The Lost Years

52

An hour later Charles Michaelson was sitting in the chair earlier occupied by Albert West and Greg Pearson. His portly body shook with anger as he got into a fiery exchange with the detectives: “No, I never saw the parchment. How many times do I have to tell you that? If someone says I was shopping it, he’s a liar.”

When told by Benet that they were planning to interview the source of the rumor, Michaelson snapped, “Go ahead. Whoever he is, tell him for me that there are laws about slander and he should look them up.”

When asked where he was on the night Jonathan Lyons died, he retorted, “Once again, let me tell you, and I will speak slowly so that you’ll get it straight. I was at home on Sutton Place. I got there at five thirty and didn’t go out again until the next morning.”

“Was anyone with you?” Benet asked.

“No. Happily, since my divorce, I live alone.”

“Did you receive any phone calls that evening, Mr. Michaelson?”

“No, I did not. Wait a minute. The phone rang around nine o’clock that evening. I could see that the caller was Albert West and I was not in the mood to speak to him so I didn’t answer.”

Abruptly, Michaelson stood up. “If you have any more questions for me, you can submit them in writing to my lawyer.” He reached in his pocket and flipped a card onto Benet’s desk. “Now you know how to reach him. Good afternoon to both of you.”