Read Online The Anonymous Client by Parnell Hall - Free Book Online Page B

investigating. The announcer moved on to the latest local political scandal.
    Tracy picked up her book again and began reading.
    The detective found a broken matchstick.
    Shit.
    The political corruption story ended. The newscaster then said, “The body of a man was discovered early this evening in his East Village apartment. He had been stabbed to death with a knife. The man has tentatively been identified as David C. Bradshaw, of 249 East 3rd Street. The motive for the crime is as yet unknown. Police are investigating.”
    Tracy sprang to her feet. Holy shit! Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch! Her mind was racing. Jesus Christ. How did this happen? What was going on? What should she do?
    The announcer’d moved on to the weather. The radio was too loud. She couldn’t hear herself think. She went over to the radio, clicked it off. There. That’s better. Now ...
    Steve Winslow. Did she have Steve Winslow’s home number? No. Would he be listed? And where did he live? Manhattan. Somewhere in the West Village. Or was it SoHo? Shit, what does it matter?
    Tracy raced to the phone and dialed 411.
    “May I help you?” the operator said.
    “In Manhattan—a listing for Steve Winslow.”
    “One moment, please.”
    There was a click, and then the recorded message started giving the number. Tracy grabbed a pencil from her desk, jotted it down. She jiggled the receiver, breaking the connection, and punched Steve Winslow’s number in.
    No answer. She must have let it ring a dozen times.
    Tracy slammed down the phone. She was really angry. Of course he wasn’t there. Mark Taylor had a pipeline into police headquarters. He’d have gotten the news about Bradshaw way ahead of the media. He’d gotten it, and he’d called Steve Winslow, and that’s why Steve wasn’t there.
    Tracy thought of calling Mark Taylor, but she didn’t. In the first place, she was pissed off. In the second place, he wouldn’t be there either. He’d have called Steve, and the two of them would be out there investigating the case, doing god knows what, and with never a thought of her. Son of a bitch! Son of a fucking bitch!
    Tracy snatched up her apartment keys and slammed out the door.

14.
    M ARILYN H ARDING HAD BEEN CRYING . That was the first thing Steve Winslow noticed. She had combed her hair and put on makeup and composed her face, but nothing she could do was going to disguise the fact that she was distraught.
    Of course, she had every right to be. After all, she’d just discovered that her father had been murdered. A tremendous shock for anyone, let alone a young girl.
    But was that all?
    They were in the library of the Harding mansion. Steve Winslow had taken a cab out to Glen Cove (“It’s your money, buddy”), bullied his way past the Harding butler (Christ, did butlers really exist outside of British drama?), and been consigned to the library while the butler reluctantly delivered the message.
    A few minutes later Marilyn Harding entered the room. She walked slowly, mechanically, and her eyes were dull and glassy. To Steve she looked stunned, as if she’d just been hit over the head with a hammer.
    “Who are you?” she said.
    “Didn’t the butler tell you?”
    “Yes, but I’m somewhat rattled. I’m sorry. What’s your name?”
    “Steve Winslow.”
    If the name meant anything to her, she didn’t show it. “I’m Marilyn Harding. What is it you want?”
    “I’m a lawyer.”
    “Oh?”
    Steve looked closely at her. If she was bluffing, she was damn good. She wasn’t giving anything away.
    “I have something to tell you. It’s important, and there isn’t much time. Can you give me a few minutes?”
    Marilyn rubbed her head. “Yes, I guess so. I’m just so confused. I’ve had a shock, you see, and—”
    “I know. About your father. I hate to put you through it, but I have to have the details.”
    “Why?”
    “So I can help you. Please.”
    She looked at him as if in a fog. Steve got the impression that it was all too much