The Innocent Woman

hardened. She looked back up at him. “No, it’s not okay. Where do you get off making a pompous speech like that? You have to decide if you’re going to let me tell my story. I told my story. I came to the office to clean out my desk, found the petty cash drawer robbed and the body on the floor. That’s what I told the cops, and that’s why I’m on the hook. So you tell me, what the hell can I tell ’em now that’s gonna account for that petty cash drawer being shut?”
    Steve exhaled. Shook his head.
    “Damned if I know.”

19.
    S TEVE W INSLOW CALLED M ARK Taylor from a pay phone on the corner. “Mark, Steve. Listen, besides Lowery and Macklin, I want you to get a line on Larry Cunningham.”
    “Who?”
    “Larry Cunningham. That’s the guy Amy Dearborn had dinner with before she went down there. Find him and get his story sewn up before the cops do.”
    “You got it.”
    “You got anything for me?”
    “Nothing new from the cops. But I pegged the store owner.”
    “Store owner?”
    “Guy from the music store. The one who closed up the shop.”
    “That was him?”
    “Sure was. I got his name and address and Tracy’s there now.”
    “You sent Tracy to talk to him?”
    “What do you mean, sent? Like I had a choice in the matter? My man calls in the info, and while I’m still taking it down, Tracy’s on the other phone calling him up. I told her to wait for you, but she said there might not be time and she’s gone.”
    “Shit. Where’s the guy live?”
    “A loft in SoHo. You want the address?”
    “Sure do.”
    Steve copied down the address, hung up the phone and flagged a cab. He didn’t go to SoHo, however, he had the cab take him to his apartment in Greenwich Village.
    He had his corduroy jacket off on the way up the stairs. He went in, hurled it on the couch and tore off his T-shirt. Cursing his cluttered studio apartment, he detoured around a pile of paperbacks he’d never managed to find shelf space for, and flung open his closet. It was crammed with junk, but at least nothing fell out like in a cartoon. He riffled through the hanging clothes, managed to find a white shirt. He tore it off the hanger, pulled it on, buttoned it up.
    Next a tie. He found a brown one hanging on a hook, pulled it on and tied it. The result was sloppy at best—the knot was twisted and the narrow end of the tie hung down below the wide one, but at least it was on.
    Steve plowed through the hangers again. Aha. A gray sports coat that had seen better days. He pulled that on.
    What about the pants? Screw the pants. Fix the hair. Steve rushed to a desk in the corner, jerked open a drawer. Victory. A rubber band, first rattle out of the box. He rushed into the bathroom combed his hair back into a ponytail, fastened it with the rubber band and tucked it under the collar of the white shirt.
    And noticed how badly he’d tied the tie. Hell. Should he do it again?“Who gives a shit?” Steve said out loud. He turned and ran out the door.

20.
    I T WAS A SECOND FLOOR loft on Spring street. The man who opened the door was indeed the man Steve had seen closing up the music shop.
    “Mr. Branstein?” Steve said.
    Branstein was a middle-aged man with a round face, wire-rimmed glasses, and curly hair. “Yes?” he said.
    “Steve Winslow,” Steve said, pumping his hand up and down. “And I understand Miss Garvin is already here.”
    Steve didn’t wait for an invitation, just pushed right by Mr. Branstein and found himself in a large open loft with guitars and banjos hanging on the walls.
    Tracy Garvin sprang up from the couch. “Mr. Winslow. So glad you’re here. Mr. Branstein was just telling me all about it.”
    “All about what?” Steve said.
    Oliver Branstein had a slightly bewildered look on his face. “Well, now I don’t exactly know,” he said. “Miss Garvin has been asking me questions. And she hasn’t really told me what it’s all about.”
    “Then I’m glad I’m here,” Steve said, “because I can explain. I’m an attorney at law. Miss Garvin is my confidential secretary. She’s been asking you questions with regard to a case I’m handling.”
    “What case?”
    Steve frowned. “May I be absolutely truthful, Mr. Branstein?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “You have to understand that as an attorney at law, my client’s matters are confidential and I cannot divulge them. I know that’s not a very satisfactory answer, so without betraying my client’s interests, I’d like to tell you