‘Whoa, whoa, back up a bit,’ Langfranc said. ‘So, God’s sake,I can get this clear in my mind.’ He took a heavy breath. ‘Somebody comes by and shoots dead your girlfriend’s ex, straight after you’ve just shut the door on him after an argument? And rather than run off with the gun, he drops it right there… and he’s gone before you open the door again to see what’s happened? Have I got it straight so far?’
‘Yeah, yeah. That’s right. As I opened the door, I just heard his last few footsteps on the stairs.’
‘But then you picked up the gun and ran off with it? That’s the bit I don’t get. Why was that again, Jac?’
Jac sighed, his frayed nerves riding on it wearily. ‘This is the client-confidential part, John, okay? Because as for the official line — I think we should make out that the killer ran off with the gun, as would normally happen, or just no mention of it at all.’
‘Goes without saying, Jac. Without saying.’ Langfranc sounded mildly offended to even be asked.
‘The thing is, Alaysha recognized the gun. It’s hers,or rather her mother’s — but it was at Alaysha’s apartment at the time. That’s why I ran off and dumped the gun — because I was sure it would have her prints on it. It looks like whoever did this must have broken into her apartment earlier and got the gun, and then — ’ Jac was speaking rapidly again, slightly breathless as he fought to explain, and as he heard a police siren close by, his breath froze in his throat, the siren’s passage counted in tight pulse beats in his neck before his breath finally eased as it drifted past, heading away from him. ‘- then he uses it on her boyfriend, and the set-up’s complete.’
‘I hear what you’re saying, Jac, but it’s not good. Not good. I know you and so I know that you’re telling the truth. But listening to this now wearing the hats of a couple of hard-boiled homicide cops — who don’t know you and on top have heard it all before — it sounds like a story, Jac. And not even a good one at that.’
‘There’s a witness, too.’
From Jac’s downbeat tone, Langfranc knew already that it was bad news. ‘And don’t tell me — they didn’t see the shooter, either?’
‘No. Old woman across the hallway. Opened her door a minute after the shot was fired — shooter long gone and just me and Alaysha standing by the body. Started screaming, “You’ve shot him, you’ve shot him!” ’
Low groan from Langfranc and a throaty, doom-laden ‘Terrific.’
‘I need your help, John. That’s why I called now.’
‘Help, yeah. Miracles take longer.’
‘I need someone I know to represent Alaysha. I need to know what’s happening, which direction everything might go.’
‘I can understand that.’ Langfranc was quiet for a second. ‘But this isn’t just protectiveness for your girlfriend, is it Jac? Something else is worrying you about this.’
‘Yeah.’ Deflated sigh. The seed of doubt had been there from the moment he’d realized it was Alaysha’s gun, rankling deeper as he’d ducked between the shadows of the night-time streets during the past forty-five minutes. ‘The question that’s bothered me is why frame Alaysha? With everything else that’s been going on, I thought I’d have been the main target for something like that. So if they’ve gone to the trouble of lifting her gun from her apartment, what else might be waiting in the wings? Some hefty Accomplice to Murder rap, perhaps, from other evidence they’ve planted? That’s why I need to know the lay of the land, John, before coming forward.’
‘I can see that. There wasn’t a Times-Picayunephotographer there to snap you as you left the apartment block with the gun, was there?’
‘No.’ Jac chuckled, and Langfranc joined him a second later, as if making sure first that Jac was ready to see the light side. Though Langfranc’s chuckle quickly died when Jac told him that he was spotted by a patrol-car a few blocks away. ‘And I ran.’ Jac sighed heavily. ‘It was dark, though, and I was probably too far away for a good ID.’
‘Let’s hope so.’ Langfranc took a fresh breath as he focused on the remaining options; what few were left after Jac’s catalogue of horrors and errors. ‘Did the old girl across the hall see the gun?’
‘No, don’t think so.’
‘Okay. Hopefully then we’ll get away with the story of the killer running off with it. Or, as you say, just don’t mention the gun — because that’s what the cops will naturally assume. Hopefully, too, the story will wash that you ran off in pursuit of the shooter. As for why you’re still AWOL, I’ll think of something in the meantime.’ Langfranc sucked in his breath. ‘All will depend, though, on what Alaysha might have already told them. How long will the cops have been with her now?’
‘Half an hour, maybe more.’
‘I’d better get there. Couple of good detectives could pull her apart in that time, have her head reeling. Did you prime any sort of story with her?’
‘No. No time. But she’s bright — she’ll know not to mention the gun, particularly with it being hers.’
‘Let’s hope so. Because if she mentions the killer dropping that gun on the hall floor — we’re buried before we’ve started. And you also have to pray that the cops don’t find that gun.’
‘Don’t worry — where I’ve hidden it, they’re not going to find it. At least, not in a hurry.’
‘Remember. You didn’t tell me that.’
‘I didn’t tell you that.’
29
The first to arrive on the scene, six minutes after Mrs Orwin’s call, were two patrolmen from the Eighth District, who immediately radioed in for what else they’d need: forensics, homicide, and a meat wagon. They knocked on Mrs Orwin’s door first because she’d made the call but, with their talking and the harsh static from their communicators, Alaysha’s door opened seconds after, and, quickly sensing some unease between the two parties, the officers took one each for questioning — Mrs Orwin hastily ushering her officer in and closing her door behind him.
Two more patrolmen arrived minutes later and, having conferred with their colleagues, one yellow-taped the downstairs entrance before joining his side-kick in roaming and checking for tell-tale clues, though at all times two-yards clear of the body; the hallowed forensics-only zone.
Questioning was basic at that point, setting the general scene, which was all dutifully relayed to Lieutenant Jerome Derminget, a bloodhound-eyed homicide detective with wavy, unkempt salt-and-pepper hair, when he arrived on the scene eighteen minutes later.
Derminget looked like the type that Alaysha would have liked under different circumstances. While his eyes looked tired, as if he read police reports or books late into the night, at the same time they appeared warm, understanding. Though that part also unsettled Alaysha; they looked like they might easily strip away her defences, get to the truth.
Derminget spent the first ten minutes questioning Mrs Orwin, and had been little more than that time with Alaysha when his station house called to inform him that they had Miss Reyner’s lawyer on the line, a certain John Langfranc, ‘And he insists on being present for any official questioning of his client.’
Derminget skewed his mouth. He didn’t like the sound of the girl’s story one bit: the shooter that nobody else had seen, appearing magically and firing just seconds after them closing the door, at the end of a big argument to boot; an eye-witness that saw both the argument and then her and her boyfriend over the body, and, to cap it all, her boyfriend, having apparently run off in pursuit of the killer, for some inexplicable reason hadn’t yet returned. It sounded like a fairy story, but Derminget had so far only been filling in background, hadn’t yet got to the harder-assed questions that might put her account to the acid-test. And the involvement of a lawyer so early rang instant alarm-bells, stank of barricades being quickly, desperately put up. If he didn’t get to those questions before her lawyer showed, her story would probably forever get stuck in la-la land. He saw his escape route in official.