Free On the Street Where You Die (Stanley Bentworth mysteries Book 1) by Al Stevens Page B

The meter would keep running.
    “No matter who it is?” I asked.
    “Why would I give a shit who it is?”
    I’d save that one for later.
    “Have they charged you?”
    “They have.”
    “Arraigned?”
    “No. Later today.”
    “Okay. The prosecution will ask for remand. Your lawyer will ask for recognizance. With luck it’ll be something in between.”
    It was time to voice my concern about Sanford .
    “I’ll leave the choice of lawyers up to you, Buford, but I think you need to get a better-looking lawyer. One that doesn’t look like a two-bit gangster in a zoot suit.”
    “I’ll have to. Sanford is my chauffer, bodyguard, and right-hand man.”
    “I can’t imagine you needing a bodyguard, and I can’t imagine him being one,” I said.
    “Looks can be deceiving.”
    “Yours or his?”
    “Both. Sanford was a lawyer for the mob, but got disbarred. Kind of short on ethics and it caught up with him.”
    All of a sudden I liked Sanford a lot more. “I know how that goes.”
    “He came with me when I left the family. Very loyal, very protective.”
    Buford adjusted his huge frame in the small metal folding chair. “So anyway, how do I keep my mug out of the newsreels?”
    “Avoid cameras. When word gets out you’re in here, the press’ll be all over this place like stretch marks on a ninth-street lap dancer. When the cops take you between the jail and the courthouse, cover your face with your coat. Defendants do that all the time. That might keep your pretty face off the
six o’clock
news.”
    I tapped on the mirror and signaled for Sanford to come in. He did and I explained that I would be investigating the murder and trying to clear his boss. Buford told him to give me whatever help I needed. Sanford grunted his assent.
    I left the two of them there and went down to Bill Penrod’s desk in the squad room. The desk was pushed up against a column in the middle of the squad room. The desk was wider than the column, so things on the desk fell onto the floor on either side of the column. I could swear that there was stuff still on the floor from when I worked next to him years ago.
    “Okay, Stan. Let’s have it.”
    I told him the whole story, who Overbee was, why Vitole was blackmailing him, and that Vitole was banging Marsha Sproles.
    “Bill, Overbee asked me to look into the murder and try to find out who did it.”
    “We already have a perp, Stan. Overbee did it. One of his guns is a match for the slug the ME took out of Vitole’s brain.”
    “That doesn’t make sense, Bill. Why would a major player like Overbee bump some guy then hang the piece back on the wall with his collection?”
    “It wasn’t on the wall. It was somewhere else.”
    “Where?”
    “In the trunk of his car.”
    That sounded downright stupid to me. Buford would not have hidden a gun in his car.
    “Registered to Overbee?”
    “No. All his guns are unregistered.”
    “How do you know it was his?”
    “Because of where we found it.”
    My first thought was Sanford . I didn’t know how stupid he might be.
    “Did you check out his chauffer?”
    “You mean his lawyer?” Penrod laughed. “Yeah, we did. He has an alibi.”
    “This has to be some kind of frame-up.”
    “I know you want to believe that, Stan, but you know how it goes. We got this one practically closed. The guy is a former wise guy. Tough. With a lot to lose if his cover is exposed. And he was seen there the morning of the murder. Motive, means, opportunity.”
    The holy trinity of a murder investigation. Find someone who has all three, and most times you’ve found your killer.
    “Before you declare it closed, Bill, keep in mind the neighbor, Sproles. He had a motive. Vitole was doing his wife and got whacked in front of their house. And Vitole’s wife too. He was cheating on her. You got more than enough likely suspects.”
    Bill wouldn’t budge.
    “But then there’s the gun,” he said. “I can’t see any way to link it to anyone else. I’m going