Free Mildred Pierced by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

movie star,” she said, finding her cigarettes and lighting one. She didn’t ask if I minded. I did, but I didn’t say so. There wasn’t much room in the Crosley, and cigarette smoke makes my eyes burn and gives me a headache.
    She sighed.
    “Mr. Peters”—she half-turned toward me—“I come from a very poor family. My formal education ended with the fourth grade. I’ve been singing, dancing and acting my heart out since I was ten years old. I don’t know how to do anything else. I don’t want to do anything else. Yes, I’m a star, and I intend to remain one. Are you certain there will be no reporters today?”
    “You see the Times this morning?” I asked, eyes on the road.
    “No,” she said.
    I handed her the folded copy shoved alongside the seat on my left.
    “Page three, bottom left,” I said.
    She took the paper, turned the page quickly, and folded the paper in half. She read it to herself. I knew what it said under the headline, which read: Dentist Kills Wife in Park with Crossbow. The article said that Sheldon Minck, a dentist, had shot his wife to death with a crossbow in Lincoln Park. The article also said Shelly and his wife were “estranged” and that he claimed he was in the park practicing. The only other piece of information of interest was that there was a witness who was passing by when the killing took place. There was no mention of Billie Cassin or Joan Crawford.
    “This is good,” she said with a slightly relieved smile.
    “Good, but not perfect,” I said. “Even if there are no reporters at the line-up, one of the cops may recognize you and tell a reporter.”
    “You can stop that from happening?”
    “I called Shelly Minck’s lawyer this morning. He’ll be there. He said he’d try to make some kind of deal with the district attorney’s office.”
    “A deal?”
    “If Shelly pleads guilty, your testimony won’t be needed.”
    “He intends to plead guilty, doesn’t he?”
    “I don’t think so,” I said. “The other possibility for a deal would require my finding who killed Mildred fast, before you have to be in a courtroom where there would probably be a reporter or, if not, there would definitely be people who’d sell the information to the closest reporter for a few bucks.”
    “I see,” she said. “So …”
    “I’ve got to try to find the murderer fast.”
    We didn’t say much more. I wanted to turn the radio on and listen to anything, but I didn’t.
    “Very well,” she said. “If you become certain that this will appear in the press or on the radio, let me know and I’ll do what I can to salvage … No, it can’t come to that. I can’t let it.”
    The last was said with such determination that I turned to look at her. I saw the face of a woman I wouldn’t want to tangle with. I couldn’t see her eyes behind the sunglasses. I didn’t think I wanted to. She was wearing makeup, but not much, and it was possible that with only a quick glance, she might not be recognized.
    “When we get there,” I said, “take off the glasses, don’t walk fast, and don’t smile. I’ll go in first. You follow.”
    “And the point of this?” she asked.
    “To keep from drawing attention to you and to give me a chance to spot anyone who might be a problem.”
    We were almost at the Hall of Justice now, and I didn’t want to answer more questions than I had to.
    “Problem? You mean like reporters, a fan?”
    What I meant was “like a pink-faced kid with a blowgun,” but I only said, “Right.”
    She went silent, thinking, smoking, and giving me a headache.
    “What if I don’t identify this Dr. Minck?” she asked.
    “They won’t believe you,” I said. “The D.A. will give you lots of trouble, and they might even decide to have a not-very-nice but very long talk with you.”
    “I see,” she said. “Well, let’s go.”
    We went. So far everything had gone reasonably well. Now we sat in the dark while five men were paraded onto the platform and told to