The Baxter Trust

50

Steve Winslow came running down the front steps of the courthouse. There was a cab with the light on coming down the street. He raced out and hailed it. He hopped in the back seat, barked out the address and the cab took off.

The light at the corner was red. The cab stopped.

“Run the light.”

The cabbie, an old wizened man, half turned in the seat and gave him a look.

“It’s an emergency. Run the light.”

The cabbie grinned and shook his head. “Buddy, I got a license.”

“Run the fucking light.”

“Relax, buddy.”

Steve jerked open the door of the cab and hopped out. While the driver was turned looking after him, Steve jerked open the driver’s door. He grabbed the startled man by the shoulders and hurled him out of the cab.

Steve hopped in the cab, slammed the door and took off, running the red light.

The light at the next corner was red. He ran that too, almost colliding with a delivery truck. He shot on up the street.

By the next corner the lights were green. He floored it, weaving in and out of cars, streaking up the street.

Two blocks and the lights changed. And there was a jam at the intersection. No way to get through. He was going too fast to stop. He looked around desperately. Saw it. A break between the parked cars. He spun the wheel, fishtailed slightly then skidded between the cars and up onto the sidewalk. The cab sped down the sidewalk toward the intersection, half a block away. He kept his hand on the horn, scattering the pedestrians, who dove for safety.

Two cops, one fat, one thin, were having coffee and doughnuts at a diner on the block. They heard the horn and looked up to see a cab flash by the window.

“Holy shit!” the fat cop said.

They got up and rushed out to their car.

Steve heard their siren about five blocks later. He didn’t care. It was actually helpful in clearing the traffic out of his way.

He hit Houston Street and realized he’d gone too far. He hung a right, sped over to Allen, hung another right and headed back downtown.

The siren was getting closer as he hung a left off Allen and pulled up in front of the building. He left the cab standing in the middle of the street with the motor running. He hopped out and tore into the building.

The downstairs door was standing open. A break. He plunged up the stairs.

On the second-floor landing he heard a gunshot. It came from above. He didn’t stop. He turned the corner, ran up the stairs.

The door to Teddy Baxter’s apartment was open. Steve plunged through.

The apartment was empty. He stood there looking around.

A gust of wind moved the curtains by the opened window. Just as Steve spotted it, there came the sound of more gunshots from above.

He ran to the window and looked out. A fire escape. He climbed out onto it. Below him, in the street, the police car screeched to a stop behind the cab.

More shots from above. Steve looked up. The fire escape led to the roof.

He heard a voice call, “Hey!” He looked down and saw the cops looking up at him. He turned and climbed up the fire escape.

The fire escape’s steps ended at the fourth floor, but there was a ladder to the roof. He climbed the ladder and peered over the edge of the roof.

Maxwell Baxter was about ten feet from him. He was holding a gun. He was slumped down against a chimney near the edge of the roof. He was bleeding from a bullet wound in the chest. He was shielding himself behind the chimney, and aiming the gun at the stairwell, some twenty feet away.

Steve swung himself up onto the roof.

Teddy Baxter, who had been hiding behind the stairwell, poked his head out and aimed a shot at Steve. Steve hit the roof, and the bullet went over his head.

Max fired. The bullet caught Teddy Baxter right between the eyes. He slumped to the rooftop, gushing blood.

Steve jumped up and ran to Teddy. He was clearly dying. Steve ran back to Max.

The effort of firing that last shot had done a lot to sap Max’s remaining strength. He was slumped down on the roof, only the chimney keeping his head and shoulders up.

“Take it easy,” Steve said. “The police are right behind me.”

“Teddy?” Max gasped.

“He’s dead.”

“Thank god.”

“He killed your sister, didn’t he?” Steve said.

Max actually turned his head slightly to look at him. “How did you know?”

“The same way you did. He was supposed to have been in New York the day she was killed. But Phillip was in Vermont, and Teddy always took Phillip everywhere. He tampered with the brakes of the car, didn’t he?”

“He must have. I would have suspected him then, if he hadn’t had such a good alibi. He was supposed to be in New York. He was arrested there the next day. That made the two… tragedies seem unrelated. It was almost as if”-Max coughed-“as if he were in jail when it happened.”

“He did it for the money, didn’t he?”

“Yes. Father only had months to live. Alice would have gotten the bulk of the estate. She would have been his trustee. He thought with her gone he’d be next in line. He would have been too, if he hadn’t gone to jail.” Max coughed again. He looked at Steve. “You seem to know all this anyway.”

“Most of it. Sheila reminded Phillip about playing doctor, and Phillip told Teddy. Teddy knew if Sheila mentioned the incident to you you’d figure it out. So he had to get rid of Sheila. But killing her was too risky. There was too great a chance he’d be connected up somehow. So he needed a more indirect method-one that would leave him in the clear. Framing Sheila seemed to be the perfect solution.”

Max’s eyes closed, then lifted open again. “That’s right… and the son of a bitch almost got away with it.”

Steve looked at him. “You really love Sheila, don’t you?”

“I should,” Max said weakly. He looked up at Steve. “I’m her father.”

Steve just blinked at him. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Even a simple “what?” sounded wrong.

Max’s face contorted with pain. The pain passed. The features relaxed. He looked back at Steve.

“Sheila doesn’t know,” he said. “Even Teddy never knew. Father did. That’s why he was such a stickler for morality. That’s why he put that asinine provision in the trust.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I know what you’re doing.” Max’s voice had fallen to a whisper. “My detectives have told me. You’re looking for Sheila’s father. You’re planning on springing the idea that he isn’t dead on the jury. That would make for a lot of sensational headlines, get you a lot of publicity, and maybe even get her off.” A pause for another spell of pain. “You don’t have to do that now. Stop looking for Sheila’s father. Go to the D.A. and explain what happened here. Except of course, what I just told you. But everything else. You handle it right, and he’ll drop the case.”

Steve frowned. “Yeah, maybe,” he said dubiously.

Max looked at him, and almost managed a grin. “I know what you’re thinking. That way you lose your… your brilliant courtroom finale. But that way Sheila never has to know. You save her a lot of unnecessary grief. A lot of grief.”

Max coughed and almost lost consciousness. He rallied, and locked eyes with Steve, taunting him, challenging him to do the right thing. “Can you do that, counselor? Whose interests come first? Your client’s or your own?”

Max’s eyes glazed over and his head fell back.

Steve touched his wrist, feeling for a pulse. He wasn’t sure how to do it, but he was sure that there would be none.

He slowly got to his feet. He stood there on the roof, not looking at either of the two bodies, just looking off into space.

So, it had come down to this. If he went back into court, he could clear the case up in spectacular fashion. He could make a name for himself. He’d be the hero, the winner, the courageous attorney who’d figured the whole thing out, who’d gotten his client off.

But at a price. It would take time. It would drag on. And meanwhile there was a chance those trails he’d started in California would be followed up, if not by the police then by zealous reporters sensing they hadn’t gotten the whole story. They’d follow the leads in California and find out what he had-that Sheila’s father was someone from the East Coast. A whole area of speculation would open up. And maybe-and Steve knew it was a slim chance-just maybe the real truth would come out.

If he did what Max said, if he took his story to the D.A., it would work. Steve was sure of it. The trial would be over. Sheila would be released, the case would be solved, and the cops would grab all the credit. And that would be the end of it. There would be no reason for anyone to ever find out about the California end of it at all. Sheila would be safe.

But for a price. Because the press and the public would be left with the image of Steve Winslow that he had adopted in his client’s behalf. The clown. The fool. He would remain a joke. The inexperienced young attorney whose client would have been convicted if the police hadn’t happened to break the case. It would be, to all intents and purposes, the end of his career.

Steve sighed. Yeah. That was the choice.

There came the clang of a metal door banging and a voice said, “All right! Hold it right there!”

Steve looked around to see the fat cop attempting to flatten himself against the stairwell as he leveled a gun on him.

Steve suddenly felt exhausted, too tired even to raise his hands. If the cop shot him, that was just tough.

He smiled, slightly. “It’s all right officer. They’re both dead.”