The Baxter Trust

himself to kill her.”
    “But he didn’t mind framing her for murder,” Dirkson said sarcastically.
    “Don’t like that one? Try this—He knew if Sheila were killed, Uncle Max would move heaven and earth to find out who did it, and he was afraid the trail would lead back to him. Whereas, he figured no one would ever connect him with Sheila killing a blackmailer. Particularly when he knew the blackmailer could be traced back to John Dutton.”
    “Aw, you’re just making up stuff off the top of your head,” Dirkson said. “You’ve got nothing but wild guesses.”
    “Right,” Steve said. “You got anything better?”
    Dirkson rubbed his forehead. He carefully avoided looking at Lieutenant Farron. He was a poker player, playing them close to the vest. “You got anything else to support this?”
    “Sure. The key in Greely’s pocket. There was nothing else in his pockets. Why? Because Teddy took everything out of his pockets except the key. Why? Because he wanted to make sure the police would investigate the key and find out that Greely had the key to Sheila’s apartment.”
    “But the locksmith says Greely was the one who copied the key.”
    “Sure. Uncle Teddy gave him a key to copy. Check up and you’ll find that some time or other when Sheila took a vacation she gave Uncle Teddy a key to feed her goldfish, or whatever. At any rate, he had a key.”
    “But you can’t prove Teddy Baxter killed Greely.”
    “Uncle Max told me he did.”
    “That’s hearsay.”
    Steve grinned. “No, it’s a dying declaration. Read your law.”
    Dirkson looked at him narrowly. “Surely you don’t intend to put yourself on the stand to testily to what Max told you.”
    “I don’t have to,” Steve said. “You see, we’re sitting here, and you’re asking me my theories, and I’m giving ’em to you, and you’re telling me they’re bullshit, and that’s all well and good. But the thing is, when we get into court, I don’t have to explain everything, you do. You have to prove Sheila guilty beyond all reasonable doubt. Fat chance. Wanna know how it’s gonna go?”
    Steve leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs and cocked his head at Dirkson. “When you rest your case, I’ll call Uncle Max as my first witness. Then you can explain to the jury why he isn’t available.”
    Steve paused while Dirkson thought that over. He watched Dirkson, and he liked what he saw. He smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. “Then I’ll rest my case right there and we’ll proceed to the argument. The judge will instruct the jury that if I can explain the facts of the case by any reasonable hypothesis other than that of guilt, they must find the defendant not guilty. I’ll give them a reasonable hypothesis.”
    This time Dirkson couldn’t help exchanging glances with Farron. Neither man liked what he saw.
    “If that’s what you want, fine,” Steve went on, airily. “Sheila will get off anyway, the police will look like a bunch of incompetent bunglers and it probably won’t do your political career any good. I, on the other hand, will come off smelling like the proverbial rose.”
    Steve let that sink in, then changed his tack. He uncrossed his legs and leaned in to Dirkson. “But if you want to get smart,” he said in an almost conspiratorial voice, “dismiss the case and release the girl. Then call in the press and issue a statement about how you, working in conjunction with the police department, cracked the Benton case. It’d be a hell of a story. Make you guys look real good.” Steve paused, smiled. “Probably get you reelected.”

52.
    S HEILA B ENTON ENTERED HER APARTMENT flanked by John Dutton and Steve Winslow. Each had a hand on her shoulder and a hand on her arm. The hands were for guidance, rather than support. Sheila could walk, she just seemed to have no real idea where she was going.
    Sheila was a mess. Her blond hair was wet and stringy. Her eyes were red and dull and glassy looking. Her face was lined and caked with tears. She looked like an accident victim, which, in a way, she was.
    They led her over to the couch and sat her down between them, Dutton on her right, and Steve on her left. Dutton immediately installed himself in the role of chief consoler, putting his arm around her shoulders. Steve withdrew his arm.
    “There you are,” Dutton said softly. “It’s all right now. It’s all right.”
    Sheila blinked and looked around. For a moment she was all right. Then her lip contorted,