The Baxter Trust

Robert Greely, and that’s it.”
    “Fine,” Dirkson said. “Is that all you came to tell me?” He hoped it was.
    “No, sir. I got the dope on the Benton girl.”
    Dirkson tensed. God, he hoped it cleared her. Though in his heart he knew it wouldn’t. “What have you got?”
    “Well, she has this trust fund of close to twenty million dollars that she loses if she’s involved in any scandal that would reflect on the family name.”
    Dirkson waved his hand irritably. “Yesterday’s news, Farron. You don’t have to recap for me. What have you got?”
    “Well, it seems that she is having an affair with a young man. A Mr. John Dutton.”
    Dirkson nodded. “She’s twenty-four. I’m not terribly shocked. Anything else?”
    “Yes, sir. John Dutton is married.”
    “Oh?”
    “Yes. He seems to be in the process of getting a divorce, but at the moment he is definitely married.”
    Dirkson frowned. “I see.”
    Lieutenant Farron stood expectantly. But Dirkson said nothing. After a few moments, Farron went on. He did so somewhat hesitantly, as he was not sure why Dirkson was being so reticent.
    “Yes,” Farron said. “And of course, the thing now is motive. I mean, opportunity is tied up—according to the coroner she could have killed him just fine. And means is there—her knife. So, with Greely presumably blackmailing her, and her having a trust fund to lose, then the only thing left is a reason for her to be blackmailed, and now we’ve got it. She was having an affair with a married man. That would have been sufficient grounds under the terms of her trust for her to lose everything. Twenty million dollars. If there was ever a more convincing motive for murder, I never heard it.”
    Dirkson took a sip of his coffee. He rubbed his head. Damn. It was all coming down on him, wasn’t it? The last thing he wanted. And there was Lieutenant Farron, standing there like an expectant dog who’s just brought his master back his ball, waiting for the praise, the “Good job,” the “Well done,” or at least the acknowledgment of the effort.
    Or for instructions.
    What could he tell him? That he didn’t want to find evidence against the girl? That he wished the whole Sheila Benton case would dry up and blow away? He couldn’t tell him that.
    So what could he do in the face of this new, damning evidence?
    There was only one thing he could do. And much as he hated to admit it, Dirkson knew what it was.
    Dirkson sighed. “All right,” he said. “Pick her up.”

20.
    J OHN D UTTON STOOD IN THE ARRIVALS building at JFK Airport and looked around. Where the hell was Sheila? This wasn’t like her. She had his flight number. She knew his arrival time. So where the hell was she? Sheila was dependable. She’d be here come hell or high water.
    Unless ...
    There was a newsstand at the far end of the terminal. Dutton walked over to it.
    There was nothing on the front page of the Post or the Daily News . That seemed odd. Dutton didn’t know it, but Sheila had Marston, Marston, and Cramden to thank for that.
    Dutton bought the Daily News. He stood in the terminal and riffled through it.
    It was on page eight.
    The body of a man had been discovered yesterday afternoon in an apartment on the Upper West Side. The man was identified as Robert Greely, fifty-two, of Brooklyn. The apartment was rented by a young woman identified as Sheila Benton.
    Sheila Benton was described simply as an aspiring actress. There was no mention of any trust fund, no mention of any connection to Maxwell Baxter.
    The police were investigating.
    Dutton read the article twice. His mind was reeling. Yes, Sheila would be here to pick him up, unless ...
    Could the police have established a connection? Could they have tied this in to Sheila?
    Could Sheila be under arrest?
    As if in a daze, Dutton plodded mechanically down to the baggage claim. He was so distracted his suitcase went by him twice on the carousel before he recognized it and picked it up.
    “John Dutton to the information desk, please,” came the voice over the loudspeaker. “John Dutton to the information desk, please.”
    A chill ran down his spine. His first thought was, “Christ, the cops.” Then he realized that was just paranoia. Sheila was late, so she’d paged him.
    But that wasn’t like Sheila, either. For all her kookiness, she was quite practical. If she were late, she’d go right to baggage claim.
    But she hadn’t done that.
    Dutton hefted his suitcase, trudged