And a Puzzle to Die On (3 page)

Becky Baldwin’s office did not exactly inspire confidence. A one-room affair over the pizza parlor, it boasted an exposed radiator, cracked windows, and peeling paint. Judging from her office, it was hard to imagine the woman had any clients at all.

Becky, on the other hand, was as attractive as her office was drab. She had golden-blond hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, long lashes, and perfectly understated makeup, which was imperceptible on the one hand, but managed on the other to dramatically highlight her exquisite eyebrows and lips. Her purple pants suit was at the same time attractive and trendy
and
no-nonsense and businesslike. Becky looked as if she’d be right at home in some high-powered Madison Avenue law office.

Becky sat at her battered metal desk. Cora sank down in the overstuffed client’s chair, and yanked her cigarettes out of her purse. “All right. Shoot.”

Becky pointed. “Out the window, if you please.”

Cora groaned. “Oh, hell, I forgot.” She heaved
herself from her chair, eyed the radiator under the window with suspicion. “Is that thing off? I burned myself the last time.”

“They’re not giving us heat yet.”

“Is that so?”

Cora touched the radiator gingerly, ascertained it was cold. She reached over it and raised the frame window. She balanced herself on the sill, lit a cigarette, blew out the smoke. “I wouldn’t wanna tell you your business, but frankly your salesmanship sucks. If I weren’t bored out of my mind at the moment, I’d be out that door. But I’m here to tell ya, it’s gonna take a pretty juicy case to keep me perched on this ledge.”

“It’s a good case.”

“I don’t want a good case. I want a rotten case with salacious details. Sex and scandal and murder and mayhem. Is that too much to ask?”

Becky smiled. “Actually, you’re right on the money.”

Cora blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Are you familiar with the case of Darryl Daigue?”

“No, why?”

“He was arrested for rape and murder.”

“Now you’re talkin’! And you’re his lawyer?”

“No.”

“No?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Then you’d better uncomplicate it, if you expect me to stick around.”

“I’ve been retained by Darryl’s sister.”

“To act on his behalf?”

“That’s right.”

Cora snorted in disgust. “And you wonder why people hate lawyers. Talk about splitting hairs. I don’t care
if this creep hired you or the creep’s sister hired you. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the creep’s lawyer.” She frowned. “Unless he’s hired someone else. Does he have another lawyer?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Then you’re his lawyer. ‘Nuff said. Who’d he rape, and who’d he kill?”

“According to his sister, Darryl didn’t kill anyone.”

“Yeah, right. Who’s he
supposed
to have raped and killed?”

“A girl named Anita Dryer.”

“A girl? How old is this corpse?”

“Anita Dryer was only seventeen.”

“I’m starting to like this less. Is there any chance your client didn’t do it?”

“Like I say, he’s not really my client.”

“Yeah, yeah, fine. Any chance the perp whose sister hired you to be his mouthpiece did the dirty deed?”

“Yeah. A big one.”

“Well, there’s a refreshing admission from an attorney. A nice change from the usual stonewall. What’s the matter, didn’t they pay you enough?”

Becky’s face hardened, belied her tender years. “Let’s get one thing straight: I won’t whitewash this guy if he did it. If he’s as bad as they say, I don’t want anything to do with it.”

“What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

“That doesn’t apply in this case.”

“Whoa! Somebody pushed
your
buttons!” Cora slipped down off the sill, took one last greedy drag, and flicked her cigarette out the window. “Let me be sure I got this straight. You want me to investigate this guy so you can make a decision as to whether you want to represent him?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

Cora frowned. “I’m missing something here. Tell me, where did this murder take place?”

“Right here in town.”

“Oh, really? Well, that’s what’s bothering me. How come I never heard of it?”

“Well, you’re relatively new in town.”

Cora blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“This happened before you came.”

“Is that right?” Cora cocked her head. “You mind telling me exactly when this rape and murder took place?”

“Twenty years ago.”

Cora Felton yanked the pack out of her purse and lit another cigarette.

Becky pointed.

“Don’t out-the-window me. I’d just as soon walk out the door. I don’t like to be played.”

“No one’s playing you.”

“Oh, no,” Cora shot back sarcastically. “You call me in here with a job. You say it’s a murder case. You lead me to believe it’s a current murder case—and don’t bother telling me you didn’t
say
it was a current murder case, I
know
you didn’t
say
it was a current case, you very carefully phrased things to avoid the truth.”

“Cora—”

“Twenty years is a long time. I’d be surprised if this case was still pending.”

“No kidding.”

“Just what
was
the disposition of the case?”

“Darryl Daigue was found guilty of murder. He was sentenced to life in prison.”

“Without possibility of parole?”

“That’s right.”

“And I assume he’s behind bars now?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Well, that changes the complexion of the case somewhat. When you said you weren’t Mr. Daigue’s attorney, I didn’t know just how right you were. Before I go, would you care to tell me what the present situation actually is?”

“Just what you said. Darryl Daigue is serving a life sentence without possibility of parole. His sister has asked me to look into the situation to see if something might be done.”

“With regard to what?”

“Parole, of course.”

Cora snorted. “What exactly does
without possibility of parole
mean to you?”

“It means exactly that. However, if new information should arise …”

“What sort of information?”

“Indicating he might not have done it.”

“You mean proving him innocent.”

“At least casting some doubt on his guilt.”

“You think there’s any question?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’d like to find out.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? Because his sister’s hired me.”

“To get dear old brother out of jail?”

“Yes.”

Cora shook her head. “I don’t like it. I don’t have a brother, but if I did, and it came to getting him out of jail, I doubt if I’d have waited twenty years to try.”

“You see why I’d like the story checked out?”

“I see why you
suspect
the story. Why you want it checked out is your business.”

“Fair enough. Will you do it?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Review the case. Talk to Darryl. Talk to the witnesses. See if his story holds up.”

“Why can’t you do that?”

“I could. But I don’t want to obligate myself by taking the sister’s money. On the other hand, I don’t want to work without being paid.”

“You and me both. If I do your dirty work, who’s footing the bill?”

“I am. Unless you come up with something. Then I’ll take the case, and pass the expenses on to the client.”

“But that point shouldn’t influence my judgment,” Cora said sarcastically.

“Not at all. If you want to stick me with the tab, it’s your call.”

Cora’s cigarette ash was the length of a pool cue. “Oh, hell!” She cupped her hand underneath it, hurried across the room. Miraculously, the ash held up. Cora flicked it out the window, tossed the butt out behind it, turned back to face Becky Baldwin. “What are the facts of the case? I’m not saying I’ll take it, but you might as well fill me in.”

Becky opened a file folder on her desk. “Darryl Daigue was a short-order cook. He worked at the diner on Route 9. Before they built the mall. Kids would come in for burgers and milk shakes. Nothing fancy. Just your simple diner food. According to the prosecution theory of the case, Darryl used to chat up the kids. He formed a relationship with Anita Dryer.
Got her to meet him on his dinner break. Met her at the old icehouse.”

“What’s that?”

“Just what it sounds like. A shaded wooden shack for storing blocks of ice. From back in the old days when there were iceboxes instead of refrigerators.”

“Uh-huh.” Cora managed to keep a straight face listening to Becky Baldwin tell
her
about the old days.

“Darryl got Anita to meet him there. He made a move on her. She resisted. He strangled her.”

“Before or after he raped her?”

“He never actually raped her.”

“I thought you said rape/murder.”

“That’s what he was originally charged with. Anita was found naked. The papers played it up. Then the medical examination showed she hadn’t been raped.”

“So what evidence was he convicted on?”

“Actually, damn thin. The medical examiner fixed the time of death to coincide with when Darryl got off work. Then there were witnesses who saw him talking to her in the diner. Big deal. It would be strange if there weren’t. And one witness thought he saw the two of them heading in the direction of the icehouse.”

“And that’s it?”

“In terms of witnesses.”

“What else was there?”

“Like I said, damn little. The autopsy indicated trace amounts of marijuana. That was admitted into evidence at the trial. Darryl Daigue had half an ounce of marijuana in his backpack. That wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t what?”

“Admitted into evidence. Darryl’s attorney got it suppressed on the grounds of an illegal search and seizure. The jury never knew about it. Assuming they
didn’t watch TV or read the papers. The jurors weren’t sequestered.”

“So you assume they knew about the grass?”

Becky shrugged. “Not my place to make that assumption. And God forbid the prosecution would ever leak something like that to the jury pool.”

“Say they didn’t. Is there any other bit of evidence you haven’t told me about?”

Becky picked up a heavy sheaf of papers, flipped it in Cora’s direction. “Here’s the transcript. You can read it yourself if you like.”

“What will I find?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No more than what I told you.”

Cora frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Join the club. Here’s a man convicted two decades ago on the skimpiest of evidence. Suddenly a sister gets it in her head she’d like to see him freed. To the extent of being willing to spring for some dough.”

“The retainer you haven’t accepted?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t think you mentioned how much she offered.”

“I don’t think I did.”

Cora scowled, frustrated.

“So will you do it?” Becky persevered. “Otherwise I’ll just have to get someone else.”

“And you’d have to pay
them
,” Cora said archly.

“I’ll pay
you
. I’ll give you a two-hundred-dollar cash advance. Will you do it?”

Cora shook her head. “Nope.”

“You’re not interested?”

“I didn’t say that. But I’m not taking any two-hundred-dollar
cash advance. I’ll do what you’re doing. I’ll look into it, see if I want to get involved.”

“Fair enough,” Becky said.

Cora peered at her searchingly. “You sure there’s nothing you’re holding back? You have no idea why this man’s in jail?”

Becky shook her head. “I’m hoping you can tell me.”

The Brandon State Penitentiary was in a wooded mesa in north-central Connecticut, a good hour and a half drive from Bakerhaven. It wasn’t that far, but it was accessible only by a tangled series of back roads on which the speed limit ranged from twenty-five to fifty, with a tendency toward the former, and God forbid you should get behind a truck. Which is precisely what Cora did, and it was miles before she could get around it, and then only by zipping by in a no-passing zone that must have been so designated largely for Sunday drivers, because there was adequate visibility, and you didn’t have to be Mario Andretti to pass a car there. Or whoever the hell the latest racing sensation was—Cora knew she was dating herself with Mario. At any rate, she shot by the truck, cursing mightily at the SUV that came speeding around the curve at her from the opposite direction. For a second she was young James Dean, playing chicken in
Rebel Without a Cause
. The terrified driver of the SUV hit the horn and the brakes. Cora floored it, managed to squeeze in front of the truck
without actually running the SUV off the road. Cora grinned in satisfaction, gunned the Toyota around the curve.