Scam

kill him?”
    “Don’t be stupid.”
    “That’s not stupid. All the other principals are dead. If I tell you this, frame him, fine, kill him, no. Do I have your word?”
    “Give me a break.”
    “I’m giving you a big break by talking to you instead of the cops. Considering what you did to me, that’s a hell of a concession. Now, my patience is wearing thin. You start talking turkey, or I’m out the door.”
    “Fine, for Christ’s sake. I won’t hurt him. Jesus Christ, just show me a way out of this mess.”
    There came a pounding at the door, and a loud voice. “Open up! Police!”
    Amy Greenberg turned on me. “You son of a bitch!”
    “Hey, I didn’t call ’em. You’ve been with me all the time.”
    “Hey! Open up in there!”
    “I think you better open the door.”
    She waggled a finger at me. “If you tell them anything.”
    “It’ll be my word against yours. I know. Right now, you’d better open the door.”
    She did, and Sergeant Belcher came through it like a linebacker on a blitz. He pushed by Amy Greenberg, grabbed me by the arm, and spun me around. I felt the metal dig into my wrist, heard the click of the handcuffs snapping shut.
    “All right, you son of a bitch,” he said. “Let’s see you make bail now.”
    “What the hell,” I said.
    I barely got the words out of my mouth.
    I caught a glimpse of Amy Greenberg’s face as Sergeant Belcher jerked me sideways.
    The last thing I saw was my microcassette recorder lying on Amy Greenberg’s coffee table as Belcher dragged me out the door.

53.
    T HERE WERE TV CREWS EVERYWHERE. Sergeant Belcher could hardly get a parking space. He pulled up behind one of the mobile units, jerked me out of the car.
    The news crews descended on us. In the forefront, holding a Channel 2 microphone, was Chris Harris—the husband of Alice’s friend.
    “Sergeant Belcher,” he said. “Chris Harris, Channel 2 News. Could I have a statement?”
    Belcher was baffled. “Statement? What statement? What’s going on here?”
    “We just got the word. There’s been a break in the Cranston Pritchert case.”
    “Where’d you hear that?”
    “High-ranking sources. Word is the police have a suspect in custody.” He pointed to me. “Is that him?”
    I could see Belcher’s mind going. He hadn’t been prepared for any publicity at this juncture. On the other hand, if any one was taking credit for my arrest, it might as well be him.
    “This is Stanley Hastings. A suspect in the crimes. I’ve placed him under arrest.”
    “Hasn’t he already been charged with the crimes?”
    “He has. He’s currently out on bail.”
    “Then why have you arrested him again?”
    “Because new evidence has come to light which will probably result in revoking bail.”
    The TV reporters all began shouting questions at once.
    “Evidence?”
    “What new evidence?”
    “Did he confess?”
    “What have you got?”
    Belcher raised his hand. “All I can say is he had the murder weapon, and his fingerprints have been found at all three murder sites, two of which he claims he was never at.”
    “That’s old news, sergeant,” Chris Harris said. “The word is there’s been a break in the case.”
    “There has. The suspect has been apprehended in an attempt to influence witnesses in the case through bribes and intimidation.”
    The reporters again began shouting at once, and once again my buddy cut through.
    “Bribing and intimidating who, sergeant? What’s the story here?”
    Belcher took a breath. “He’s been attempting to influence the testimony of members of Cranston Pritchert’s firm. Just now, he was arrested in an alleged attempt to intimidate Amy Greenberg, granddaughter of the late Philip Greenberg and newly elected chairman of the board. He was in the process of doing so when I made the arrest.”
    “So, Sergeant Belcher,” Chris Harris said. “You claim you have the defendant dead to rights on three murder counts?”
    “Yes, I do.”
    He shoved the microphone at me. “Mr. Hastings. Do you have any comment at this time?”
    “Yes,” I said. “I’m innocent. This cop doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
    Belcher’s eyes blazed, but he wasn’t about to hit me on camera.
    At that moment, a car screeched to a stop. Sergeant MacAullif got out and pulled Amy Greenberg from the back seat.
    “There’s Ms. Greenberg now,” I said. “Why don’t you ask her?”
    As the reporters turned to look, Sergeant MacAullif pushed Amy Greenberg