The Wrong Gun

18

Mark Taylor slammed down the phone and stood up. It rang again. He cursed, sat down, snatched it up.

“Yeah,” he growled. “Yeah, Frank, just a minute.” He covered the mouthpiece, looked up at Steve Winslow who was standing near the door. “Another operative. I’ll send him out.”

Steve nodded, walked into the next room where Tracy Garvin was also on the phone.

It was Sunday morning. They were in a small motel just off the Long Island Expressway. They’d been held in the dining room Saturday night until just after midnight when the cops had finished their interrogation and finally allowed everyone to leave. Of course, most of the guests were staying over anyway. Steve and Tracy had stuck around looking for Timberlaine. Mark Taylor, desperate for phones, had gone out and found the motel. Unable to get what he wanted, a unit with two phones, he had settled for two adjoining units, and spent the night running back and forth between the two phones. It had been quite a relief when Steve and Tracy had showed up the next morning with coffee and doughnuts.

Tracy hung up the phone, shook her head, and said, “Nothing.”

“Oh?” Steve said.

“That reporter again. Harold Coleman. He may be chummy with a cop, but the cop don’t know shit. He’s got nothing you can’t read in the morning papers.”

“And no sign of Timberlaine?”

“None.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. What a bummer.”

“This is the type of thing I thought they didn’t do anymore.”

“What?”

“Bury a suspect. No sign of Timberlaine, no sign of Sanders. They’re not at the mansion and they’re not at headquarters. They got lost somewhere along the way. The thing is, if they arrest him, even Timberlaine’s smart enough to shut up and stop cooperating. At which point he has the right to an attorney and I step in. But as long as he’s talking, they’re not going to do that. They’ll just hold him and let him keep talking and talking until he makes their case for them.”

“How do you know they’re doing that?”

“Because this reporter’s got an in with a cop and the cop doesn’t know where they are. Or says he doesn’t. Which means what’s going on is something extralegal the cops don’t want to have appear in the press.”

“What can you do about it?”

“Absolutely nothing. That’s what’s infuriating. Once he’s arrested and charged with murder I can make a stink about it, but by then the cops will have an airtight case. Meanwhile I sit here twiddling my thumbs and there isn’t a goddamn thing I can do.”

“Steve,” Mark Taylor yelled from the other room.

“Yeah,” Steve said, heading for the door.

“Got something,” Taylor yelled.

Tracy sprang up, followed Steve in.

“What you got?” Steve said.

Taylor, still on the phone, held up his hand. “O.K., good work,” he said. “See what else you can get and call me back.” He slammed down the phone. “Got the medical report.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s just preliminary, but my man swears it’s accurate. O.K. Cause of death-gunshot wound to head. Big deal. We knew that. Time of death-yesterday afternoon between the hours of four and six.”

Steve frowned. “Damn.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Can’t they do any better than that? The cops were there by six. We found the body before then, for Christ’s sake. And the medical examiner was there by at least six-thirty. He ought to be able to do better than that.”

“Maybe he can, but the fact is he’s not. Four to six is the best he’ll do.”

“Shit.”

“What’s so bad about that anyway?”

“The auction was over by four-thirty. Timberlaine slammed out of there around four o’clock. And no one’s sure Potter was at the auction. If he wasn’t, it sure makes a nice opportunity for Timberlaine to find him alone and kill him before the auction broke up.”

Taylor frowned. “I see what you mean.”

“What’s a pain in the ass is most likely he didn’t. What I mean is, if they put the time of death between four and six, it’s likely the guy was killed around five. After the auction. So why can’t the M.E. put the time of death after the auction broke up, so at that time anyone could be likely to do it? Instead of having a special time when everyone will testify only Timberlaine had left the room.”

Taylor frowned and shrugged. “Hey, it’s not so bad. This case must be really pissing you off. Because either way Timberlaine could have done it. It’s no big deal.”

Steve sighed. “I know. It’s just, what do you do when your client’s a big jerk who’s shooting off his mouth and there’s nothing you can do about it?”

“You tell him he’s free to find another attorney.”

“Which is exactly what I’d do if the son of a bitch hadn’t handed the gun you bought over to the cops.”

“I understand. Considering that, I’m very grateful you’re not dropping him as a client. And I understand why you’re pissed off. But the time of death’s the time of death. The M.E. putting it between four and six is not really a major kick in the ass.”

“It is in one respect. After Timberlaine stormed out of the auction, he fired the gun. A lot of people heard the shot, and can testify it was before the auction broke up.”

Taylor frowned. “That’s right.”

“The stupid thing is, that shot is virtually irrelevant.”

“Why?”

“Because they heard it. The way I understand it, the gun room is virtually soundproof, and there’s no way anyone sitting in the auction room could have heard the shot that killed Potter. Assuming that’s where it was fired.” Steve yawned and stretched. “Tell me, how did you get the report anyway? Tracy just got through telling me the reporter had nothing.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t,” Taylor said. “This came straight from the medical examiner’s office.”

“Oh?”

“Hey, sometimes you get lucky. I got a guy knows a girl got a boyfriend whose sister works for the medical examiner.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. So for once you get a break. You’re getting your information ahead of the press.”

The phone in the other room rang.

“I’ll get it,” Tracy said, and disappeared through the door.

Steve followed her into the next room. Taylor came and stood in the doorway.

“Hello,” Tracy said. “Yes, he’s here.” She looked up at Steve. “Carrie Timberlaine.”

Steve walked over, took the phone. “Yeah, Carrie?” He listened. “Where is he? … O.K., I’ll be right there.”

Steve hung up the phone. “O.K., gang. Shit’s hit the fan. They just gave Timberlaine his one phone call.”

“You’re kidding,” Taylor said.

“No. Brought him in, charged him with murder. Tracy, hang out with Mark, wait for my call. I’m going over there.”

Steve turned and headed for the door.

The phone in the other unit rang.

“Shit,” Taylor said. “Wanna hang on in case it’s important?”

“Haven’t got time.”

Steve jerked the door open, went outside. He crossed the parking lot, got in the rental car and gunned the motor. He backed out of the space and was just pulling out of the lot when Tracy Garvin came flying out the door waving her arms.

Steve slammed the car to a stop, jerked open the door.

“What is it?” he yelled.

“I don’t know. Mark just yelled to stop you.”

“Shit,” Steve said. He switched off the motor, jumped out of the car, ran back to the motel.

Mark Taylor was still on the phone.

“What is it?” Steve said.

“Just a second,” Taylor said. “O.K., call me back.” He slammed down the phone, turned to look at Steve. “The reporter finally got the news. They arrested Timberlaine.”

“I know that,” Steve said impatiently. “Shit, I was on my way over there.”

“I know, but you don’t know the half of it. They got the ballistics report. That’s why they arrested him. They matched up the bullet with the gun.”

“So what? We knew they would.”

“Yeah, but it’s the wrong gun.”

“What?”

“It’s the wrong fucking gun,” Taylor said. “According to ballistics, the gun Potter was killed with was the gun Timberlaine gave them. The gun he was wearing at the auction.” Taylor looked up at Steve and cocked his head. “You know. The gun I bought you.”