Kiss of Death

AFTER SITTING CRAMPED during two plane trips in twenty-three hours, I needed exercise. There was enough time before my appointment to walk from the Dakota down to Fifth Avenue and Twenty-third Street. I’d given Walter the spare key to the apartment, and he said he’d probably go out to explore the neighborhood while I was gone.

My destination was an office on the fourteenth floor of the twenty-one-story Flatiron Building. The Flatiron is a majestic limestone wedge, shaped like the hull of a schooner and adorned with Gothic faces and terra cotta flowers. At its narrowest point, it’s only six feet wide. Because it was used in the movies Spider Man and Spider Man 2 as the office of the Daily Bugle newspaper, it’s one of New York City’s most famous landmarks.

As I approached the entrance, I remembered a bit of its history that I’d learned in an architecture class at Columbia. When it was built in 1902, the prowlike shape was supposed to have created bizarre eddies in the wind, causing women’s skirts to fly up as they walked on Twenty-third Street. The police had to post uniformed officers to chase away the throngs of men who gathered there to watch.

I took the elevator up to the fourteenth floor. At the far end of the corridor, I found what I was looking for. Fastened to an aged oak door was a brass plate that identified this as the office of B. KENT WAYNE, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. No partners listed.

Opening the door, I found myself in a small reception room, sparsely furnished with three club chairs, a coffee table covered with magazines, and a secretary’s desk and chair. The room was empty, but the door beyond the secretary’s desk was open; I heard someone moving around, and papers rustling.

At the door to the inner office, I paused. A man in shirt-sleeves with his back to me was bending over a two-drawer metal filing cabinet, pulling out manila folders, flipping through them, and tossing them onto a chair already overflowing with papers.

At the sound of my voice, the man straightened and turned around. His features were sharp—pointed nose, pointed chin, a mouth that just missed being thin. Blue eyes beneath heavy brows, a head of thick brown hair badly in need of a trim. He was of medium height, with the wiry build of a long-distance runner. The lines etched into his forehead and the twin fissures that ran from his nose to his mouth made me put his age at midforties. He was looking at me—no, he was studying me. I repeated the question. “Mr. Wayne?”

“Yes. Hello. Sorry.” He yanked a jacket that matched his pants from the back of a chair and struggled into it. “Are you Morgan Tyler? I didn’t expect you until two.”

I glanced around his office. Every sitable surface was covered with law books, telephone books, file folders, or stacks of newspapers. In that one respect it resembled Bobby Novello’s office. I couldn’t suppress a smile as I asked, “Where should I sit?”

Without any trace of embarrassment, he cleared off a chair on the client’s side of his desk. “I have my own special system of organization,” he said. “Drives my secretary crazy, but I pay her well enough to get therapy.”

“Persuade my answering service to find me on a weekend. Tell me, Morgan—may I call you Morgan?” I nodded. “Just how much trouble are you in?”

His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. He looked as though he was searching through a file in his brain. Apparently, he found what he wanted, because he said, “Only two non-drug deal murders occurred in the city during the last forty-eight hours. You don’t look as though you’d know the Pakistani cab driver somebody shot and threw off the George Washington Bridge, so I’m presuming it must be the other one. Has your friend been accused of killing Arnold Rose’s wife?”

A slight grimace crossed his face. “We’ve met.” It seemed clear that he didn’t like his fellow criminal lawyer. B. Kent Wayne said, “Tell me why you’re here.”

“My friend is Nancy Cummings. She practices corporate law in Arnold’s firm, Newton, Donovan, Lipton, and Klein. She and Arnold are . . . going together. Nancy’s been accused of killing his ex-wife, but she’s innocent.”

“Let’s not quibble over semantics,” he said. “The details haven’t been made public yet. Why was she arrested?”

“Nancy called someone from her firm, but I don’t know anything about that person. Arnold was the top criminal lawyer at Newton, but he can’t represent Nancy in this. I phoned you because I heard you were one of the best in the country.”

He laughed. “A defense attorney can’t get a better endorsement than that.” Picking up a pen from the narrow tray on his cluttered desk, he twirled it in his hands for a few seconds. Finally he put the pen down and said, “Two items before we take this discussion any further. One: I’m expensive. Can Ms. Cummings afford a first-rate defense?”

“She’s well-off,” I said. “I mean, I think she is. I don’t know if she has investments, or savings accounts, but she owns her apartment at the Bradbury, on West Eighty-first Street. Even if she doesn’t have enough money available right away—or at all—I do. I’ll write you a check this afternoon.”

“That’s a problem. You said she called the Newton office—that means she already has a lawyer. I can’t just walk in and take over somebody else’s case.”

“Assuming she does, she’ll have to say so. Then I’ll contact the other attorney and make arrangements to take over.”

For the first time since Penny phoned me in Florida to tell me that Nancy had been arrested, I began to relax a little. As B. Kent Wayne, attorney-at-law, made notes on a white legal pad—the same kind of pad, I noticed, that I use to plot out the storylines for Love of My Life—I began to take in details of his office decor. On the wall directly behind him was a large glass case that held a fascinating display of armaments. Gesturing toward the daggers, several varieties of pistols, an ancient Japanese ceremonial sword, and a medieval spiked mace, I asked, “Is collecting weapons your hobby?”

In a firm tone, he corrected me. “Was alleged to have used it. There were so many inconsistencies and missteps in the prosecution’s case that I was able to establish enough reasonable doubt for an acquittal. Situations are seldom black and white. My battlefield is gray.”

“She was arrested late Friday. That means Ms. Cummings will probably have a bail hearing on Monday. It’s likely the D.A.’s office will ask for remand—”

“Remand—that’s incarceration without bail.” He looked surprised that I knew the term. “Every time I write a mystery plot for Love of My Life I have a character arrested,” I said. “I had to learn the language.”

He smiled. “I must start watching your show. Now, assuming Ms. Cummings wants me as her attorney, I’ll ask for release on her own recognizance—citing her ties to the community, and so on. How much family does she have here?”

“Too bad. O.R. is a lot tougher when the accused has no family ties to New York, and can afford to leave the country. I’ll fight for bail, but it’ll be high.”

I waved my hand, signaling that I didn’t care. “A bail bondsman will charge ten percent of whatever it is. I’ll write a check on the spot. You have to get her released.”

That wasn’t a satisfying answer, but I had to keep pushing for action. “All right,” I said. “What do you need first?”

I fished around in my handbag for my small personal phone book. Months ago, Nancy gave me a cell number to use in case I had an emergency and couldn’t reach her on her own phones. Quickly flipping through it, I found what I was looking for and dialed. As I waited for the call to be answered, I glanced again at Wayne’s collection of weapons, and wondered how he was going to fit a five-gallon can of paint into that display case.