Chapter 2

Lieutenant Farron turned the letter in his hands, glanced over at the stolid, impassive face of Sergeant Stams, and thought, "Why is he bringing this to me?"

Lieutenant Farron, tall, thin, wiry, 26 years on the force, was a smart cop. A crisp, efficient, no-nonsense cop. Bright enough to handle anything. Brighter still in being able to quickly sort out and decide what to choose to handle.

Sergeant Stams, on the other hand, was a short, stout, bull- necked man. Less intelligent. A plodder. Still, he was a good cop, and he knew his job. And part of his job was keeping this type of stuff off Lieutenant Farron's desk. So why had he brought him this?

Lieutenant Farron glanced over at Sergeant Stams, hoping for and answer and expecting none. Sergeant Stams merely returned his gaze with the stolid, impassive look that seemed to be his only expression. But he did return it, with no wavering, no doubt. Which answered the unasked question: yes, Sergeant Stams had meant for the Lieutenant to concern himself with this, and still did, despite the inquiring look.

Lieutenant Farron turned his gaze to the girl. Blond, pretty, 22, 23, he guessed. What could there possibly be in the life of a girl like this that would warrant blackmail, if this was, indeed, a blackmail letter? Or, more important, what could there possibly be that could merit his attention?

Lieutenant Farron looked at the letter again. "I KNOW ALL ABOUT YOU." Damn skimpy for a blackmail letter. Most blackmailers weren't so reticent. So what the hell was it?

Farron looked back up at the girl.

"This came in the morning mail?"

"That's right. I drove my friend to the airport to catch a 9:25 plane. The letter was there when I got back."

"I see. And what do you make of it?"

"What do you mean?"

"What does it mean to you?"

"Nothing."

"You think it might be a prank?"

"It might."

"So why bring it to us?"

"I know it seems stupid. I wasn't going to. But then I got the phone call."

"The phone call?"

"Yes."

Farron frowned. This was like pulling teeth. He looked at Stams. The Sergeant's expression had not changed, but still, somehow he looked smug.

Farron turned back to the girl. "Tell me about the phone call?"

"It was a man's voice. That's all I know. I'd never heard it before. I'm sure of that."

"Old? Young?"

"Not old. Not young. Just a voice. A deep, male voice. That's all I can tell you."

With just a trace of irony in his voice, Farron said, "Could you tell me what it said?"

Sheila caught the irony. "Oh," she said. She smiled in an "aw-shucks" way that men usually found endearing, but which was utterly wasted on Lieutenant Farron. "I'm sorry. The same thing. He said the same thing."

"What do you mean, the same thing?"

"The same as the letter. I know all about you."

"That's all?"`

"Yeah."

"No, hello, no, who is this?"

Sheila shook her head. "Nothing. I said, "Hello." The man said, "I know all about you," and hung up."

Farron frowned. "I see. When did you get the phone call?"

"Just now. Just before I came here."

Farron rubbed his forehead. "All right, let me reconstruct this. You went to the airport, you came back and got this letter."

"That's right."

"You opened it at once, right? As soon as you got home?"

"That's right. In fact, I opened it in the foyer. I picked up the mail on my way in."

"O.K. And then you went right into your apartment?"

"That's right."

"And how soon after that was the phone call?"

"Not long."

"How not long?"

"Right away. Maybe five minutes."

Farron stole another glance at Stams, as if to say, "Is that what you think is significant?" Of course, he got no response.

"You have any enemies?" he asked the girl."

She shook her head. "No. And I don't know anyone who'd want to blackmail me, either."

Farron looked at her. "You think this is a blackmail note?"

She smiled. "Well, what do you think it is? An invitation to dinner?"

Farron frowned. The girl was cute and spunky. Farron was beyond appreciating cute and spunky. He found girls like her a pain in the ass.

"Are you a likely candidate for blackmail?" he asked.

"Do you mean do I have any money, or do you men do I have anything to hide?"

"Either."

"As to money, I have none. I'm an actress. All I've been able to get lately is some extra work. I have a trust fund that doles me out just enough money to get by."

A light went on. "A trust fund?"

"Yes. And you can get that gleam out of your eye, because my dear departed grandfather fixed it so that I can't touch the money until I'm 35. I'm 24 now."

"That's very interesting. Tell me about the trust fund."

"Why? I told you, I can't touch the money--"

"Nonetheless, tell me about it."

"I don't see what difference it makes."

"You also don't see why anyone would want to send you that letter."

"Oh...."

Lieutenant Farron smiled, which didn't come easy for him. "Humor me."

Sheila brushed the hair out of her eyes and frowned. She was no more used to men like Lieutenant Farron than he was to her. Like many pretty girls her age, she wasn't used to doing what men wanted. She was used to smiling sweetly, and having men do what she wanted. Still, she was scared, and she wanted help.

"O.K.," she said. "I'm an orphan. My father died before I was born. My mother was killed in a car accident when I was four. My Uncle Max brought me up. My grandfather, that's my mother's and Uncle Max's father, died shortly after my mother was killed. In his will, he set up a trust fund for me. But I tell you, there's no way I can touch it until I'm 35."

Farron pursed his lips. "Is it a large trust?"

"Yes."

"Could you be more explicit?"

"What?"

"How large?"

"What does it matter? I tell you--"

"Miss..." Farron had a moment of panic, as he realized he had no idea who he was talking to, not the best of procedure for a veteran police officer. He glanced at the address on the envelop the letter had come in. "Miss Benton. I'm a police officer. It's my job to determine what is and what isn't important. I take all the facts and sift through them. If I let someone else decide for me what's important and what's not, then I'm a lousy police officer and I'm not doing my job. Now, I just want to know the relative size of your trust fund. In my mind it's important. So tell me. Is it bigger than a breadbox?"

Sheila smiled. "All right. My grandfather was very wealthy. The trust is quite large. I have no idea how much is actually in it. The only one who would know is Uncle Max. But I know it's several millions."

Lieutenant Farron raised his eyebrows. "Several millions?"

"Yes," Sheila said, somewhat impatiently. "But I can't touch it. You know what I get? 200 a week. That's 800 a month, 10,400 a year. Try and live on that in New York. The only reason I get by is a have a dingy, one-room apartment on the upper West Side that's rent controlled and costs me 300 a month. Which I know I shouldn't complain about, because there are people who would kill for it. But that's it. I have nothing. I own nothing. I have no money."

"Except for the trust."

"Which I can't touch."

"Who is your trustee?"

"Uncle Max."

"And who is Uncle Max?"

"Uncle Max. Maxwell Baxter."

And suddenly Lieutenant Farron understood. Maxwell Baxter. One of the richest men in New York, in the United States for that matter. A wealthy man. A powerful man. A man with political connections. A man, perhaps, with connections to the Commissioner.

Farron looked at Stams. Without changing expression, Stams seemed to be saying, "I told you so."

So he had. Stams' judgement was vindicated. This was why he'd brought him the girl. This was why he'd brought him this unlikely and unimportant case. The girl was Maxwell Baxter's niece, and therefore merited attention. There was no way to fault Stams on it. He'd done right.

But he'd done more than that. And both he and Farron knew it. Yes, he'd informed Farron, so Farron wouldn't be caught flat- footed if this developed into something. But more important, he'd covered his ass. He protected himself, by not turning the girl down. By not taking the responsibility. By leaving it up to Lieutenant Farron to turn the girl down.

He'd passed the buck.

"So," Farron said. "Maxwell Baxter is your trustee?"

"Yes."

"Is he your sole trustee."

"That's right."

"And he gives you 200 a week?"

"Actually I get a check once a month. Sometimes it's 800, sometimes it's a thousand, depending on how the weeks fall. It all adds up to 10,400 a year."

"What about inflation?"

Sheila made a face. "What about it? That's with inflation. I started at 50 a week. It's up to 200."

"Is the amount a provision of the trust?"

"Yes. Carefully worked out by grandpa to keep me poor for as long as possible."

"And your uncle can't increase that amount."

She hesitated. "No."

"You hesitated."

"Did I? The answer is, no, he can't."

"But he can give you money at his discretion?"

"In an emergency, yes."

"And blackmail would be considered an emergency."

Sheila was getting annoyed. This was not going the way she had hoped. "Look, let's get something straight. If someone were blackmailing me, the threat would be that if I didn't pay them, they would tell my uncle. Can you really see me going to my uncle to get money from him to pay to a blackmailer to keep him from telling my uncle something?"

Farron smiled. "No. Which brings me to the second part of my question. What would this man tell your uncle? What is it you have to hide?"

Sheila looked at him with wide-eyed innocence. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing that I'd pay a dime for, even if I had it."

"Publish and be damned, eh?" Farron nodded. "Quite proper attitude."

Farron had had enough. He got up to indicate the interview was over.

"Well, MIss Benton, we'll do what we can."

"What do you mean by that?"

"If you get any more calls or letters, get in touch with us immediately." Sheila stood up. "You sound as if you're washing your hands of the whole thing."

Lieutenant Farron came around the desk. He smiled at her, but he also took her arm and guided her to the door.

"Well, Miss Benton," he said. "You must admit it sounds rather unpromising. You have no money to pay blackmail. You've done nothing to be blackmailed about. And so far, no one's made any demands on you."

"Some people want other things besides money," Sheila protested.

"That they do, Miss Benton. That they do."

Farron opened the door. She gave him a look, then stalked out of the office.

Farron closed the door, went back, and sat at his desk.

"Well," Stams said. "What do you think?"

Lieutenant Farron thought Sergeant Stams had successfully passed the buck. But he wasn't going to acknowledge that to him.

Farron shrugged. "Could be nothing. Practical joke. Could be something else. What I don't like is the fact the phone call came as soon as she got home. It could mean our man's watching the house."

Stams nodded. "So what do we do?"

Lieutenant Farron knew that sarcasm would be lost on Sergeant Stams, but he couldn't help himself.

"What do we do?" he said. "We put three body guards on her at all times, assign five squad cars to the area, and tap her phone."

He looked up to see Sergeant Stams looking at him, impassive as always.

"What do you think we do?" Farron said. He snorted and handed him the letter. "File it."