The Baxter Trust

sound then? You tell me. How’s it gonna sound?”
    Farron shrugged and shook his head. “It’s gonna sound like hell.”
    “It’s gonna sound like shit,” Dirkson corrected. He took a deep breath, blew it out again, and shook his head. He collected himself, and went on in a quiet tone of voice that somehow managed to seem more intense than if he’d shouted. “I don’t know if that means anything to you, Lieutenant. You are a hired official. If you go on the witness stand and make an ass out of yourself, people may laugh at you, but you’ll still have your job. I’m an elected official. I’m responsible to the people. I’ve gotten a million fucking morons out there watching me who have the power to kick me out of office if they don’t like what they see.”
    Farron nodded. All this was true, and more direct than he would have expected Dirkson to put it. It was no secret that Dirkson had political aspirations, though no one was sure just how high those aspirations were. But Dirkson had made a point of seeing that the district attorney’s office piled up an impressive percentage of convictions, particularly in cases he handled personally. And if there was anything in the world he didn’t want, it was to be made to look foolish.
    “I know how you feel,” Farron said.
    Dirkson raised his eyebrows. “Do you, Lieutenant? All right, then, let me ask you one thing. If you had followed this up yesterday, do you think the murder might have been prevented?”
    Farron shrugged. “It’s possible.”
    “There you are.”
    Farron reached into his briefcase, pulled out a thick manila file, and threw it on Dirkson’s desk.
    Dirkson eyed it suspiciously. “What’s that?”
    “Glad you asked. That’s our file for the last thirty days. Blackmail letters, threats of bodily harm, crank phone calls. I don’t run ’em all down. If I had a hundred more men I would. I don’t, so I don’t.”
    Dirkson shook his head, condescendingly. “Lieutenant. It’s not a question of what’s fair.” He pointed to the file. “These letters are trash. You could take ’em out and burn ’em. I wouldn’t say a word.” He picked up the blackmail letter. “This letter is important. And you should have done something about it.”
    Farron sighed. “In hindsight, even I know that.”
    Dirkson frowned. “I’m not talking hindsight. You knew who the girl was, didn’t you?”
    “Yes.”
    “You knew she was Maxwell Baxter’s niece?”
    “Everyone’s related to someone.”
    “Everyone is not related to Maxwell Baxter.”
    “I know.”
    Dirkson sighed and settled back in his chair. “Well,” he said. “There’s nothing to be gained by going into all that now.”
    Farron’s smile was somewhat strained. What the hell did Dirkson think they’d been doing?
    “No, sir.”
    Dirkson pressed the intercom. “Send her in.”
    An officer ushered Sheila into the office. A stenographer entered with them and began setting up a small table.
    Dirkson immediately reverted to his constituent face. “Sit down, Miss Benton,” he said, smiling graciously, as if it were a social occasion. “Now, I just need to ask you a few questions.”
    Sheila smiled back, but her attention was diverted by the stenographer, who had opened his notebook.
    Dirkson, noticing this, said, “Just routine. In a murder case we never trust to memory. We take down the statements of all the witnesses.”
    Sheila fidgeted, nervously. “I really don’t know what I’m a witness to.”
    Dirkson smiled, reassuringly. He picked up the letter. “Well, let’s start at the beginning. Yesterday, you received this letter.”
    “Yes. Also a phone call with exactly the same message.”
    “Did you recognize the voice?”
    “No. I’d never heard it before. It was a man’s voice, but that’s all I could tell.”
    “Could it have been the voice of the dead man?”
    “It’s possible. I have no way of knowing.”
    “You never saw him before?”
    “No. I came back to my apartment, and there he was.”
    “Where had you been?”
    “What?”
    “Before you discovered the body. Where had you been? What had you been doing?”
    Sheila’s eyes flicked for just a second. “Window-shopping.”
    Dirkson noticed. A veteran interrogator, he knew he’d hit something. He didn’t know what, but something about her answer had made her uneasy. It could have been a lie, an evasion, or simply an incomplete answer, but it was something.
    “Window-shopping?” he said.