well, the check was blackmail, wasn’t it? His first retainer, and he’d had to blackmail someone to get it. There certainly were things they didn’t teach you in law school.

He stopped outside the building. Okay, should he do it or not? Silly question. Of course he should. A lawyer’s duty was to his client, even if that client held out on him and loused things up. Yeah, he had to do it. The only question was whether or not he would get caught. Well, he’d already been caught. The funny thing was, if Sergeant Stams had only been smart enough to have staked out the building instead of the apartment, he would have caught him red-handed.

Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Steve went up the front steps and into the foyer. He took the key out of his pocket, opened the mailbox and took out the letter. The envelope was hand addressed, with no return address on it. It seemed to have a small packet inside. He folded it, stuck it in his pocket.

He went out the front door and down the steps, trying hard to keep from looking around. He headed back to Columbus Avenue.

There was a garbage can on the corner. He would have loved to tear the letter open and ditch the coke, but he didn’t dare. Instead, he walked out into the street and looked for a cab.

It was five minutes before one came. He flagged it down, hopped in and gave the driver his address.

In the relative privacy of the backseat, Steve tore open the envelope and took out the packet of coke. He stuck the envelope in one pocket, and the packet of coke in another. He immediately felt better. He could still get busted for possession, but his client was safe.

As safe as one can be when they’re in jail charged with murder.

The cab pulled up in front of Steve’s building. He paid off the cab, went up the front steps and opened the door.

Inside. Safe at last, unless they were waiting for him in his apartment, something he couldn’t quite put past Sergeant Stams.

They weren’t, however. The apartment was a holy mess, as he had left it, but there was no one there.

Steve locked and bolted the door. There, safe at last. Which, he realized, was a strange way to be feeling. This whole thing was making him paranoid. But then, how often did he get arrested on his way to pick up someone’s drugs?

He sat on the couch, picked up the phone and called his answering service. There was one message from Judy Meyers: “Where are you?”

He sighed. Hell. He’d forgotten to call and cancel. This was the third time he’d stood her up, too. Only this time he had a legitimate excuse.

That thought made him realize the other two times he must not have had a legitimate excuse. Was he avoiding Judy Meyers? Not consciously. He hadn’t really thought about it before.

He looked at the clock. 11:30. Where had the day gone? Well, not too late to call. He reached for the phone. Stopped. Shit. It was too late to call. Judy had an audition tomorrow morning. That’s why they’d made an early dinner date. She’d be asleep now.

He suddenly realized how tired he was. What a day. He should be sleeping too. But first things first. Take care of business.

He went in to the bathroom and took the packet out of his pocket. It was a small brown envelope. He tore it open. Inside was a small plastic bag filled with a white powder. He tore the bag open, dumped the powder into the toilet, then threw the plastic bag and the brown envelope in too.

He flushed the toilet. It didn’t flush. It gurgled encouragingly for a few moments, but then quieted. The ripples in the bowl smoothed out, and the water moved in a gentle circle. The envelope and plastic bag floated like ducks on a pond. The coke floated on the surface too-white pond scum.

He stood looking down at the bowl and chuckled. Well, a fitting end to the day, somehow. Sometimes the toilet worked and sometimes it didn’t. He’d been after the super for weeks to fix the damn thing. Well, he couldn’t call him now. “Yeah, it won’t flush. Please ignore the cocaine floating in the water.”

He moved the pile of old magazines and assorted junk off the tank of the toilet and took off the top. About five minutes of fiddling produced the desired effect. Water coursed down, and envelope, plastic bag and cocaine were flushed away. He kept watching to make sure they didn’t pop up again. They didn’t.

He emerged from the bathroom, bent down, untied his shoes and kicked them into the corner, then pulled off his jacket and tie and threw them over a chair. He stepped out of his pants and hung them on the doorknob. They missed, fell to the floor. He let them lay. Well, fold out the couch? Screw it. He was too tired. As usual.

He flung himself facedown on the couch and was instantly asleep.