Open and Shut - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,21

and I doubt that Norman Schwarzkopf could lead a battalion past her without an appointment. Fortunately, I have one, and she buzzes me through.

I enter Victor's office, which makes the reception area look Third World. Victor is at his desk. He's tall, graying at the temples, wearing a three-piece suit which strains slightly to contain his rather bulky midsection. I don't think I've ever sat at my desk without taking off my jacket, but there's Victor wearing all three pieces, sitting back in his deep leather chair, staring out at the world as if he hasn't got a care in it. And there's really no reason that he should.

“Mr. Markham, my name is Andy Carp—”

He cuts me off. “I know who you are. I'm sorry about your father. Good man.”

“Yes, I wanted to talk—”

He does it again. “You wanted to talk about that killer.” He means Willie Miller, but I doubt he even knows his name. “I won't help you with that,” he goes on. “You shouldn't have gotten a new trial. It's a waste of taxpayer money. End of discussion.”

Since this hasn't really been a discussion, I consider his announcement of its ending to be premature. “Actually, I thought that since—”

And again. “Since I have influence, and since the victim was my son's girlfriend, I could talk to the governor, get that scum's sentence reduced to life in prison. Forget it. As I said, end of discussion.”

This is getting annoying. “I like beer,” I say quickly.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he demands.

“Nothing. I just wanted to see if I could get in one complete sentence without you interrupting, and ‘I like beer’ was the quickest sentence I could think of.”

This is the point where the gruff, overpowering type usually laughs grudgingly and warms up. Victor, unfortunately, doesn't seem to be familiar with that stereotype. He looks at me with the same respect he would a roach that he just found in his Rice Krispies.

“You're as big a wiseass as I've heard.”

“Thank you very much.” That's my second sentence in a row, so I'm feeling pretty chipper.

“What do you want? I'm a busy man.”

I had been planning to talk to him about the Miller case, but he's made it clear that the only way I'll get any answers about that is to take his deposition under oath. I smoothly switch to plan B, taking out the photograph and laying it on his desk. “I was curious about when and where this picture was taken.”

For the first time, I see a human reaction. I can't tell what it is, maybe a gas pain, but something has gotten through his outer crust. A moment later it's gone, and he's back in control.

“Where did you get that?”

“My father had it.”

“Who are those people?”

“The second one from the left is you.”

He shakes his head a little too hard, and doesn't bother to look at the photo again. “That's not me.”

I'm surprised, because it is clearly him. “You're saying it's not you? That's the position you're taking?”

This annoys him; human reactions are rapidly becoming commonplace to Victor Markham. “Position? I don't have to take a position. It's not me.”

“Did you know my father back around … oh, thirty-five years ago?”

“No. Now if that's all, my girl will show you out.”

“Your girl is older than you are.”

He is already on his intercom, calling for Eleanor.

I keep at him. “Why are you so upset that I have this picture of you?” I look at the picture again and then at Victor. “Maybe it's because you've had a few snacks since then.”

He doesn't answer, pretending to no longer be paying attention. The door opens and the ominous Eleanor arrives. I can either follow her out the door or she'll throw me through the glass wall.

“By the way, Victor. I will be deposing you about the McGregor killing. You can do it the easy way, or I can get a subpoena. Let me know.”

I wink at Eleanor and keep talking to Victor. “Have your girl call my girl.”

I go downstairs, taking out my annoyance on Victor by refusing to converse with the elevator. I call my office from a pay phone in the lobby, catching my girl, Edna, with her mouth full, and I wait while she swallows to get my messages.

“Mr. Calhoun from a company named Allied called. He says it's about your car.”

I'm terrible paying bills; they sit on my desk until collection agencies call with reminders.

“Forget it. He's from a collection agency. I'll