Authors: Parnell Hall
“Sorry, Cora. You’re not going to kid me out of it.”
“And we don’t even know this is Kessington. Shouldn’t we at least ID the guy so we don’t sound like a couple of jerks?”
“I don’t think image is our primary problem.” Becky shook her head. “Sorry.” She flipped the cell phone open.
“What was that?” Cora said.
“What?”
“I heard something.”
“Heard what?”
“I don’t know. If I did, I wouldn’t be asking.”
“You’re just stalling.”
“There!” Cora pointed. “You hear that?”
“No.”
A floorboard creaked.
“Yes,” Becky amended. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “It’s the killer! You think he knows we’re here?”
“Unless he’s deaf,” Cora said.
“If he heard us, why wouldn’t he leave?”
“Maybe he’s one of those guys gets off on danger.”
“All the more reason to call the cops.”
“Yeah. Like they’re gonna get here in time to save us.” Cora reached in her purse, pulled out her gun.
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m not going quietly. Somebody shot this guy. If it’s the guy in the bedroom, he’s got a gun and he’s not afraid to use it. Can you really see him letting us live?”
“We haven’t seen his face. We don’t know who he is.”
“He’s cornered in the bedroom. How’s he going to get out without being seen?”
“I’m calling the cops.”
“Fine. You do that.”
Cora raised the gun, started for the bedroom.
“What are you doing?” Becky whispered.
Cora ignored her, reached the door, stepped through.
She was in a short hallway with several doors leading off it. The one at the end was open into what appeared to be a master bedroom. Cora tiptoed down the hallway. She flattened herself against the wall, peered in the door.
It was indeed the master bedroom, boasting a huge four-poster bed of solid wood that resembled an old sailing vessel more than a place to sleep.
A framed painting—which for all Cora knew might have been an original—lay on the bed. Above the headboard, where it had obviously hung, was a wall safe.
A man stood on the bed. His back was to Cora. He was working on the safe. He wore black slacks and a skintight black T-shirt. He was trim and athletic looking, but that was all Cora could tell. The man had a nylon stocking over his head.
It occurred to Cora that that answered the question of how he intended to get by them without being seen. She wondered if that meant he hadn’t intended to kill them. It didn’t matter now. The stocking was up around his forehead. The minute he turned around, Cora would see his face.
“All right,” Cora said. “Put your hands in the air and turn around, nice and slow.”
The man froze, his hands still on the combination dial. Then, slowly, he raised them up in front of his face. Just as his hands came level with his forehead, he grabbed the edge of the nylon stocking and jerked it down over his face. In the same motion he spun around and sprang sideways off the bed, diving into a somersault. He rolled over and came up with a gun in his hand. He brandished it wildly, ran for the open window, and, to Cora’s astonishment, dived through.
From the
penthouse
?
Cora gawked in amazement.
The man’s head popped up from beneath the windowsill. His gun swung in Cora’s direction.
Cora fired.
The bullet whistled by his head and he took off.
Cora crept to the window, peered out.
He was gone!
A balcony ran along the side of the building and disappeared around the corner. The railing was low, the balcony narrow. Cora wasn’t about to follow. But where did it lead? There must be a door, and—
Becky!
Cora sprinted for the living room, collided with Becky in the hall.
“I heard a shot!”
“That was me.”
“You shot him?”
“I missed him.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. I’m afraid he’s in the apartment.”
“What?”
“Get behind me!”
“Cora.”
“I got a gun. You don’t.”
“Why’d you try to shoot him?”
“He tried to shoot me. I shot first.”
“But—”
“Shut up. Just get behind me.”
Cora poked her head into the living room, gun first. There was no one in sight. Cora wasn’t convinced. “Stay down. Follow me.”
“What do we do now?”
“We’re leaving.”
“We can’t leave.”
“We can’t stay. There’s a guy here with a gun.”
Crouching, Cora stalked her way into the room.
The door flew open and two cops burst in, guns drawn. Whatever they’d been expecting, it wasn’t Cora. The younger cop gawked. The older cop leveled his gun.
“All right, lady, hold it right there!”
Chapter
7
Cora was furious.
“You idiots! The killer’s getting away!”
One cop was impossibly young, with a chubby baby face. “Oh, I don’t think so,” he said, and laughed at his own joke.
“Not me, nimrod, the prowler. The thief. He could be hiding in the apartment.”
“I doubt that.” He snapped handcuffs on Cora’s wrists.
Cora opened her mouth to tear him a new one.
“Shut up, Cora,” Becky said. “As your attorney, I advise you to be quiet.”
“You’re a lawyer?” The young cop was immensely tickled. “Hey, Charlie. You hear that? She’s a lawyer.”
Charlie was stocky, bullnecked, and apparently humorless. He never cracked a smile. He rose from inspecting the body, looked Becky up and down. “She’s a murder suspect, that’s what she is.” He spun Becky around, snapped on the cuffs.
“Oh, for goodness’ sakes,” Becky said.
“See?” Cora said. “Not so easy to keep quiet when it happens to you.”
“Nothing’s happening to me,” Becky said irritably. “You’re the suspect, I’m the attorney. He’s just posturing.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Cora said. “You really want to stand here bickering while some psychopath comes out of the kitchen, shoots us in the head? Believe me or don’t believe me, but if you ever had
any
police training, try to recall the part about securing the premises.”
Charlie nodded his head. “Check it out, Mark. I think I can handle these two.”
“Wonderful,” Cora said. “If he gets shot dead, would you be willing to entertain the thought that I didn’t do it?”
“Mark can take care of himself.”
“As long as no thinking’s involved?”
“Shut up, Cora.”
“Are you really a lawyer?”
“She’s really a lawyer. You really a cop?”
“Cora!”
Cora took a breath, turned to Charlie. “Okay, if my lawyer were letting me talk, and if I were telling the truth, and if you were willing to listen, and if you checked out the bedroom and found the safe the killer was attempting to crack, you might want to check out the wide-open bedroom window just on the off chance an athletic killer in skintight black shirt and pants with a nylon stocking over his head escaped that way. If my lawyer were allowing me to talk, that’s what I would advise.”
The young cop named Mark came back. “Kitchen’s clean.”
“We’re not interested in his housekeeping,” Cora said. “What about the killer?”
Mark scowled. “That supposed to be funny?”
“Right, right,” Cora said. “I forgot. You’re the only one who can make the jokes.”
“Check out the bedroom, Mark.”
“Huh?”
“If the window’s open, check if anyone could have gone out there.”
“That what she says?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You believe her?”
“Not for a second. Find me something proves her wrong.”
Mark nodded, headed for the bedroom.
“Well, that’s more like it,” Cora said. “You mind keeping your gun ready in case he flushes anyone out?”
“Relax, lady.”
“I’ll relax when I’m dead. Which may be soon, if you don’t get your gun out.”
The cop came back from the bedroom. “No one there.”
“You go out on the ledge?” Cora said.
“I told you, no one’s there.”
“Did you go out on the ledge?” his partner asked.
“Like hell. You have to be nuts to go out on the ledge.”
“Or have just killed someone,” Cora said. “Okay, Becky, do your stuff. Come up with some legal mumbo jumbo makes these flatfoots release us or haul us downtown before they get us killed.”
They hauled them downtown.
Chapter
8
A uniformed cop
ushered Cora into a small office, pointed to a chair in front of a cluttered desk, and went out. Cora was tempted to search the desk, not in the hope of finding a means of escape, but just for spite. It occurred to her she’d probably gotten into enough trouble for one day. She stifled the urge, contented herself with glancing around the office.
There was not much to see. Aside from a file cabinet and what appeared to be an ancient fax machine, it was remarkably unadorned.
A stocky man with a crew cut and a bulldog jaw came in with a file folder. His blue jacket was too large for him, as if a little boy had tried on his father’s suit, remarkable considering his size. Without a word to Cora, he sat opposite her and flipped open the file.
“You Cora Felton?”
Cora was in no mood to cooperate. “That what it says there?” she said defiantly.
“That’s right.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean you are, but it makes it entirely likely. You care to dispute the fact?”
“You the ADA?” Cora said. She tended to doubt it. The man had his shirt collar open and his tie pulled off to one side as if he were a newspaper reporter in some ’40s noir movie about to bang out a story on an old Smith-Corona manual typewriter.
His nose crinkled as if he’d just smelled something foul. “No,” he said shortly. “I’m Sergeant Crowley, Homicide.”
“Oh,” Cora said. Her expression matched that of the sergeant.
Sergeant Crowley frowned. “You
want
to see an ADA?”
“I haven’t had much luck with cops.”
“Oh?”
“The bozos who brought me in let the murderer get away. That’s just for starters. They’re lucky they didn’t get shot.”
“You almost shot them?”
“Don’t be dumb. They’re lucky the killer didn’t shoot them while they were hassling me.”
“You must admit they had some provocation. They respond to a report of shots fired, find you holding a gun.”
“Well, if you’re going to nitpick,” Cora said.
The sergeant actually smiled. “Would you care to elaborate on that statement?”
“No.”
“Because I’m not an ADA?”
“Because you’re not listening. Once the two geniuses got it in their heads I’d committed the crime, they weren’t interested in anything else.”
“Again we come to the gun. Which I understand had been fired.”
“Which was unlikely to be fired again, having been surrendered,” Cora countered. “Which I certainly wouldn’t have done if I hadn’t mistakenly assumed two armed cops were going to be able to protect me from the killer.”
The sergeant shrugged. “Be reasonable. Why should they suspect another killer?”
“Because I gave them a hint. I said, ‘Hey, watch out for the killer.’”
He nodded. “I see. You assumed they were green at the game and had never encountered a criminal who suggested the crime had been committed by someone else.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Cora said. “Could you speak English? Could you at least talk decent cop? You sound like you’re practicing elocution lessons.”
He grimaced. “Got me. Guess I’m a little intimidated. They told me you were that puzzle person.”
Cora’s face showed dismay. “Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
“It’s true, isn’t it? You’re the Puzzle Lady person? You sell breakfast cereal on TV.”
“You watch children’s television?”
“Some of my detectives got young kids.”
“I’m thrilled. You think they’ll like it when they hear you’re busting the Granville Grains Corn Toasties lady?”
“I was hoping that wouldn’t happen. You seem to be leaving us little choice. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you want to be arrested.”
“Think again.”
“Help me out, then. What were you doing in that apartment with a loaded gun?”
“This is the part where I’d like to have a lawyer.”
“You have the right to an attorney.”
“Glad you think so. My lawyer’s locked up and they won’t let me see her.”
The sergeant consulted the chart. “Yeah. Arrested in the commission of a felony. Must be a nuisance when that happens.”
“Aren’t you enjoying this a little too much?”
“Well, it’s certainly a change of pace from my standard routine. If it weren’t for the dead man involved, this would be a pretty good day.”
Cora sized up the situation. In spite of looking like a refugee from a chain gang, the sergeant appeared to have a sense of humor, and didn’t seem to be treating her seriously as a murder suspect. Maybe he was actually a human being.
Cora gave him her most ingratiating smile. Had she been on television, the sale of Corn Toasties would have shown a considerable bump. “Sergeant, any way we could wrap this up? I got tickets for
The Book of Mormon.
”
The sergeant frowned. “What?”
Oh, dear. Maybe he wasn’t a smart man playing dumb. Maybe he
was
dumb.
“I have theater tickets.”
“Oh. Sort of a low priority, don’t you think? Compared to a murder charge.”
“Am I charged with murder?”
“You’re not charged with anything. We’re just talking here. Now, there’s two ways this can go. You can cooperate and we can try to work things out. I’m not saying it’ll happen, but it’s probably your best shot. Or you can stand pat and demand to have a lawyer. And we can charge you and book you and you can get to see that ADA you were talking about.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Good heavens, no. Just making a good faith attempt to clear things up.”
“I think I’d rather hear a threat.”
The sergeant sighed. “All right, lady. I’m trying to be nice. It clearly isn’t working. Here’s the situation: You can either answer my questions or you can go back in the holding cell while you think it over.”