The Baxter Trust

emotional, and think rationally for a minute. You’re just a normal, ordinary person going about your business, living your life. One day, as a bolt out of the blue, you get that letter. If, as you say, there is no reason for anyone to blackmail you, then your first reaction would be what any normal person’s reaction would be under those circumstances—you would think it was a joke.”
    Steve paused and let that sink in. “Now, wasn’t that your first reaction? Didn’t you think it was a joke?”
    “Yes. Yes, I did.”
    “Of course you did. And your next reaction would be to think who could have played this joke. Right?”
    “I guess so.”
    “Well, it’s only logical, isn’t it? Wouldn’t that be your next reaction?”
    “Yes. I guess it was.”
    “This what’s-his-name, this John Dutton—is he a funny guy? He like to kid around?”
    “Yes. He’s very funny.”
    “So you immediately thought it might be him.”
    “Well—”
    “Of course you did. It’s a completely natural reaction. You don’t think it was him any more, not now, not after everything that’s happened, not now that you know it’s not a joke.
    “But you did at the time. You thought it might be him. And that’s why when I suggest it might have been him, you’re outraged, you get angry, you fly off the handle. If you’d really never thought it might be him, when I asked you that you’d laugh and say, ‘John Dutton? Don’t be silly.’
    “Instead you get angry. Which happens to be a guilty reaction. I know it, and the district attorney knows it. It’s what we look for on cross-examination. Any time we can get the witness angry, we know we’ve got something, we know we’ve hit a nerve. And then we bear down.”
    Steve stopped and looked at Sheila. Her eyes blinked. She looked slightly pale.
    “Hey, nothing to worry about,” Steve said. “Don’t let it bother you. You’ll get better.”
    “Better?”
    “Yeah. At lying.”
    Sheila’s head snapped up. She opened her mouth for a terrible rejoinder.
    “Ah,” said Steve. “An outraged reaction.”
    Sheila wilted.
    “Well,” he said casually. “How you getting to the airport?”
    She pointed to the MG.
    Steve looked at her in surprise. “You own an MG?”
    “Of course not. It’s Johnny’s.”
    He looked at the car and nodded thoughtfully. “All right. You wait here. I’ll go pick up Johnny at the airport.”
    “Why?”
    “Frankly, I’d like to talk to him before you do.”
    She frowned.
    He looked at her and grinned. “Besides, I’ve always wanted to drive an MG.”

19.
    D ISTRICT A TTORNEY H ARRY DIRKSON RUBBED his eyes as he walked down the hall to his office. He had not slept well. In fact, he had hardly slept at all. The Sheila Benton case wouldn’t let him. Damn. That one, silly, snip of a girl should cause so much trouble.
    He’d had trouble falling asleep to begin with, just worrying about the damn case. And then there’d been the phone call at three-thirty in the morning, telling him the dead man was Robert Greely. And then the call at four-thirty, telling him the police had located Greely’s apartment.
    So it had been quite a night.
    Dirkson shoved open the door of his outer office and walked in.
    “Morning, Reese.”
    “Morning, sir.”
    “What’s up?”
    “Lieutenant Farron’s been looking for you. He’s been in three times already.”
    Dirkson detected a note of reproach behind Reese’s nerd-like features. “I overslept,” he said. He was surprised to find he said it somewhat defensively. Christ, this case had him balled up.
    “Yes, sir. And about Farron?”
    “Call him. Tell him I’m in.”
    Dirkson went into his inner office and shut the door. There was a pot of coffee waiting on the warmer. Dirkson needed coffee. He poured himself a cup, splashed in cream.
    He had just sat down and taken a sip when the phone buzzed. He picked it up.
    “Yes?”
    “Lieutenant Farron to see you.”
    “Send him in.”
    Dirkson rubbed his head and took another sip of coffee. Jesus. Let it be good news. Something that wrapped up the case. Something that cleared the girl.
    Something that got him off the hook.
    Lieutenant Farron came in.
    “Good morning, Farron. What you got?”
    “Morning, sir,” Farron said. “Well, to begin with, the lid’s on tight. Greely’s apartment’s sealed up, just like you said, and no information is leaking out.”
    “Good. And the press?”
    “We’ve released the fact that the dead man’s name is