Dead Man's Thoughts by Carolyn Wheat Page B

mention that.
    â€œIt’s a fact, though, that Charlie could have told you a few things you wanted to know, isn’t it? About the Stone trial?”
    Parma didn’t like the question. “It’s true that I had a few questions about that trial I could have asked Charlie,” he admitted.
    â€œIn fact, you believed Charlie took a dive on that case. And you wanted to know who got to him.”
    Parma smiled, his boyish face taking on a paternal look. “Cassandra, you must go to a lot of movies. It’s true I’ve always wondered if Charlie hadn’t been a less enthusiastic witness than I wanted him to be, but I certainly wouldn’t allege publicly that he ‘took a dive,’ as you put it.”
    â€œMaybe not publicly. How about privately?”
    â€œI think my private thoughts will stay private,” he said coldly. “And now if there’s nothing else.…”
    â€œThere is.” I was crisp and to the point. If he didn’t want to air his opinions, fine, but I still wanted the answers to some questions. “I’m interested in the type of security arrangements Blackwell was held under eight years ago.”
    Parma sighed. “Cassandra, all this was a long time ago, and I frankly haven’t got the time to spend on it. However, I don’t wish to appear unhelpful, so I’ll let you talk to one of my assistants. Mr. Chessler will be able to answer any questions.” He looked at his watch. “I’m late for an appointment, so if you’ll excuse me.” He stood up, called his secretary and walked me out of the room. We shook hands again, and I thanked him with as much graciousness as I could muster.
    The red-haired secretary led me to another, smaller office down the hall. I wondered if the assistant would be programmed to give me a different version of the bum’s rush I’d just gotten from the boss.
    This time there was only one window, facing the Hudson River and New Jersey. From here, even New Jersey looked good.
    The man behind the desk was about thirty-two, with thinning blond hair and mild blue eyes behind slightly tinted aviator glasses. He’d taken off the jacket from his three-piece suit, leaving a gray, pin-striped vest and pants, a pink shirt, and a tie of light blue, silver, and pink paisley. Very preppy-looking. He probably had little alligators on his underwear.
    He stood up, offered his hand, and said, “I’m Dave Chessler.” I shook his hand. They were big on shaking hands in this place. Maybe I should have worn white gloves. He motioned me to a guest chair in front of his desk, which was neither as large nor as tidy as Parma’s.
    â€œWould you like some coffee?” he asked. I nodded. Coffee would be nice, and besides, he couldn’t throw me out as quickly as Parma had if I were drinking his coffee.
    He called for a secretary to get us coffee. I’d expected the usual office instant with powdered creamer, so I was pleasantly surprised to taste a rich dark blend with a hint of French roast. Real half and half. In china mugs, not styrofoam. I decided I approved of Chessler.
    When we’d both sipped our coffee, he set his mug on the desk, leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. It’s a common enough gesture, but it brought Nathan back so sharply that tears came into my eyes. Angrily, I brushed them away, hoping Chessler hadn’t noticed.
    He had. “What’s the matter?” he asked, in a voice that was light and pleasant. Altogether he wasn’t the kind of man I’d expected to find among Del Parma’s scalp-hunters.
    â€œNothing. You just reminded me of someone.” I quickly turned businesslike. “Mr. Parma said you might be able to help me. I need some information about the Burton Stone trial. Specifically about Charlie Blackwell. He was—”
    â€œOh, I know who Charlie is. Or was. Of course, that trial was before my