Death Was in the Picture (7 page)

I tried not to let Dex see the relief on my face when I found him sitting up at his desk. Though he had a drink in front of him and I knew for certain it was far from his first of the day, he looked coherent and relatively presentable.

“Xander Dean just showed up again, Dex. He’s waiting to see you.”

“Is he now?” Dex said, kicking back in his chair and lacing his hands behind his head. “Well, don’t stand on ceremony, Kitty. Send him on in.” It was impossible to read anything at all from his affable tone.

“I’m not standing on ceremony, Dex. I… oh, never mind,” I said.

“Oh, and Kitty …” Dex said, just as I was about to leave his office.

“I know, I know … typing, right?”

“Thanks kid,” Dex said, preparing to top up his drink as I headed out the door.

Dean was standing next to my desk, right where I’d left him. I guessed he hadn’t wanted the challenge of trying to fit back into the waiting room chair.

“Mr. Theroux will see you now,” I told him as I took my own seat. “You can go right on in.”

“Thanks,” Dean said, moving toward Dex’s office. I was disappointed when he closed the door tightly behind him. I wouldn’t be able to hear anything.

Oddly enough, not everyone
did
close the door. Most of
Dex’s clients seemed to take me for part of the furniture and they’d talk away to him like I wasn’t even there. That suited me fine as it meant I got to hear a lot of things with my own ears that I had no business hearing at all. Not today, though. I wouldn’t be able to hear the conversation, but I knew that Dex would be able to hear typing—or lack thereof. I sighed deeply, took the piece of paper I’d been using when the flatfoots were there out of the typewriter, turned it over, rolled it back in, clean side up and started thinking about activities for quick brown foxes. And lazy brown dogs.

AFTER DEAN WAS gone, I waited until I’d heard his surprisingly light footsteps recede down the hall before I ventured into Dex’s office. Things in there had gotten worse. Much worse. Worse than they had been for a while.

There was more grayness in Dex’s face. I figured it was not entirely attributable to the booze. When I plunked myself back in my usual chair, Dex once again didn’t even turn toward me from the window. That was always a bad sign. And I noted a fresh coating of booze in his glass. The smell of it was back hard in the room. Rye this time, I thought absently, not even questioning when I had acquired the connoisseurship necessary to make that determination by the vapors alone.

“What did he want?”

Dex didn’t answer right away, but sighed deeply and finally turned away from the window, though I noticed he didn’t meet my eye.

“I’m still not sure,” Dex said finally. I didn’t believe him. I told him as much.

Another sigh. Another sip. Another smoke pulled from the pack on his desk. Finally, he pulled open his desk drawer and pulled out a small stack of bills. They were green and clean and crisp. They looked good enough to eat.

“How much?” was all I said.

“Two hundred,” Dex replied.

“What for?”

“He didn’t say. Just he’d be in touch. I don’t like it, Kitty. I don’t like it one bit.”

“Yet you took the money?”

Dex nodded. Something like embarrassment flitted across his face. “I did.”

“But it must have been for something, Dex. He can’t just pay you for nothing at all. Did he say anything else?” It was like pulling fish through a tiny hole in a barrel. I knew the fish were in there all right. It was just taking some work to get them through the hole.

“Sure. He said a bit.”

“And …” I prompted.

Dex shrugged. Dragged on his smoke. Cast his eyes back out the window. “Wanted to know what I saw.”

“What you saw,” I repeated.

“You know,” he said.

I nodded. I figured I did. “What you tell him?”

“Wasn’t much to tell,” Dex said.

“Oh,” I said, finally understanding, “but you told it all, right? And you’re not sure if you should have told it quite that way.”

“It don’t feel right, Kitty. What I saw, I mean. It didn’t feel right to me then. It doesn’t feel any better now.”

“But you said you didn’t see anything.”

“I didn’t,” Dex agreed, “nothing I felt was significant. Xander? He’s got other ideas.”

“I don’t understand, Dex.”

“Wyndham going into the room. Coming out again, like I told you. He seemed to know I’d seen that. And he made sure I was able to describe it precisely.”

“The girl, right? Your date. You said you’d felt like she was putting you in place there.”

“Did I say that?”

“Not in so many words. But that was the idea I got. That you figured she was lining you up; making sure you saw Wyndham going into that bedroom.”

“But if that was true, Kitty …” Dex’s voice trailed off.

“If that were true …” I prompted.

“Well, it’s just… why me? You know, out of all the dopes at that party, why single me out?”

“Well, did you look especially dopey?”

“C’mon, K: this ain’t the funny papers.”

“Well then, I guess it’s possible she was looking out for you.”

“Is it?” Dex asked.

“Seems like.”

“But why me?”

“There’s that extra dopey thing again.”

“Kitty …”

“I’m just statin’ the obvious. But, really, if the place was as crowded as you say …”

“It was.”

“OK then,” I stopped. Thought hard. “Well then, it would seem to follow that your date was the only person who knew you’d be there. And Xander Dean. Aside from me, of course, and I didn’t tell anyone.”

“You think Xander Dean told her to make sure I saw? But why?”

It was a good question. “What we’re thinking is that someone wanted you to witness something. Something anticipated—or more—by them.”

“That’s a helluva accusation, Kitty.”

“It’s not an accusation. It’s a thought, that’s all. We’re just thinking here right now.”

“Anyway, I was already watchin’ Wyndham. Why make sure I see what I’m already being paid to watch?”

“My guess would be that someone wanted to make absolutely sure you saw the right thing at the right time. You said there were a lot of people there, right?”

Dex grunted.

“Well,” I went on, “who’s to say you’d have your mug pointed in the right direction when things went down.”

“Maybe,” Dex said, sounding skeptical. “I guess.”

“And here’s something else,” I pointed at the stack of bills on the desk, “the fact that he’s givin’ you money alone says something, doesn’t it?”

“What’s it say?” Dex asked. I was pretty sure that he knew and he was pretending not to get it, though I couldn’t tell if the pretense was for my benefit or his own. Either way, I didn’t really want to say what was on my mind: I was about one hundred and ten percent sure Dex wouldn’t like it.

“Well, think on it,” I said finally. “He gives you
more
money and doesn’t ask for anything in return….”

Dex just looked at me. Waited for me to go on.

“Well, no one gives nuthin’ for nuthin’, Dex.”

“C’mon, Kitty: you got something to say, then say it.”

I found myself looking quickly to my left and right, as though for a way out. There wasn’t one. “The only reason
I
can think of that he’d give you money as described is to keep you employed by him and saying the stuff he wants you to say. I mean, he hasn’t asked you to follow anyone new or anything, right?”

“You’re saying he’s … he’s buying me as a witness?”

“I guess.”

“Well, for someone to have wanted me to witness something, they’d have to have been cooking up something worth witnessing, if you follow.”

“I do,” I said, nodding. “That’s what I was thinking. It’s not a good thought though, Dex. Because, it means that you suspect your client of murder.”

“Did I say that?” Dex asked, thought for a minute, then answered his own question. “I did not say that.”

“But it’s what you’re thinkin’.”

“Either way, we’re going way beyond actual fact,” Dex said. I could hear him trying for a reasonable tone. “But here’s something that
is
actual. Xander pumped me for information, as much as I could give him anyway. As much as the cops asked for,
too, come to think of it. Which wasn’t much. Then Xander thanked me and said he’d like to keep me on retainer, which he gave me,” he patted the bills in front of him. “And that’s that.”

“That’s what?”

“That’s the end of it,” and then with more conviction, “that’s all she wrote.”

“Sorry?”

“Well,” Dex said, sitting up looking suddenly brighter. I wonder if he was even aware of pushing his lowball glass to one side of his desk blotter. “I took his money, but what’s to stop me from giving it back?”

“You won’t do work for him anymore?” And even though I wasn’t sure it would be as easy as washing your hands, I had no doubt it was the right thing for Dex. He looked better already just thinking about it, like he was getting over the grippe.

BY FIVE MINUTES after nine the following morning I was at my desk and on the telephone. I didn’t know where Dex was but I figured that, like most days, I’d be lucky to see him before eleven.

Not long after I got to the office, I finally managed to get Xander Dean on the phone. He answered himself with a crisp “Hullo.” I explained that Dex was requesting a meeting and we sewed one up for two that afternoon. I figured that Dex would be sober and sitting in his chair by then. I hoped so, anyway. Sometimes hope is all we have.

Xander Dean showed up at two minutes of two, exactly on time. Dex, on the other hand, didn’t wander off the street until two fifteen.

To his credit, Dex hadn’t actually known when his appointment with Dean would be, but he’d been the one to request it. And he hadn’t checked in. So he was late.

Though he showed no outward signs of impatience, I could tell Dean was less than happy at being kept waiting. I didn’t blame him. Not only had Dex not shown up on time for a meeting that he himself had called, the best reading material I could offer was the July 1929 issue of
The Cunarder.
It was the magazine of the Cunard Steamship Company and I couldn’t imagine how a copy had ended up in our waiting room, let alone one more than two years old. Xander flipped through it fixedly, as though determined to wring some value from this lost time, but he rechecked his watch every few minutes as he sat there.

When Dex finally breezed into the office, he pulled with him the scent of sunshine and an air of ease. I was relieved to see he
had recently shaved and was wearing a fresh collar. And he looked quite sober. I was relieved about that, as well.

“Why Xander Dean!” he said, moving toward the big man with his arm extended, then patting him on the back two or three times while they shook. “It’s good to see you, sir! And to what do I owe the pleasure on this fine afternoon?”

I rushed in with an answer before Dex had the chance to make things worse. “Why, you asked that I make an appointment, Dex. You remember, I’m sure.”

“My apologies, old chum,” he said to Xander. “Of course I remember. Of course I do. But it’s a beautiful day with a lot in it. You’ll forgive my tardiness? And my forgetfulness, as well?” He pounded him again on the back, guided the big man to his feet, then led him into his office.

When Xander closed the door behind him, I allowed myself a sliver of disappointment. Though I understood why the door was closed, a part of me had hoped to eavesdrop on what I was sure would be Xander and Dex’s final meeting. I didn’t have long to think about it, though, because, pretty much as soon as the door closed, the shrill voice of the phone demanded my attention.

“Good afternoon, Dexter Theroux’s office. How can I help you?”

“I’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Theroux, please.” The voice was male and neither especially old nor young. From the precise way he’d phrased his words, I’d have guessed the caller was educated. Beyond that, I had no clues.

“Certainly,” I said, pulling Dex’s appointment book toward me while I spoke. It was tundra clean and just as white. “Let’s see what we have available. When did you want to come in?”

“That’s just it. The appointment isn’t for me; it’s for a client of mine. And he wouldn’t be able to come to the office. He’s being held at Number 11.”

“You mean the new jail?”

“That’s right, in Lincoln Heights. So it will have to be during visiting hours. But it can be at Mr. Theroux’s convenience.”

“Oh, I see,” I said. “No, wait, I guess I don’t see. Sorry. What is it you feel Mr. Theroux can do for you?”

“Not for me, I told you,” the man said, though there was patience in his voice, “for my client. My name is Steward Sterling. Esquire,” he added, as though it were an afterthought. “I’m a lawyer. He asked that I make this call on his behalf.”

“He who?”

“Who what?”

“You’re not making this appointment for yourself you said. But for someone. A he, you said. And I said … ‘He who?’”

“Ah, right. Yes. It’s for a client.”

“I see,” I said again. But I did not. We were getting nowhere fast. “Is … is your client someone Mr. Theroux has met with before?”

“No. I don’t believe that to be the case.”

“OK then,” I said.

“I’m sorry to be so opaque,” the man said, reinforcing my thoughts about his education. The whole idea of opacity can be somewhat tricky. “It’s just that… well, it’s a fairly sensitive matter.”

“Sensitive,” I repeated.

“That’s right. You see, my client is … well, quite high profile, put it that way. And if you sense I’m being careful,” I could hear him inject a smile into his voice, “it’s because I am.”

“All right. Fair enough. But you’ve called to make an appointment—one that won’t be held at Mr. Theroux’s office—and yet you’re being, as you yourself said, quite opaque.”

“Yes, yes,” the man said. Sounding friendly and careful all at once. “I suppose I am. It’s just… well… you’re right, of course. I suppose Mr. Theroux would need to know my client’s name?”

“He would. He does. He’s funny that way.” I was getting a bit impatient with him just bumping his gums down the blower.