Dead Man's Thoughts by Carolyn Wheat Page A

sinuous movement and burning black eyes. Barely looking at me, he spoke to the room, and perhaps the world, at large.
    â€œWhy can’t you people leave me alone? I don’t know anything about Charlie Blackwell’s death. I’ve barely heard the man’s name in the last eight years. Doesn’t anyone understand that?” He gestured theatrically as he spoke. He still hadn’t faced me directly. “You finish a case, it’s over, you go on to the next one. You don’t brood about it. You don’t keep in touch with all the witnesses. Okay, Blackwell’s dead. I’m sorry to hear it. But it’s nothing to do with me. There’s nothing I can tell you or any other newspaper.”
    Light dawned. I explained to Parma that I wasn’t a reporter. That stopped him pacing, but then he gave me a look of suspicion, as though I’d come under false pretenses.
    â€œBut I am interested in Blackwell’s death,” I added hastily. “And in the murder of Nathan Wasserstein. I think you knew him?” I made it a question, though I knew the answer.
    Parma was still wary, but he answered. “Yes, I knew Nathan. We worked together in the D.A.’s office many years ago. I was sorry to read of his death.”
    â€œI was a friend of Nathan’s. At the Legal Aid Society. He made an appointment to see you the day before he was killed.”
    â€œOh, yes, I remember. I wondered why he didn’t show up. Of course, now I know.”
    â€œDid he tell you what it was he wanted to talk about?”
    â€œI’m not sure that he did. We arranged to have lunch. I assumed he’d tell me then.”
    â€œIt was about Charlie Blackwell. He’d picked Blackwell up in arraignments, and Blackwell said he had information for you. And now Blackwell’s dead too.”
    â€œAnd you think there’s a connection?” he demanded. I nodded. “But, Miss Jameson, are you sure that’s what Nathan wanted to see me about?”
    â€œI’m sure,” I said grimly. That at least I could make him believe. The rest I wasn’t so sure of.
    â€œHe told you?” Parma persisted. I wasn’t sure who he meant by “he,” so I elaborated. “First Nathan told me he wanted to see you about Blackwell, and then Blackwell himself told me he’d told Nathan ‘everything,’ whatever that meant. So there’s no doubt in my mind that Blackwell had information for you and Nathan was the go-between.”
    â€œAnd now they’re both dead. That’s what you’re thinking.” He began to pace again, his fine hands darting all over, now pointed at me, now gesturing in the air, now thrust into a pocket, now running through his curly black hair. His whole body emphasized his every word. I’d had a client like that once: he was deaf. “But my God, Miss Jameson, what you’re suggesting is impossible. Charlie Blackwell was a very unstable man. If you saw him, you saw that yourself. Nothing could be more natural than for him to kill himself. I’m sure that’s what the investigating committee will find—that he hanged himself. And as for Nathan—well, the newspapers said he must have been killed by someone he knew. Someone he let into his apartment. Granted, it’s a coincidence both of these things should happen so close together, but, take my word for it, that’s all it is. A coincidence. Probably Blackwell had nothing for me anyway. You know how people are—any little thing, they think the Special Prosecutor’s the right person to go to. I wouldn’t put much stock in this, Cassandra, really I wouldn’t.” He stopped to see what effect his words were having. They weren’t having much. I had my own reasons for believing Charlie Blackwell wanted to live, and I certainly didn’t believe he was the type to cry wolf. He had information the Special Prosecutor wanted. I decided to