Sleight of Hand - By Phillip Margolin Page 0,64
inch and peered at Dana over the security chain. Cigarette smoke curled up from somewhere behind the door.
“Tiffany Starr?” Dana asked.
“Who wants to know?” the woman asked. There were dark circles under her eyes and her skin had a sickly pallor. Dana thought that Starr might have been attractive once upon a time, before drugs and hard living blunted any appeal she may have had.
“My name is Loren Parkhurst and I’d like to talk to you about Barry Lester’s case.”
“Why should I talk to you?” Starr asked.
“I’d prefer to tell you inside, where the neighbors can’t hear, if you know what I mean.”
Starr hesitated. Then she slipped off the chain and opened the door. She wore a T-shirt that stretched across breasts Dana was certain had once been smaller. The tight T-shirt and tighter jeans were knockoffs of high-priced brands. The tip of a tattoo peeked above the top of the T-shirt but Dana couldn’t make out what it was.
The apartment’s tiny front room was surprisingly tidy. The furniture was cheap but Monet and Picasso prints hung from walls with peeling paint. The pictures hinted at a past far different from the stripper’s present. Dana also noticed editions of People and several screen magazines stacked on an end table along with a Danielle Steel novel. That gave her an idea.
“You have a nice place here,” Dana said to break the ice when she was inside with the door closed.
“What’s this about Barry?” Starr asked, ignoring Dana’s attempt at small talk.
“Do you read Exposed?”
“Yeah, once in a while.”
Dana handed Starr a business card that identified Dana as a reporter for Exposed named Loren Parkhurst.
“I’m working on a story we plan on printing.”
“About Barry?”
“And you.”
“Me?” Starr said. Dana could see the woman’s eyes widen at the idea that she might become a celebrity.
“Would you mind if we sent a photographer up here to take some shots?”
“Uh, that would be okay, I guess,” Starr answered, trying to stay cool even though Dana could tell that she was thrilled by the attention she thought she’d receive from a national publication.
“Great. When is a good time? I know you’re probably busy.”
“I work nights, so I’m home most of the day.”
“Oh, where do you work?”
“A club. I’m a dancer. That’s how I met Barry.”
“Okay, then. I’ll have Oscar call to set up the shoot.”
“So, what’s this story about?”
“Do you mind if we sit down?” Dana asked.
“Take the sofa,” Starr said. A recliner faced the TV. Starr sat on it and looked expectantly at Dana, who sighed and suddenly looked very serious.
“I don’t want to alarm you, Tiffany, but you could be in trouble.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Barry told the police that Horace Blair confessed to him that he killed his wife, then told him where Carrie Blair was buried.”
“So?”
“We find it hard to believe.”
“That’s Barry’s business.”
“That may be true, but you can see that it’s important that we get your side of the story to set the record straight.”
“There is no ‘side.’ Barry got himself in this mess. I don’t know anything about it.”
“Don’t you?” Dana asked.
“What would I know?”
“There are two possibilities here, Tiffany. One is that a prominent and powerful businessman with degrees from Harvard and Princeton confessed to a man he barely knew that he murdered his wife. That, to put it mildly, is highly unlikely.”
“Barry’s very persuasive. You can’t believe how good he is at conning people.”
“Horace Blair deals with the top executives in corporations and heads of state. I find it hard to believe Barry could convince Blair to spill his guts in the space of a few hours. But Barry would know where Carrie’s grave was hidden if someone told him where she was buried. You and his attorney are the only people who visited him at the jail.”
Starr took a drag on her cigarette. Dana could almost see the wheels turning.
“Horace Blair has powerful connections, Tiffany. If the authorities find out that Barry set him up, it will go hard on Barry, and anyone who helped him. If that someone is you, you can save yourself by coming clean.”
“I have nothing to say because I didn’t do anything,” the woman insisted, but Dana didn’t believe her.
“Did Charles Benedict ask you to talk to Barry?”
As soon as Dana asked the question she knew she’d made a mistake. Starr’s already pale complexion lost any color it had and she jumped to her feet.
“I want you to go. Now.”
Dana rose, too, and looked Starr in the eye. “My number is on my