The Innocent Woman

35

Mark Taylor leaned back in his desk chair and referred to his notebook. “Okay, here’s the dope. The boyfriend’s a washout. This Larry Cunningham. He’s just like you said. There’s no problem getting him to talk-the guy’s so eager to help, he’s falling’ all over himself. Has all the credibility of a wet sponge. Determined to say he left the restaurant at eight. More so now the doctor’s set it as the probable time of death. My man tried to knock his story down, but it’s no go. The waiters and the cashier in the restaurant don’t remember well enough. As far as they know, they could have left at eight o’clock. They don’t know they did, they don’t know they didn’t. They just don’t remember.

“Philip Eckstein’s another story.”

“Who?”

“The guy he had the meeting with. The corroborating witness.” Taylor shook his head. “Now, there’s a winner. He’s a nerdy little twerp, shifty eyed, defensive. Might as well have I’m lying tattooed on his forehead.”

“What’s he lying about?”

“The time of the meeting. Cunningham told him he got there at eight-thirty, and damn it, that’s what he’s going to say. According to Eckstein, Cunningham called him around eight o’clock, said he’d meet him in half an hour. We all know that’s not true. He called him at seven-thirty, made the meeting for eight. You know it, I know it, the D.A. knows it, the jury’s, gonna know it. He’s the type of guy on cross-examination Dirkson can get him to say that the earth was flat.” Taylor shrugged. “Not that he needs to. Your client already told the cops she left the restaurant seven-thirty. So when these guys pull the number, they’re gonna look like they’re auditioning for the Amateur Hour.”

“I know it, Mark. I wouldn’t put them on the stand if you paid me. What else you got?”

Taylor leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head and smiled. “I got you a present.”

Steve frowned. “What?”

“You told me to check out the music store guy. Oliver Branstein.”

“You got something?”

“I’ll say. This goes back about a year ago. F.L. Jewelry, in the back room, got a sink for washing gold plate.”

“Gold plate?”

Taylor put up his hands. “Don’t look at me. I don’t know the mechanics. Anyway, that’s how I got the story. They got an industrial type sink in the back room. Big mother. Holds a shitload of water.”

“Don’t tell me.”

“That’s right. It overflowed, leaked into the music store downstairs. Ruined some valuable guitars.”

“Branstein sued?”

“Sure did.”

“What happened to the suit?”

“Still pending.”

Tracy, who’d been sitting in the corner taking notes, put up her hand. “Whoa. Time out. You’re saying Oliver Branstein had a reason to kill Frank Fletcher?”

“I’m not saying anything. I’m just reporting the facts.”

“What about it, Steve?” Tracy persisted. “How does that add up?”

Steve shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’s interesting as all hell. Branstein and Fletcher had an adversarial relationship. It may mean something, then again, it may not. But there’s one nice thing about it.”

“What’s that?” Tracy said.

“It’s something I can bring out in court.”