Where Nobody Dies by Carolyn Wheat Page B

it.”
    He didn’t take it. His face wore the bland smile of a bureaucrat about to hide behind the rules. “You really ought to know I can’t discuss a pending case,” he said smoothly. “You can ask me anything you like in court, but before that …” He raised his palms in a gesture that was meant to express rueful apology. His face, however, betrayed his satisfaction.
    â€œOh, I have plenty of questions to ask in court,” I answered brightly. “I just wonder whether you really want to wait to hear them—and whether you really want them asked in such a public forum.” I gazed at Pitt with what I hoped was a wealth of meaning.
    â€œSome people,” Pitt replied, his voice hard underneath the ruminative tone, “might consider that a threat. But I don’t think a smart lawyer would threaten a public official in his own office.” He shook his head. “It would be a very foolish thing to do, wouldn’t it? So if that’s what you’re doing, Ms. Jameson”—his eyes were as hard as his voice—“I think you’d better leave before things get out of hand.”
    â€œThings are already out of hand, Mr. Pitt,” I countered, my voice remarkably steady even if my hands weren’t, which is why they got the job of holding onto my briefcase as though it were a life preserver. “They started getting out of hand when you started taking those manila envelopes from Ira Bellfield.”
    I literally held my breath waiting for my bluff to be called. All Pitt had to do was throw me out—or worse, file a complaint against me with the bar association. What I was doing hadn’t been covered in my legal ethics class.
    â€œThat’s a pretty serious allegation,” Pitt replied, giving the word every one of its syllables. His face had lost none of its bland assurance. “I wonder,” he went on, his voice silky, “what could have put such a far-fetched notion into your head.”
    I had won. The calm didn’t matter. The smoothness was a defense. What was important was that he had neither denied the charge nor picked up the phone. He hadn’t laughed either. He was playing for time, trying to find out just how much I had. My move: to convince him I had more than I really did.
    â€œIra Bellfield has a lot of fires,” I said conversationally. “Of course, you’ll say that he owns a lot of buildings and that some of them are in bad neighborhoods and that some of his tenants aren’t sober all the time, so it’s no wonder he has fires. But there are a couple of reports in here”—I tapped the briefcase significantly—“that could make you look really bad in court.” What I didn’t mention was the astronomical odds against my actually being able to introduce into evidence at Tito’s trial fire marshal’s reports from unrelated fires. “Irrelevant, incompetent, and immaterial” about summed it up. My heart thumped, and I remembered an argument I’d forgotten to use against Riordan when he’d suggested running the bluff. I hated poker.
    â€œTake 1309 Bedford Avenue,” I continued when the silence convinced me he wasn’t going to rush into guilty explanations. “You call it a gas leak fire. Would you be interested to learn that the Brooklyn Union Gas Company cut off service for nonpayment the week before the fire?”
    â€œPeople in the ghetto,” Pitt answered with a crocodile smile, “have been known to supply their own gas when the regular service runs out. It’s a dangerous practice.” He shook his head mournfully, but the twinkle in his eye told me he liked poker a hell of a lot more than I did—and probably played it better. “These poor tenants learned that the hard way.”
    â€œWhat about 2718 Herkimer?” I shot back. “Do most fires started by winos have two points of origin and use accelerants?