Key Witness by J. F. Freedman

Author:J. F. Freedman [Freedman, J. F.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4804-2396-1
Publisher: Open Road Media

THE CALL CAME FROM out of the blue, like so many of them do.

“Some guy wants to talk to you,” Josephine said, leaning into his doorway.

“Who is it?” he asked, his head buried in a transcript.

“He won’t tell me. Only you.”

“About the case?” He looked up.

She nodded.

“What about it?”

“He wants to talk about the case. He won’t give me his name, he won’t tell me what he wants to talk about regarding the case. Only you. You want me to shine him on?”

Distracted: “No, I’ll take it.”

“Line three.” She paused. “Do you want me to tape it? I’ve got it set up.”

“Without telling him?” He frowned.

“For reference,” she said defensively.

He shook his head. “If he’s sophisticated he might figure it out, and then we’d be in trouble. If I decide I need you to listen in, I’ll let you know.” He started to pick the phone up, then hesitated. “When was the last time we were swept?”

“The day before yesterday. Monday and Thursday mornings, as you requested.”

“The lines should be safe then.” Tapping into someone’s phone was illegal, but people did it anyway. He punched up line three, picked up the receiver. “Wyatt Matthews,” he announced as Josephine flounced out of sight, not too discreetly.

“You’re the lawyer on this multiple-murder charge.” A man’s voice, with a pronounced upper-Midwestern accent. Working-class, Wyatt would bet lunch on it. “For that nigger.”

Wyatt held his tongue. “Yes, I am Marvin White’s attorney. Who am I talking to, please?” He pulled pad and ballpoint toward him.

“Don’t worry about that. Not yet.” Wyatt heard the man’s heavy breathing come across the line. He sounded like he had emphysema, or heavy asthma. Then harsh, barking coughing, a phlegmy rattle. This is a sick man, Wyatt thought. He wondered if the man was calling from a hospital.

“Dwayne Thompson.” The caller’s sandpaper voice cut through the line. “That name mean anything to you?”

“Yes.”

“Just checking. Making sure you’re not some lame can’t find his ass with both hands kind of lawyer.”

“I know where my behind is,” Wyatt told the caller.

A rheumy chortle. “What about Doris Blake?” the voice asked. “The name ring a bell?”

Wyatt thought for a moment. “No, it doesn’t.”

“You’re not taking care of business, pal.”

“Is that what you called to tell me?” He wished now he’d had Josephine tape this call. “Long-distance, I presume.”

“Don’t presume nothing. Just do your fucking homework. You and I might could do with a personal face-to-face confab. I gotta think on that. See where it gets me. I’ll call you back tomorrow,” the voice promised. “Same time, same station.” He hung up.

Wyatt leaned back in his chair, the receiver dangling from his fingertips. Doris Blake? Was that the name of one of the murder victims? He thought he knew all their names.

He buzzed Josephine. She was there immediately. “Were you listening in?” he asked.

“Only your side. Anything tasty?”

“Does the name Doris Blake resonate? One of the victims, a witness?”

She shook her head. “I don’t recall it.”

“Well, maybe it’s nothing. But see if you can get a line on someone named Doris Blake who might have some connection to this.

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