The Innocent Woman

witnesses and all that. I got bad news for you. I’m not Perry Mason, and there doesn’t have to be a happy ending.
    “And our client? For all we know she’s guilty, she’s going to take a fall, and she’s going to pull us down with her. I, for one, don’t really want to go.”
    “That’s not fair,” Tracy said.
    “Oh, isn’t it? I’ve done a lot of things tonight that I wouldn’t have done if it wasn’t your ass on the line. Sending her back there to find the body again. You think I’d have done that if you hadn’t whisked her out of there the first time?” Steve stopped, shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so hard on you. But it makes me crazy—thinking if I don’t cover this up, the cops are going to nail you.”
    “They’re not gonna nail me.”
    “Oh no? You left your fingerprints at the scene of the crime, and you rushed out to tamper with a witness. You think Branstein isn’t going to remember you showed up even before I did?”
    Tracy took a long breath, then blew it out again. “I’m sorry,” she said.
    “Yeah,” Steve said. He stepped out in the street, raised his hand.
    “What you doing?”
    “I’m putting you in a cab. I want you to go home and get some sleep while you still can.” Steve grimaced. Shook his head. “Because tomorrow, all hell’s gonna break loose.”

22.
    S TEVE W INSLOW WAS DREAMING .
    He’d finally gotten the lead in the Broadway play he’d always wanted. It wasn’t just any Broadway play, it was Hamlet . With him in the title role. There he was, out on stage doing the famous soliloquy. “To be or not to be.” The audience was hushed, quiet, listening to his words. But still, there were whispers. Faint but audible whispers, echoing around the theater. Better than Olivier. Better than Olivier. Better than Olivier.
    It was hard to concentrate, hearing that. Still, Steve was doing a great job. Not better than Olivier, but a damn good Hamlet .
    But no one was watching him.
    What?
    That sea of faces in the audience, the same ones that had been whispering, “Better than Olivier,” weren’t even looking.
    Not possible. How fickle is the attention span. But sure enough, they were all looking stage left. What the hell was stage left?
    Who cares? Gotta concentrate on the part. Can’t be distracted by—
    By what?
    In spite of himself, Steve turned, looked, saw—
    Amy Dearborn and Tracy Garvin, dressed in identical sunsuits, arms linked, tap-dancing across the stage singing a Double-Mint commercial.
    Damn, that pissed Steve off. What were those girls doing? Ruining his concentration on the one hand, and stealing his audience on the other. There they were, dancing to a Double-Mint jingle.
    Only it wasn’t a jingle. It was a ring. A whirring ring.
    Like the ring of a telephone.
    On the fold-out couch, Steve snaked his arm out from under the blanket, groped, found the phone.
    “Hello.”
    “Steve, it’s Tracy.”
    “Huh?”
    “Steve. Wake up. It’s Tracy.”
    “Tracy?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Tracy. Jesus Christ. What the hell time is it?”
    “I know, I know. I’m sorry, but—”
    “You don’t have to call to say you’re sorry. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
    “No, don’t hang up!” Tracy shouted.
    Steve shook his head to clear it. “Tracy, what the hell’s going on?”
    “What’s going on is I’m in jail,” Tracy said. “I only get one phone call. It was between you and pizza. I opted for you. Don’t make me think I made a bad choice.”
    “What the hell?”
    “Got your attention now?” Tracy said. “Good. Here’s the picture. It happens to be two A.M. I’m in the D.A.’s office. He’s here, and so is Sergeant Stams. They’re both trying to ask me questions. I don’t want to answer. I told them I wanted to call my attorney. They weren’t happy, but they had to let me. I called you. Now did I make a good choice, or should I call someone else?”
    “Oh, hell.”
    “Assuming they let me call someone else. I don’t know how this one phone call bit works. Do you? I mean, if the first attorney you call is a dud, do they let you keep calling until you score?”
    “All right, all right, I’m awake,” Steve said. “Just hang on, I’ll be right there.”

23.
    H ARRY D IRKSON LOOKED SMUG . Steve Winslow could tell. He’d seen that look before. It was the look the D.A. wore when he felt he had every ace in the deck. To Winslow that look was a challenge. The phrase, wipe that smug smile off your face, came