Magic Hour by Susan Isaacs (cheapest way to read ebooks .txt) 📕

a lawyer with no leverage, who had no idea what we had or where we were going, he was pretty good.

“I’m not prepared to discuss the evidence at this time.”

“Why not?”

“You should know why not. There’s no percentage in it.”

“Okay,” he said. “Then I suppose there’s no percentage in anyone taking any blood tests.” He stood, regretfully, as if he hadn’t been able to save me from making the most grievous misjudgment of my career. “I’m going to have to advise my client to stand on her

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Fifth Amendment privilege against self-incrimination and not take the test.”

It was only then that it hit me that Gideon probably represented dress designers. “You’re not a criminal lawyer, are you?” I asked.

I waited for him to get pissed or, minimally, petulant, but to his credit he stayed composed; serene, even. He sat back down and examined the nap of the suede on his English shoe. “Why do you ask?”

“Because a criminal lawyer would know that a suspect in a murder case can’t refuse a blood test.”

“Why not?”

“Because blood tests and other medical tests are fact, not testimony. They aren’t covered by the Fifth Amendment.”

“Says who?”

“Says the U.S. Supreme Court.”

“Really? Recently?”

“Within the last five or ten years.”

“It must have happened after law school. I’ll check it out.”

All right, so maybe he represented a hairdressers’ lobbying group. But he wasn’t that bad a guy. Not full of shit. And not full of himself. Except what the hell would he do when he got to court? Go fancy dress, show up in a black robe and white wig? And what would he do when the chief of the Homicide Bureau of the D.A.’s office cross-examined Bonnie? Take smelling salts?

“What kind of lawyer are you?” I asked.

He smiled. Perfect, even white teeth, like Chiclets. “I spe-cialize in real estate.”

“Real estate,” I repeated. “Must be busy, over in East Hampton.”

“Let me tell you what you’re thinking,” Gideon said.

“Okay?” I shrugged. “You’re thinking: Oh, goody! I can send Bonnie Spencer up the river for life MAGIC HOUR / 199

and that land-use faggot lawyer who represents her won’t be able to do a thing except wave bye-bye as she goes.” I sat back in my seat, trying to look astounded at such a ridiculous—no, prejudiced—notion. It was not all that easy since, basically, that was what had been going through my mind.

“Well, that’s not the way it’s going to be, Brady. Let me tell you how it’s going to be. If you’re just toying with her, I would hope you’d be smart enough to stop right now. Before I make a scene in front of your superiors.”

“You think I give a shit? Go ahead. Make a scene. The captain’s in that office off the reception area.”

“You should give a shit, don’t you think?”

“No.”

He paused for a second. “All right. If you sincerely think you have any kind of a case, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know. Because then I’d have to step out—and bring in Bill Paterno.” I picked up a pen and twirled it between my palms; Paterno was the best criminal lawyer in Suffolk County.

“Do you think Bonnie Spencer can afford Bill Paterno?” I asked, trying to sound casual, as though I didn’t know how broke she was.

“No. But I can.” Gideon put on a little-old-man Jewish accent. “I make a very nice living, tanks God, and have some vonderful inwestments.” Then he added: “Bonnie is one of my dearest friends.”

Well, it figured. I could see them. Giddie and Bonnie.

He’d have her over to his place in East Hampton for Mexican beer and guacamole or whatever nouvelle hors d’oeuvre had replaced it, and they’d giggle and gossip and talk about James Stewart and Henry Fonda—or Share Deep Feelings.

“You can hire Paterno, Mr. Friedman. You can resurrect Clarence fucking Darrow. Bonnie’s still going to have to take the tests. And then we’ve got her.”

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“Why? Because she told you she could shoot? Please. Girls in Utah do that sort of thing.”

“They hand out a .22 with every box of Kotex?”

“Where’s the rifle?” he inquired. I said nothing. “Bonnie doesn’t own a rifle. She doesn’t have access to one.” Gideon waited. “You don’t have the murder weapon, do you?” I kept silent. “Why Bonnie? Why not Lindsay?”

“Lindsay?”

“Lindsay can shoot. You don’t believe me? Go rent Transvaal. Bombastic dreck, but you’ll see her with a rifle.”

“She’s an actress. Holding a rifle doesn’t mean she can shoot it.”

“Why not find out?”

“Mr. Friedman, we know where Lindsay Keefe was at the time of the murder.”

“And?” he asked, lifting a nonexistent speck of lint off his tweedy sleeve. “Are you implying my client was anywhere near Sy Spencer’s house?”

“Possibly.”

“I don’t believe you.” I shrugged again. “Stop that shrugging!” he said. “It’s very irritating. Now let’s get serious. You don’t want to torment this woman, do you? You just want to get her a little agitated. Well, you’ve done it. She is agitated to the extreme. Now why don’t you let me know why you want the tests. Be big about it. Maybe I can recommend taking them—if it’s not unreasonable, or damaging to her interests.”

I thought about it. The only reason to let a suspect know what evidence you have is when you decide to short-circuit an investigation and go for a confession. I wasn’t in that much of a rush; I could wait another twenty-four hours. I sensed there were still more leads to follow. And I had to cover my ass on the illegal search of Bonnie’s house by getting a warrant

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and then “finding” the real estate listing and the money in her boot. Those two items would give the D.A.’s office more rope to hang her.

“You know,” I said to Gideon, “the perpetrator was a very intelligent person. But not that intelligent. He or she”—Gideon made a sour face—“left so many loose ends we’re still tripping all over them. The evidence box on this one is going