The Baxter Trust

48

John Dutton came out of the elevator in his luxury East Side apartment building, walked down the hallway and put the key in the door to his apartment.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder. He spun around. Steve Winslow was standing there. He was obviously in no mood to be trifled with.

“All right, Dutton,” he said. “What’s the story?”

“My lawyer said I shouldn’t talk to you.”

“I don’t give a shit what your lawyer told you,” Steve snapped. “Your girlfriend is going up the river on a murder rap unless you come clean. Now, I don’t know what your lawyer told you, and I don’t know what your legal rights are, but either you start talking or I’ll kick the shit out of you.”

Dutton looked at him, gave in. “All right, come in.”

He unlocked the door and let Steve into the apartment.

“I’m glad you said that,” Steve said, following Dutton in. “I was bluffing. I couldn’t fight my way out of a paper bag. Now let’s have it. It was coke, wasn’t it?”

Dutton looked at him. “How’d you know?”

“Seven grand over six months is too cheap for blackmail. Besides, Greely didn’t bleed people. He was a one-bite man. So it had to be coke.”

“Well, you’re right.”

“Great. I suppose Sheila knew all about this?”

“Of course. I bought it for her.”

“What about Greely?”

Dutton walked over to the couch, sat down and rubbed his head. “Just a damn coincidence. I hadn’t seen him in about three weeks, since the last game I went to. I had no idea. You can imagine the shock when I recognized his picture in the paper. Robert Greely. Jesus. But I kept quiet about it. I didn’t think anyone would ever find out.”

“You thought wrong. What about Sheila? Did she know you knew Greely?”

“Not then. I told her when I saw her yesterday.”

“And you told her not to tell me, right?”

“My lawyer didn’t want me to tell even her. We had no idea it would ever come out.”

Dutton rubbed his head some more and looked down at the floor.

Steve stood looking at him contemptuously. “Great,” he said. “Can I use your phone?”

“Sure. Why?”

Steve walked over, picked up the phone and punched in a number. “Hello Mark, Steve. We missed a bet on John Dutton. Just because he flew to Reno doesn’t mean he couldn’t have turned around and flown back. Check all flights from Reno that would have gotten him here in time for the murder and still let him keep that appointment with his wife’s attorney that seemed like such a sweet alibi. Then check all the flights back to Reno after the murder that would have gotten him there in time to catch the flight I met him on. It’s time we stopped taking things for granted.”

Steve hung up the phone. He had been watching John Dutton during the call. Dutton had looked at him, but had not betrayed any particular emotion. “Thanks,” Steve said. He started out.

“It’s a nice idea,” Dutton called after him. “But you’re going to draw a blank.”

Steve turned back in the doorway. “That I can live with. What I can’t take is any more surprises.”