The Baxter Trust

take the damn cops to run a simple procedure like that? Dirkson realized it probably didn’t matter. The preliminary report indicated that the victim had been killed not long before the police arrived on the scene. So, unless something spectacular and unforeseen showed up in the autopsy report, there was no reason why she couldn’t have come home, stabbed him and run out and called the cops.
    Dirkson was starting to feel slightly queasy. Shit. Means and opportunity were falling into place just fine.
    Which left motive.
    There, on his desk, sat the blackmail note. That’s what it was, Dirkson conceded. Despite what some clever defense attorney might argue, despite its vagueness, despite the lack of any hint of violence or any demand for money, this was a blackmail note.
    If it should tie up to the dead man.
    The dead man. Another sore point. Who the hell was he? Why hadn’t he been carrying any identification? Why hadn’t the police been able to track him down yet?
    If there should be anything to tie him to the girl ...
    Dirkson chuckled, in spite of himself. That was kind of funny. Tie him to the girl, indeed. He was found in her living room with the key to her apartment in his pocket, but, if there was anything else to tie him to the girl.
    To Sheila Benton.
    Maxwell Baxter’s niece.
    Shit.
    Dirkson grabbed up the phone, pushed the intercom button and buzzed his law clerk
    “Sir?”
    “Reese, who are Maxwell Baxter’s attorneys?”
    “I don’t know, sir.”
    “Find out.”
    “Yes sir.”
    Dirkson hung up the phone, frowned, looked at the clock.
    Damn. It was getting late. Something should have happened by now. Either the police or Baxter’s lawyers or—
    Shit! Late. This was the afternoon he was scheduled to play golf. Two of the guys in the foursome were heavy campaign contributors. And the main reason they were was because they liked the prestige of being able to hobnob with the bigwigs, to be able to say in passing, “Oh, not tomorrow, I’m playing golf in D.A. Dirkson’s foursome.” Jesus Christ, he was due to tee off in fifteen minutes. And this was an election year.
    Dirkson lunged for the phone.
    “Reese.”
    “Yes, sir, I’m working on it.”
    “Never mind that. Get me Dunwoody Golf Course.”
    “Sir?”
    “Now.”
    Dirkson slammed down the phone.
    Hell. What should he do now? Wait for the phone call? Or hop in a cab and leave it to Reese to explain? How the hell long would it take to get up to Yonkers, anyway? A lot more than fifteen minutes. Can’t let Reese explain, he’s an idiot. Gotta wait for the call, explain the emergency, meet ’em for cocktails at the nineteenth hole and—
    The phone rang.
    Dirkson lunged for it “Reese. You got the golf course?”
    “No, sir. The police lab. Kramer.”
    “Shit.” Dirkson pushed the button. “Yeah, Kramer, what you got?”
    “I’ve got good news and bad news.”
    Dirkson sighed. Shit. Everyone was a fucking comedian. “Yeah. Let’s have it.”
    “I classified the victim’s fingerprints and ran them through the computer. There’s no record on him.”
    “Great What’s the good news?”
    “The girl’s prints are on the knife.”
    “Okay. Thanks.”
    Dirkson hung up. He put his elbows on the desk, put his head in his hands and rubbed his forehead. He seemed to be getting a terrible headache.
    Yeah, sure, he told himself.
    Good news.

12.
    “I T STINKS .”
    Sheila Benton frowned. “What?”
    Steve Winslow shook his head. “Your story stinks.”
    That bothered her. Sheila had spent the whole time she was waiting for him working on her story, and she thought she’d done a pretty good job. She’d told him everything. That is, she’d told him more than she’d told the cops. She hadn’t told him about the cocaine—she couldn’t bring herself to do that. He was a lawyer and all, and he was supposed to be on her side, and everything she told him was a confidential communication, and all that, but still.
    But she’d told him everything else. In particular, she told him the times everything had happened, times she actually knew, but had felt she shouldn’t tell the cops. Somehow the times things happened had seemed incriminating to her.
    And for good reason. Because it included the time she had taken out of her schedule to buy cocaine.
    Sheila was seated on the couch. Steve was standing. He had been pacing back and forth in front of her as she told her story. He hadn’t been looking at her though, aside from an