grabbed a seat at the bar when someone got up. The bartender set down a Knob Creek on the rocks.
“You want me to pour Dino’s now?”
“No, he’ll bitch about it being watered down by the melting ice.”
Dino came in, and the bartender poured. “Well, how’d the rest of your day go?”
“You mean the fifteen minutes between when you hung up and I hung up on Robbie?”
“You did? Really?”
“And I told Joan to tell her I’m unavailable, when she calls back.”
“Has she got your cell number?”
“I’m not sure, but if she has it, she’ll be on the phone again. She wanted me to replace Herbie.”
“Did she have any comment on the second gun?”
“Yes, she said it won’t be a match. She seemed certain about that.”
“I’ve already tipped the team on the case that she seemed to know that.”
“Oh, good. God help the next lawyer she hires.”
Dino took a swig of his scotch. “Do you think she has the moxie to pull off a double murder like this?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so, but these days, there are so many murders being solved on TV shows that everybody’s an expert on not getting caught. You know: wear gloves, wash your hands in perfume, wear a hoodie to thwart the cameras, and so on.”
“Until they get caught.”
“If she doesn’t have that moxie you’re talking about, then only dumb luck has gotten her this far,” Stone said.
“I don’t believe in dumb luck where double homicides are involved,” Dino replied.
Stone glanced in the mirror and caught more than a glimpse of Roberta Calder walking into Clarke’s with an attorney he knew a little. “Check out the mirror,” he said to Dino.
“Who’s the guy?” Dino asked.
“Carter Simmons. He’s from a white-shoe firm in Midtown, handles white-collar crimes.”
“You think this is a job interview?” Dino asked.
“What else?” Stone replied. “I wish I could think of a way to tip off the poor bastard without her knowing.”
43
Herbie called at mid-afternoon the next day.
“Hey, Herb.”
“You won’t believe who was sitting in my office when I arrived this morning.”
“Not the dreaded Roberta.”
“One and the same, and she was all sweetness and light. She presented me with a check for my bill so far—she had gotten my hours from my secretary before I got here—and another check for twenty-five grand for a retainer. And she apologized profusely for her behavior of yesterday.”
“Does she know about the .38 in her underwear drawer not being a match?”
“She does.”
“So why does she need an attorney?”
“To handle the estate of one Randall Hedger.”
“Estate? Randy? Is she hoping to sell his clothes at a profit?”
“The lamented Randy appears to be of more substance than we had heretofore realized,” Herb said.
“What? Did he fix a horse race, or something, and cash in big? If that’s the case, maybe his bookie shot him.”
“That possibility crossed my mind,” Herb said. “Robbie brought his will with her, and Estelle Parkinson’s, as well. Apparently, Robbie and Hedger both made wills when they got married, and they were locked in her office safe, sealed. We opened them in the presence of two witnesses, and they had both left the other everything. Randy probably thinking that, since he didn’t have an estate, what the hell? And he appointed her his sole executor.”
“What about Estelle’s will? When was that executed?”
“Later, a couple of weeks before she died.”
“And who were her heirs?”
“Just Hedger.”
“So Hedger inherits from Estelle, then Robbie inherits from Hedger.”
“Exactly.”
“Then they both had motives for killing Estelle.”
“Right.”
“My money is on Hedger,” Stone said. “Robbie is the person driving the Macan. She’s following Hedger, and she finds Estelle’s body, then she chases him down and shoots him.”
“That’s the cops’ problem,” Herb said. “Talk to them.”
“Have you turned up anything else at all?”
“Ah, yes. The plot thickens, as they say in Victorian fiction, or is it Agatha Christie?”
“Same thing,” Stone commented.
“Early this morning Robbie received a hand-delivered envelope from the medical examiner containing his report and the decedent’s personal effects, and to Robbie’s surprise, Randy’s address on the form, and on his driver’s license, was listed as a tony apartment building on Beekman Place.”
“So? He was probably shacking up with a lady that Robbie hadn’t heard about yet.”
“Nothing like that,” Herb said. “Robbie and I—overcome with curiosity—took his keys from the ME’s plastic bag and went over there. The place turns out to be a roomy, one-bedroom penthouse with a gorgeous view of the East River and beautiful downtown Long Island City—also with a great view of the Pepsi-Cola sign. It’s handsomely furnished with good art