The Anonymous Client

had a lot of irons in the fire, and he’d pulled another scam. You didn’t know about it, and the police still don’t know about it, but I know about it. And I can prove it.
    “You know what you found? You found twelve thousand dollars in small bills.”
    Margaret Millburn reacted.
    “That’s right, Miss Millburn. You found it, and you took it, and you kept it. You didn’t dare keep the ten grand. That was in big bills that could be traced. But the twelve grand was in small bills. You figured no one would have the numbers. So you took a chance. You hid it in your apartment. It was right there in your apartment when you called the cops. You figured they wouldn’t search your apartment, and you figured right.
    “But you didn’t want to leave it there, not after the case broke open, not after things started going wrong. See why I asked about a safe deposit box? Either your bank account will show a twelve thousand dollar cash deposit, or you’ve got a safe deposit box somewhere with twelve thousand dollars in it. And if you do, after the showing I’m going to be able to make, a court order will open that box.”
    Margaret Millburn’s mouth moved, but no words came out. She swayed slightly.
    Steve bored in.
    “You killed Bradshaw. You killed him and you took the money. It wasn’t in self-defense. It wasn’t in the heat of passion. It was a cold-blooded, premeditated crime. It was murder for profit. You set up Marilyn Harding, and you killed Donald Blake. You coldly, ruthlessly, intentionally—”
    Margaret Millburn struggled to her feet. “No, No!” she cried. “I swear! I didn’t! It was an accident! ...”
    Time stood still.
    Margaret Millburn froze, petrified by what she had just said.
    No one moved. No one spoke.
    An electric silence hung in the air.
    No one in the courtroom could quite believe what had just happened.
    Steve Winslow could hardly believe it either.
    “Son of a bitch,” he murmured. “A courtroom confession.”

46.
    S TEVE W INSLOW LOOKED LIKE A prizefighter after the big fight. He was slumped back in his desk chair, totally drained, a can of beer in his hand. He looked as if he didn’t have the strength to raise it to his lips.
    On the other hand, Mark Taylor and Tracy Garvin were animated. They were sitting there, drinking beer and whooping it up.
    “I couldn’t believe it,” Taylor was saying. “I just couldn’t believe it. I’m sitting there in court, and you got the witness on the run, and I’m really digging it ’cause you’d been off in chambers and things looked pretty sticky and then when you came back she caved in on the fingerprints, and I’m just like everybody else in the courtroom—by that time I figured the list was just a red herring, just a ploy to get her to touch the clipboard and get her to leave her fingerprints. And I know you haven’t compared any prints, but she doesn’t, and she caves in, and I’m thinking, ‘Holy cow, score one for our side!’ And the next minute you’re back to the clipboard and the list and Phyllis Kemper, and I’m thinking, ‘Holy shit, Tracy was right after all!’ Suddenly you come out with, ‘No, the name you reacted to was Mark Taylor.’“
    Taylor shook his head. “I’m telling you, I almost went through the floor. It was like someone changed the channel on me. It was like someone was gonna tap me on the shoulder and say, ‘Smile, you’re on Candid Camera .’ Taylor shook his head again. “I tell you, I never saw anything like it.”
    “But you knew it all along,” Tracy said. “Last night, when you had us make up the list. Didn’t you?”
    Steve sighed. He hefted the beer and took a swig. “I had it in mind. But you’re the one who gave it to me. With that question about why did Bradshaw come to the office. And then mentioning the phone calls. That was the key, of course. He didn’t come to my office, he came to Mark Taylor’s office.”
    “What?” Taylor said.
    “Well, he didn’t, but that’s where he was headed. He had Margaret Millburn trace the license number, he looked up the Taylor Detective Agency, and he was on his way to get you.”
    “Then why didn’t he?”
    “Callboard in the lobby. He looked at the callboard to get your room number, and right under Mark Taylor, on the bottom of the callboard was Steve Winslow. Kemper had already told him I was his lawyer. He knew private detectives don’t work on their own, somebody hires them, so he figured it was me. That was the leap