The Innocent Woman

18

Amy Dearborn had been crying.

Steve Winslow didn’t need her red eyes to tell him that- he’d been able to tell on the phone. As he looked at her through the wire-mesh screen in the lockup, he felt sorry for her, sure. But he also felt angry and impatient. So it was all he could do to appear sympathetic and calm.

“Tell me about it,” he said.

Amy snuffled once. “It’s a mess.”

“So I gather,” Steve said. “But you’d better define this mess, so I can start doing something about it.”

“It’s not my fault,” Amy said.

“I didn’t say it was.”

“I can tell. From your tone.”

“Forget my tone,” Steve said. “It’s been a long day. I need your story. I don’t want to drag it out of you. Pull yourself together and tell me the score.”

He lip trembled. “They tricked me.”

“Who tricked you?”

“That cop.”

“Sergeant Stams?”

“I don’t know his name. He sat there with a blank look. He seemed so stupid.”

“Yeah, that’s Stams. What happened?”

“I told your story. Just like you said.”

“Yeah. So?”

“He seemed to be buying it. I had no idea anything was wrong.”

“What was wrong?”

“The drawer.”

“What drawer?”

“What drawer do you think? The petty cash drawer.”

“What about it?”

“It was shut.”

“What?”

“It was shut. The damn drawer was shut.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Me either. But that’s what happened.”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute,” Steve said. “Are you telling me that you told Stams you found the petty cash drawer open, and when you went to look at it, it was shut?”

“That’s right.”

“The cops didn’t close it?”

“He said they didn’t.”

“He said they didn’t?”

“Yes.”

Steve groaned. “Don’t tell me. You told Stams the drawer had been robbed. He showed you the drawer was shut and asked you what the hell you were talking about?”

“Yes.”

“Did you try to tell him?”

“Well, I-”

“Shit.”

“Well, it was your bright idea,” Amy said. “Going back there. Pretending it was the first time. How was I to know someone had been there after me?”

“You could have checked the desk.”

“Why would I check the desk? Why would it even occur to me that drawer wouldn’t be open?”

“Hell,” Steve said.

“I’m sorry you’re taking it so hard,” Amy said, sarcastically. “I’m the one in jail.”

“Right,” Steve said. “But you don’t have to do anything about it. I’m the one who has to get you out. So try to pull yourself together and give me the facts.”

“I don’t know the facts.”

“You know what you told the police, don’t you?”

Amy said nothing.

“Come on, give me a break,” Steve said. “What did you tell the cops?”

“Nothing much.”

“You must have said something. Stams drags you out there, shows you the drawer. It’s a big shock. You must have said something then.”

“I didn’t.”

“You didn’t say, That can’t be right?”

“Maybe I did.”

“You didn’t say, The cops must have closed it?”

“I may have said that.”

“And then Stams starts working on you: I thought you called us from here; I thought you called us right away; I thought no one was in here between the time you called us and the time we got here. So if you found the drawer open, who closed the drawer?”

Amy said nothing. Looked down.

“Didn’t he say something like that?” Steve said.

“Yeah.”

“So what did you say then?”

“I said, I want to call my lawyer.”

“That’s all.”

“Yeah, that’s all.”

Steve exhaled. “Well, thank goodness for small favors. Okay, you called your lawyer and I’m here. What can I do for you?”

Amy looked at him. “Get me out of here.”

“That may not be so easy. First let’s have your story. What did you tell the cops?”

“I told them everything.”

Steve grimaced. “You don’t know how bad that sounds. What do you mean, everything?”

“I mean about being arrested and the trial.”

“That’s okay. What about tonight?”

“I went out to dinner with a friend.”

“Where?”

“At a restaurant near my apartment.”

“When?”

“From six-thirty to seven-thirty.”

“What happened then?”

“He had to work, and I went home.”

“At seven-thirty?”

“Right.”

“Who’s the friend?”

“Larry Cunningham.”

“Known him long?”

“Why?”

“For one thing, it tells me how good a witness he’ll be. Anyway, he left you at the restaurant?”

“That’s right.”

“That’s what you told the cops?”

“Yes.”

“Is that what really happened?”

“Yes.”

“He left and you went home?”

“Right.”

“What happened then?”

“I told the cops I watched TV for a while, then I got the idea about cleaning out my desk.”

“That’s what you told them?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s not what happened?”

Amy looked at him. “You know what happened. I didn’t watch TV. I went right down.”

“Why?”

Amy blinked. “What?”

“Why did you go down then? That’s the one thing that makes no sense. The trial’s over, you’re found innocent. What was so important about cleaning out your desk?”

“Nothing really, but…”

“But what?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to do it because I could.”

“Because it’s there?” Steve said. “The mountain climbing defense. I’m sorry, but that’s hard to swallow.”

“Well, it happens to be the truth.”

“That’s fine,” Steve said. “So, you went there to clean out your desk. Tell me, did you take any bags with you? Or cartons? Anything to put your stuff in?”

“No.”

“No? Why not? How were you going to carry your stuff?”

“There were plenty of bags and cartons in the office.”

“Good answer,” Steve said. “You were obviously prepared for that one-you came right in with it. Did the cops ask you that too?”

“Yes, of course.”

Steve nodded. “Which is why you’re prepared. Now. But tell me-when the cops asked you-were you prepared then? Did you come right back with the answer, or did you have to think about it?”

Amy stuck out her chin. “You know, I really resent this.”

“Oh?”

“You’re acting like you don’t believe a word I say.”

“No, I’m acting like a lawyer. Your story has to stand up, have no holes in it whatsoever. If I can pick it apart, the D.A. can pick it apart. If that happens, you’re through. Which is why I had you clam up and stop talking. I can’t take the risk till your story’s air-tight.” Steve exhaled. “Try and understand the concept. Right now you’re keeping quiet, but at some point I’ve got to decide do you tell your story or not. The way things stand right now, you don’t. But if you ever do, it’s going to depend on your being able to answer questions without blowing your cool. So if my questions piss you off, try to think of them as a dress rehearsal.” He smiled grimly. “And if you think I’m skeptical and sarcastic, wait’ll you hear the D.A.”

Amy glared at him defiantly for a moment. Then her eyes faltered. She shivered slightly. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.” Then her face hardened. She looked back up at him. “No, it’s not okay. Where do you get off making a pompous speech like that? You have to decide if you’re going to let me tell my story. I told my story. I came to the office to clean out my desk, found the petty cash drawer robbed and the body on the floor. That’s what I told the cops, and that’s why I’m on the hook. So you tell me, what the hell can I tell ’em now that’s gonna account for that petty cash drawer being shut?”

Steve exhaled. Shook his head.

“Damned if I know.”

19.

STEVE WINSLOW CALLED MARK Taylor from a pay phone on the corner. “Mark, Steve. Listen, besides Lowery and Macklin, I want you to get a line on Larry Cunningham.”

“Who?”

“Larry Cunningham. That’s the guy Amy Dearborn had dinner with before she went down there. Find him and get his story sewn up before the cops do.”

“You got it.”

“You got anything for me?”

“Nothing new from the cops. But I pegged the store owner.”

“Store owner?”

“Guy from the music store. The one who closed up the shop.”

“That was him?”

“Sure was. I got his name and address and Tracy’s there now.”

“You sent Tracy to talk to him?”

“What do you mean, sent? Like I had a choice in the matter? My man calls in the info, and while I’m still taking it down, Tracy’s on the other phone calling him up. I told her to wait for you, but she said there might not be time and she’s gone.”

“Shit. Where’s the guy live?”

“A loft in SoHo. You want the address?”

“Sure do.”

Steve copied down the address, hung up the phone and flagged a cab. He didn’t go to SoHo, however, he had the cab take him to his apartment in Greenwich Village.

He had his corduroy jacket off on the way up the stairs. He went in, hurled it on the couch and tore off his T-shirt. Cursing his cluttered studio apartment, he detoured around a pile of paperbacks he’d never managed to find shelf space for, and flung open his closet. It was crammed with junk, but at least nothing fell out like in a cartoon. He riffled through the hanging clothes, managed to find a white shirt. He tore it off the hanger, pulled it on, buttoned it up.

Next a tie. He found a brown one hanging on a hook, pulled it on and tied it. The result was sloppy at best-the knot was twisted and the narrow end of the tie hung down below the wide one, but at least it was on.

Steve plowed through the hangers again. Aha. A gray sports coat that had seen better days. He pulled that on.

What about the pants? Screw the pants. Fix the hair. Steve rushed to a desk in the corner, jerked open a drawer. Victory. A rubber band, first rattle out of the box. He rushed into the bathroom combed his hair back into a ponytail, fastened it with the rubber band and tucked it under the collar of the white shirt.

And noticed how badly he’d tied the tie. Hell. Should he do it again?“ Who gives a shit?” Steve said out loud. He turned and ran out the door.