reading

…Until Proven Innocent

Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #5

By Gene Grossman

From

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously or with permission. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or any events is coincidental.

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©MMXI Gene Grossman

Edition 2.1 March, 2012

ISBN: 9781620953365

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Peter Sharp Legal Mysteries: the Complete Series

More details and cover graphics at: http://www.LegalMystery.com

Single Jeopardy

Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #1

…by Reason of Sanity

Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #2

A Class Action

Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #3

Conspiracy of Innocence

Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #4

…Until Proven Innocent....

Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #5

The Common Law

Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #6

The Magician’s Legacy

Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #7

The Reluctant Jurist

Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #8

The Final Case

Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #9

An Element of Peril

Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #10

A Good Alibi

Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #11

Legally Dead

Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #12

How to Rob a Bank

Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #13

Murder Under Way

Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #14

The Sherlock Holmes Caper

Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #15

How to Write a Mystery Novel

Behind the Scenes: Creation of a Crime Series

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Editor’s Note: DISCOUNT COUPON OFFER

To show our appreciation for your having ordered one of our Magic Lamp Press eBooks, we would like to offer you a 50% discount on 24 other titles we publish - from authors Gene Grossman, Nick Shoveen Edwin H. Sinclair, Jr., and Barry Neal. A Discount coupon is at the end of this book.

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INTRODUCTION

If this is the first Peter Sharp Legal Mystery that you’re reading, it might help you to know a little background information about the characters.

Peter Sharp’s wife threw him out of their home (which she actually owned), due to a conflict of their philosophies about legal representation: Peter being a defender of those poor, unfortunate people ‘wrongfully’ accused of crimes, and his wife Myra a prosecutor with the District Attorney’s office, who railroaded them to conviction.

Peter ultimately wound up living on a dilapidated old boat in Marina del Rey, and when his former classmate/employer Melvin Braunstein died in a plane crash, Peter inherited a failing law practice, an office manager (Melvin’s twelve-year old step-daughter Suzi, a Chinese computer genius) and her huge St. Bernard. Peter was appointed legal guardian, and through a series of misfortunes that miraculously worked out, wound up living with Suzi and her dog on a beautiful 50-foot Grand Banks trawler-yacht.

When Peter isn’t swilling Patrón Margaritas at one of the marina’s local watering holes, he’s usually involved in some losing legal case that little Suzi will inevitably solve, leaving Peter with the impression that he’s really as good as he thinks he is.

Along the way in each legal adventure, Peter usually winds up butting heads with his ex-wife, who Suzi adores and is constantly scheming to get back into the Sharp household. There’s also Stuart Schwartzman, Peter’s old friend and frequent client, who is the most entrepreneurial person in Southern California – and Jack Bibberman, the best private investigator Peter ever met.

All of the Peter Sharp Legal Mysteries are summarized at the end of this book, and if you’re curious about them, more details (plus photos) are at

http://www.PeterSharpBooks.com

Magic Lamp Press - Venice, California

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"If aliens are watching us through telescopes, they must think that dogs are the leaders of this planet. If you see two life forms, with one of them making a poop, and the other one carrying it for him, who would you assume is in charge?"

Comedian Jerry Seinfeld

*****

Chapter 1

Given the choice, I prefer to ride in the rear seat of any nice full-sized four-door sedan. Most people don’t think there’s much of a difference between the front and rear seats, but in a police car, people riding in back usually don’t have the option of getting out whenever they feel like it. Take it from me… I’ve been there.

This evening I’m riding in the front seat of an unmarked police cruiser that’s being driven by ‘Tony the cop,’ a boat neighbor of ours who lives aboard his old wood 40-foot Newporter Pilothouse ketch. I don’t know his last name or much about him, but from what I’ve heard, he’s a not too bad of a guy, except for maybe one shortcoming: he likes to kill people.

Tony’s a twenty year veteran of the police department and is now a detective sergeant. The local newspapers liken him to Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry of motion picture infamy, which is probably why the police brass is urging him to ‘put in his papers’ and retire. Their decision is also driven by the fact that the City Council is tired of the wrongful death lawsuits he causes. His problems also extend into the local African-American community because according to some of its most vocal members, they would like to see him publicly lynched.

Aside from being a racist, fascist, bigoted killer, he seems like a pretty nice guy. A little on the silent side, but that works for me. I estimate his height to be at least six-four, because he’s a couple of inches taller than me. In addition to the height, he’s obviously been a bodybuilder for many years, because his bulging muscles look like they’re ready to pop right through that cheap sport coat he always wears to cover up his shoulder holster. The combination of his height, muscles, sunglasses, moustache and serious grimace work very well for him on the street, and all add up to a menacing presence.

Ordinarily I wouldn’t be associating with a person of his reputation, but today I don’t have a choice because the senior managing partner in our law firm promised that I’d be his guest for a Mexican dinner while he explains some problem he’s having with ex-wife about the child support he’s paying her.

*****

I always seem to be getting involved in strange cases at the request of my boss, but she helps out quite a bit. Being a computer whiz, she occasionally acts in an unofficial capacity to help the local police out with some hi-tech snooping. In return, they provide her with helpful information on some our criminal cases. From what I understand, we owe Tony a favor or two for some things he did for us on a past case, so that’s why I’m now on the way to his favorite Mexican dive in Culver City, where he’ll probably pour his heart out to me about the mean ex-wife. So far he hasn’t said anything, but that’ll probably change once we get to the restaurant.

It’s seven on a Wednesday evening and the place is almost empty. There’s a long bar on the left side of the room, some tables in the middle, and six booths along the right side. Tony heads for the last booth and sits down with his back to the wall, so he can see the whole place. That’s a paranoid habit most cops develop. I sit down opposite him, but can still see most of the place in the mirrored wall behind Tony.

The waitress finally breaks away from the two or three bar patrons and slinks over to our table.

“Hi, Tony. I had the cook start a Mexican Pizza when I saw you pull into the parking lot. It’ll be ready any time now.” She places two cold bottles of beer on the table. I can tell this is a real neighborhood joint because she doesn’t bring any glasses.

We pick up our respective bottles, clink them together as a macho toast, and take a refreshing swig while the waitress sets our smoking hot appetizer down on the table between us. Unlike the pizzas prepared at Shakey’s, this one is a large flat plate of beans and rice heaped on top of large chips, all smothered in melted cheeses. I don’t know what the cholesterol and fat count of this deadly dish is, but I think Doctor Kevorkian could successfully use it on some of his patients.

Waiting for Tony to speak to me, I break off a mouthful-sized chunk of this suicide platter. While looking toward the bar, Tony seems to be reaching down to scratch his leg. Just as I put the chunk into my mouth, he decides to finally speak. It’s almost a whisper.

“When I say ‘now,’ I want you dive down in the booth. It might even be better if you made it all the way under the table.”

This is a first. I’ve been out to dinner with a lot of people, but no one has ever said that to me. I then realize that he wasn’t reaching down to scratch his leg. He was removing a snub-nosed revolver from an ankle holster. I can see in the mirror that there’s a black man standing near the bar and cautiously looking around the room.

Suddenly it happens. The standing black man reaches under his jacket and removes not one, but two large handguns that were tucked into his belt. He points one towards the bar and the other towards our booth and shouts out.

“Nobody move. Anybody move, and they’re dead!”

I’m now sitting here nervously trying to make a decision. Should I dive under the table immediately, or wait for Tony’s command?

Unfortunately the decision is made for me, because when the bartender notices that the robber is glancing over in our direction, he pulls out his own gun and takes a shot at the black man. At that instant, three things happen simultaneously. The robber fires back at the bartender, Tony shouts ‘now’ at me, fires two quick shots at the robber, and I sit here frozen in place, watching the whole show in the mirror. After firing at the robber and hitting him, Tony jumps out of the booth, runs over to the guy lying on the ground and kicks the guns out of his reach. I don’t think the dead criminal was in any condition to reach for them, but I guess that’s what cops are trained to do.

*****

When Tony returns to the booth, he seems upset.

“I thought I told you to get down in the booth. You didn’t move. You just sat there.”

“Well yeah, I didn’t want to miss the show.”

I hear some sirens in the distance, so the cavalry must be on the way. Tony must think I’m either completely crazy, or the coolest character on the planet. He calms down a bit and lets me know that I’m on my own for a ride home.

“You might as well finish the pizza… it’ll be on the house. When the uniforms get here, I’ll be busy for the rest of the night. That’s the big problem with shootings – there’s too much paperwork involved. You better plan on taking a cab back to the Marina.”

When the men in blue come in through the front door, Tony stands up and displays his badge. They take his weapon and escort him outside. For some strange reason, the whole incident has made me hungry, so I’m now pigging out on the pizza while waiting for them to come and take my statement. I’m sure that the police brass and the City Council will be unhappy with tonight’s event. Too bad they won’t even take into consideration the fact that Tony stopped an armed robbery and probably saved the lives of several people, one of them being especially important to me.

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Chapter 2

Last night’s Mexican restaurant incident is leading all the local morning news shows. It took about an hour for me to explain what happened to the three different detectives who interviewed me and kept asking the same questions over and over again. Tony called this morning and apologized, explaining that they make an extra effort interviewing witnesses whenever a police shooting is involved. When leaving the restaurant last night to get into the cab, I noticed that there were several news helicopters circling. Their videotaped views of the neighborhood, complete with flashing squad car lights and an ambulance, are now on the screen while the newsreader explains about how our city’s ‘Dirty Tony’ has struck once again. It seems like they can’t make their mind up about him. They’re torn between portraying him as a hero or a trigger-happy lunatic.

While sitting here watching the news and eating a large bowl of cold breakfast cereal, I look over to the couch and see that I now have an audience. A kid and a dog.

The kid is Suzi, our law firm’s senior managing partner, who’s an adorable pre-teen Chinese girl with a genius IQ. The dog is her huge Saint Bernard, who I call ‘Bernie.’ Suzi was the stepdaughter of Melvin Braunstien, an old law school classmate of mine and former employer. When he died in a plane crash, his instructions stated that I was to be appointed as her legal guardian. When I took his place as the firm’s licensed adult and was brought in as a junior partner I discovered that Suzi had always been the real brains behind Melvin’s firm. With the help of some successful legal victories and several large fees, we were able to trade up from Melvin’s houseboat to another client’s 42-foot Californian, and ultimately to my dreamboat, the one we’re living on now - a gorgeous 50-foot Grand Banks trawler yacht.

At first glance most people think that I’m an experienced boater, but Suzi knows the truth… I don’t even know how to start the engines.

My audience is obviously waiting for me to make a full report on the shooting last night, so I don’t disappoint them. As usual, I’m the only one who talks. After a half hour description that covers everything including the ride to the restaurant, the greasy food, the beer without the glass, the shooting, the police interviews and the taxi ride back, they both get up and exit to the little princess’ domain, her private stateroom in the bow of the boat. Before they leave, the dog makes one last inspection tour to search for cereal droppings.

I guess that Tony’s recent marksmanship display shoves his domestic situation to the back burner, but I’m sure I’ll hear about it soon enough, because once again he’s been placed on administrative leave. That’s what the city calls it, but if you’re told to go home and still get paid, I call it a vacation.

I can’t help but notice a steady stream of people going to his boat each day, including police public relations, police union delegates, police brass, news people, and some other sorts that I can’t classify by just looking at them.

There are some large soft paws pitter-pattering into my stateroom. The only thing that makes a sound like that on this boat is the dog, bringing me a message. For some strange reason, the kid rarely talks to me. Communications on our boat are usually sent by dogmail, which consists of a message tucked into Bernie’s collar.

This is a very economic way of sending mail. The only cost involved is the messenger’s tip, which consists of a pat on the head and a “good boy” compliment. This message tells me that tomorrow I’m to accompany Tony the ‘offbeat’ cop, to a police shrink’s office. This isn’t something I’m looking forward to. Over the past several years I’ve become acquainted with quite a few police officers, and they all have the same mindset in common. Once they’ve been sworn in and get to wear the badge and gun, there are only two types of people in the world – cops and bad guys. They know that they can depend on any other cop in the country to watch their back, and the rest of the people out there are nothing more than possible future suspects in all the bad things that are sure to happen.

The unfortunate part about their philosophy is that it keeps them from becoming friendly with that large part of the population not wearing badges. I guess it’s because they don’t want to get close to people who they might have to arrest someday. They want to keep their distance because it helps them to believe that even the most innocent-looking citizen is guilty of a crime.

Personal feelings aside, I’ll do this for the kid. I have no idea why she wants me to go with him, but I’ve learned not to question her messages. She always has some reason that’s better than any objection I can ever come up with, so I just do as I’m told.

Whenever there’s a police-involved shooting, the assumption is that it’s a traumatic experience for the cop who did the shooting, so they routinely require a visit to the shrink, who must make an official recommendation that the officer is emotionally and psychologically fit to return to regular active duty.

To avoid the possibility of familiarity, they use a rotating system so that no officer ever knows what psychologist he’ll be visiting until the actual time of the appointment. Tony is scheduled for a one o’clock session tomorrow afternoon at the shrink building on Hollywood Boulevard, just a few blocks west of Vine Street.

The other part of the message is a reminder to return Olive’s telephone call. She’s already called three times and I’m told that she’s starting to sound desperate.

Stuart Schwarzman is a close friend of mine, and one of the most entrepreneurial people I’ve ever met. In the last year alone, he’s been extremely successful in starting businesses that provide a variety of products and services, including weight-loss juice, used Toyota Camry’s that he has trucked out from New Jersey, an armored car business called “he’s taking it with him” that’s hired by disgruntled heirs for funeral processions, and most recently, a service that imports young Thai girls for prospective American husbands. These activities are all in addition to his growing private investigation service that has proven itself very helpful in some of our firm’s recent lawsuits.

Stuart is usually good for about one fantastic new idea every six months, and he tries to get me involved in each one. Up to now I’ve avoided the temptation but he still keeps trying. He’s due for a new one any time now.

Stuart’s right-hand man is a former porno producer named Vinnie Norman, who along with his fiancée Olive, both drive armored cars for Stuart and take part in the private investigations. I tuck the note in my pocket and make a mental note to return her calls at my next opportunity. I would do it now, but the dog is sitting in front of me holding a leash in his mouth. This can only mean that he wants to take me out for my walk. He enjoys going with me because it means he gets a chance to ride in my big yellow Hummer, where he can stick his head out of the open sunroof and pretend like he’s flying. And he really does look like he’s flying, because before he can get his face into the wind, I have my instructions to attach his ‘Doggles,’ which are aviator-styled eye-protection goggles designed especially for dogs who want to stick their heads out of moving cars. Bernie sits in the front seat with his head sticking up out of the car’s open sunroof. With his aviator goggles on and large ears flopping in the wind, we’re a popular subject for tourists’ cameras as we motor down the street.

The reason we go in the car is because I refuse to pick up after him. Our neighborhood has a pooper-scooper law that says nobody should walk a dog on the public streets without having some scooping device to use. I have nothing against following the law, but there are some things that I just refuse to do, so we go to a dog park where he can run around and do things that I don’t know about, somewhere where I can’t see him.

*****

Now that the dog has taken care of his business, it’s time for me to take care of mine, so I call Stuart’s Van Nuys warehouse. Olive answers the phone. She recognizes my phone number on her caller ID display.

“Oh, Mister Sharp, I’m so glad you called.”

Her voice becomes hushed, as if she’s whispering into the phone.

“Please, can I come and talk to you?”

“Olive, if this is about that prenuptial agreement you and Vinnie were talking about, I’ve already told you that I won’t advise either one of you about it.”

“No, no, this has nothing to do with that. It’s something else completely. I have a problem. Someone is threatening me.”

“Olive, are you in physical danger, because if you are, I can be there in less than thirty minutes. What about Stuart and Vinnie, are they around anywhere?”

“No, it’s not anything physical. Listen, Vinnie and Stuart will be back from lunch any minute now, and I don’t want them to know anything about this. Can I come to the boat? Please?”

I’ve known Olive for almost a year now, and to the best of my knowledge, the only thing that freaks her out is dead bodies, so I’m really curious to find out what’s bothering her now.

Stuart and his group have been to the boat many times, so Olive is quite familiar with these surroundings and makes herself comfortable on the couch in the boat’s main saloon. I used to call that area of the boat the ‘salon,’ but was corrected by several of our dock neighbors, who told me that if I want to fit in around here, I’ll have to call what the old sailors did: the ‘saloon.’ As I walk over to greet her, I notice that the forward stateroom door is slightly ajar, and just below the doorknob level I see an eye peering out. The kid never misses out on anything.

Olive starts right out by swearing me to secrecy. I explain to her that anything she tells me is protected by lawyer-client privilege, even if it involves a matter that I decide not to represent her on. Once she feels confident that Vinnie won’t find out what she tells me, she starts her explanation.

“I’m being blackmailed.”

“C’mon Olive, you’re not a rich person. What could a blackmailer possibly expect to get out of you?”

“He wants me to sleep with him.”

“Okay Olive, suppose you start out right at the beginning, because it sounds like I have some catching up to do with the facts of this alleged blackmail. First of all, exactly what is it that this person has on you?”

“You’re sure that no one will know about this?”

I nod affirmatively until she once again feels at ease.

“Okay here it is, Mister Sharp, and I hope you won’t think poorly of me for this, but a couple of years ago I was really having a tough time finding a job, so I answered an ad in some Hollywood magazine. They were looking for girls to work the telephones. At first I thought it would be like selling magazines or something like that, but when they told us that we could earn up to twenty dollars an hour with no selling involved, I got a little nervous. The guy went on to explain to us how lonely men wanted to talk to girls on the phone, and that they’d pay by the minute if someone would excite them.”

“Olive, if I understand you correctly, you’re describing what they call ‘phone sex.’ Is that right?”

“Well yeah, I guess you could call it that, but we never met anyone face to face, and there was definitely no touching or anything like that involved. All I did was follow the scripts they gave us, and talked to those lonely men on the phone. I had a trainer who taught me some of the special things to say. Things that the callers usually wanted to hear.”

“I’m not here to judge you, Olive. You did what you had to do to make a living. That’s okay with me. Now what about this threat you mentioned?”

“Oh yeah, that. Well anyway, I guess that someone in the business office of that company was bribed or something, because one of the guys who was a steady customer got hold of my home phone number. He was a repeat caller, and always asked for me by my phone name of Bambi. He started calling me last week and he knows my real name. He says that if I don’t meet with him, he’ll tell my boyfriend what I used to do for a living.”

This sounds like a story right out of one of O’Henry’s short stories written by William Sydney Porter. Olive, the former phone-sex operator is embarrassed to have her boyfriend Vinnie, the former porno director, find out about her past occupation.

Wait a minute. If she’s so worried about Vinnie finding out, then she must not know about his past in the porno business. I better tread very carefully here.

“Olive, what did Vinnie do for a living before you met him?”

“Before he started working with Stuart, he told me he was with a major motion picture studio for several years, working in some department like props or wardrobe.”

No wonder she’s worried. Vinnie never told her about his past, so she thinks he’s as white as the driven snow. This is an awkward situation because the only way to really make her comfortable in confessing her past to Vinnie is to let her know about his shady past.

That’s a decision I can’t make. If Vinnie wants her to know how many porno films he produced and directed, he’ll have to tell her himself. It’s not my job to ‘out’ him. The last time I looked at my business card, it said ‘Peter Sharp, attorney at law,’ and not ‘Peter Sharp, gossip monger.’

Now that I see the direct and truthful approach isn’t available to us, we’ll have to deal with this blackballing sleazeball in a different, more creative way.

“How does he want you to reach him? Did he give you his name or phone number?”

“All he gave me was his cell phone number, and told me to call him Hal.”

I take the cell phone number from Olive and tell her that I’ll take care of everything.

* * * * * *

Chapter 3

Once again I’m in the front seat of Tony’s unmarked squad car, hoping that our ride today doesn’t end up as exciting as the last one.

“Tony, are you wearing that ankle holster again?”

“Yeah, but don’t worry. I guarantee you that I won’t be using it today.”

“Really? That sounds encouraging. What did you do, swear off shooting people?”

Hearing this question brings the faint trace of a smile to his face. He reaches under his sport coat.

“Naw, if any trouble comes up, I’ll be using this.”

Tony brings his hand out from under the sport coat and I see that he’s holding what looks like a small hunting rifle. Not being satisfied just showing it to me, he decides to give me the full fifty-cent tour.

“Mister Lawyer, this is a Smith & Wesson Model 500, and it makes Clint Eastwood’s .44 Magnum look like a peashooter. This weapon’s muzzle energy is more than 5 times what his was. Its overall length is fifteen inches, weighs in at over six pounds, has an eight-inch barrel, carries five rounds, and is the most powerful legal production revolver in the world. You oughta come out shooting with me some afternoon. At least once a week I go to a target range in Agoura Hills. If you want, I’ll let you fire off a couple of rounds. This new model retails for over nine hundred dollars, but I can get you a deal on one if you’re interested.”

“Tony, I really appreciate the offer but I used up my fascination with firearms in the army, and they frown on lawyers bringing cannons into court nowadays, so I’ll have to give it a pass.”

I don’t know why anyone would want to carry a powerful weapon like this, but in view of the fact that there are bad guys out there with AK-47 assault rifles, I guess it doesn’t hurt to avoid being outgunned. From the .50 caliber designation, I guess every shot is as powerful as one coming from a .50 caliber machine gun, like the ones they put on fighter planes. Tony tells me that Smith and Wesson was planning on also bringing out a larger .64 caliber model, but they’ve had some opposition from the United States Government, who in what Tony claims is their ultimate stupidity, consider anything larger than .50 calibers to be ‘artillery,’ and therefore not desirable for civilians to own.

It’s amazing to me that they’ll allow these .50 caliber revolvers to be bought by the general population, considering the fact that there’s some fear that the regulation police bullet-proof vests might not stop a .50 caliber round fired from one of these small cannons.

Tony also apologizes for inviting me to that gunfight the other night. He recognized that robber when the guy walked into the restaurant, having seen his picture on a list of recent releases from the penitentiary, all of which were reporting to parole officers in our jurisdiction. We’ll never know how many people might have gotten killed that night If Tony hadn’t acted the way he did, because I’m sure that guy wouldn’t want to leave any witnesses… and one successful robbery certainly might lead to many more.

They can say all they want about this lunatic cop, but if it wasn’t for him, I might not be alive today. The interesting thing about the whole affair is that it looks like it didn’t shake Tony up in the least.

I graciously accept his apology and we ride the rest of the way to Hollywood in silence. He might be crazy, and I don’t particularly like him very much, but I feel very safe when he’s around.

*****

The shrinks are all in an old thirteen-story building on Hollywood Boulevard just east of Highland Avenue. You can tell the building is old because there’s an elevator operator mechanically working an ancient hand lever, or an ancient elevator operator working a mechanical lever… either description would be correct. He’s wearing one of those bellboy uniforms, complete with the little cap. As we enter the elevator we’re greeted with a “floor please?”

We get off on the eleventh floor and walk down a long marbled hallway to the end, where the ‘Psychiatric Evaluations, Inc.’ sign is engraved on a doorplate. Tony stops me before we go in.

“I just want you to know that the main reason I want you here is to keep this shrink honest. If I tell him that my lawyer is with me, maybe he’ll give me a fair shake.”

“What are you worried about? I was there. Everyone in that bar will testify that you did the right thing.”

“Yeah, but that’s not what this is all about today. Here, they want to see how bad you feel and how shook up you are. And I’m not. That’s the problem. If I don’t act like I’m at least shook up a little, they might think I’m nuts. They started wanting to get me off the force several shootings ago, and I don’t want to give them any openings here today.”

Nice. He’s a serial killer, too. I assure him that the shrink is a professional, and that if he tells the guy about his past experiences in combat as a U.S. Marine, and about all the gunfights he’s been in as a cop, that the shrink will realize he’s dealing with a true professional who can keep his head together during and after a deadly situation. This is such a good line that even I believe it.

He feels a little better hearing that, so we go inside the office and are greeted by a woman who’s on the verge of hysteria. This is not a good sign for a shrink’s office. She immediately notices which one of us looks more official, runs over to Tony and grabs his arms.

“Are you the police? Please tell me you’re the police.”

“Yeah, I’m the police. I’m supposed to see a…”

Hearing that he’s a cop, she cuts him off mid-sentence.

“Thank God you’re here… he’s still out on the ledge. I think he’s really going to jump this time.”

I’ve got to hand it to Tony. He stays as cool as a cucumber. “Has he done this before?”

“Yes. Last month he did the same thing, but we talked him back in off the ledge. I’m afraid he’s really going to jump this time.”

“Yeah I know, you already told me that. Is there a window that opens anywhere near where he is on that ledge?”

She nervously points to one of the office’s other windows. It’s next to the only one that has been opened.

“What’s this guy’s first name?”

“It’s Christopher.”

Tony walks over, opens the window, sticks his head out, looks both ways, and then spots the jumper.

“Hey Chris, I’ve got a couple of questions to ask you.”

I can’t see the jumper, but we’re far enough up off of the street so that the noise of the traffic doesn’t drown out his voice.

“Don’t try to stop me. I’m going to jump today.”

“Yeah, I know you’re gonna jump. I’m not here to stop you, I just wanna know if your car is in the garage, because if we don’t get it outa here tonight, the office will have a ton of paperwork to fill out.”

“You mean you’re not one of those crisis negotiators? They didn’t even send a crisis negotiator? They sent one last time.”

“Yeah, but that was last month, before the budget cuts. We don’t send crisis negotiators anymore. They sent me to get your information, because once you hit the ground, there’s really not much to scrape up. Anyway, is your car in the garage? And if it is, do you know what level it’s on?”

“You know, you’re crazy. I’m out here on a ledge, and you’re asking me questions about my car.”

“Chris, I agree that one of us is crazy, but let’s face it. You’re the one out there on the ledge. Now are you gonna tell me about your car, or should I just shoot you?”

Tony draws his stainless steel cannon out of its shoulder holster and waves it towards the jumper. I hear fear in the guy’s voice.

“What are you going to do, shoot me with that thing?”

“What the hell do you care? You’re gonna jump anyway. Our new policy is that once you’ve tried a stunt like this, the next time, we make sure you go through with it. Do you have any idea how much it costs the City to send those fire engines and police over here every time you pull a stunt like this? If we don’t put a stop to it, you’ll just keep doing it, and then we’ll be so short of funds, we’ll have to lay off some cops.

“Now you’ve got two choices, either jump, or go back through your window and sign the papers I’ve brought with me, promising not to do this anymore. We’re getting sick and tired of jerks like you wasting our time and money.”

Tony has now holstered his cannon and is waving a legal-looking document at the guy. I’m completely flabbergasted. Now I’m convinced. Tony is as crazy as the guy out on the ledge. To my surprise, Tony withdraws his head from the open window, and closes it.

“What happened, Tony? Did he jump?”

“Naw, he went back into his office. Excuse me, I’m supposed to check in with the receptionist about my appointment.”

That was it. Tony didn’t give it a second thought. The receptionist was still shaking, but Tony calms her down, hands her his card, and says that he’s here to see one of the doctors. She’s obviously still in a state of shock, but out of pure force of habit tells him to go down the office hallway to room ‘B.’ Tony motions for me to come with him. This is really strange. He’ll kill a robber and threaten a jumper, but it looks like he’s afraid to go into a shrink’s office without me at his side. I might as well go along and watch the rest of this show, so I follow him down the hall.

Seated behind the desk is a neatly dressed gentleman in his late fifties. He seems very calm, picks up a folder with Tony’s name on it, and starts his usual psychobabble.

“Hmmm. Let’s see, what do we have here? Ah, I see. A police officer that seems to take delight in shooting black people, and shows no remorse about it.”

I can see that this guy’s trying to build up his fee. He’ll probably suggest that Tony’s not ready to return to active duty, but after a couple of months of treatment, maybe he’ll be cured. I look at the nameplate on his desk. The first name after ‘Dr.’ is ‘Christopher.’ I look at Tony with a question on my face, and he responds with a slight affirmative nod, letting me know that we’re now in the presence of the ledge guy.

Doctor jumper continues. “Detective, have you brought with you the certification sheet for your return to active duty?” I think I’d better hold on to it for a while, because we should meet a few more times.”

That’s it. I’ve heard enough. Not only is this shrink certifiable, he’s a crook too. I grab the document out of Tony’s hand, stand up, lean over the desk, and give Chris some advice.

“Listen here, you nutcase. Lucky for you the jump attempt ended before the news helicopters arrived, so no one really got a good enough look at you. You were standing on a ledge that was near the corner of the building above a protruding sign for the savings and loan downstairs, so they couldn’t see your face from the street either. Now here’s the deal. You sign this document, Detective Tony goes back to work, you don’t screw the City out of any money, and we all tell the papers that it must have been one of your patients out there. We don’t know who your patients are, and you don’t have to tell them who it was, because of doctor-patient privilege.

“That leaves everyone happy, Tony’s working again, and your alleged career as a shrink is still intact. The alternative is that you get arrested right now for perpetrating a fraud on the City, and you spend the rest of your life in a loony bin. So what’s it gonna be, doc?”

The shrink looks up at me with an icy stare, removes a pen from the gold matching set on his desk, signs Tony’s certificate, and we both walk out of his office.

There’s not much conversation in the car on the way back to the Marina, other than my asking Tony one question. “How did you know he wasn’t going to jump?”

“Elementary, counselor. His shoes looked like they’d just been worked on by that shoeshine guy in the lobby, because I could see ink polish stains on the ledge. Nobody who intends to jump off an eleventh story ledge has his shoes shined first. Besides, unless the guy’s a complete psycho, he’s probably a coward. He’s afraid to face the problems that he’s got, like a cheating wife, too many bills, stuff like that. They think that being out on a ledge will get them some attention. When he saw me waving this big pistola in his direction, he got to see what death really looks like, and that scared the hell out of him. How about you? How did you know about that protruding sign under the ledge?”

“I lied.”

Tony actually cracks a slight smile at hearing my answer. “Well, it worked. That guy was really going to work me over if you weren’t there. If I didn’t get certified quick, I’d be in line for some prosecution for that off-duty shooting, because I didn’t identify myself first by shouting out “police!” Those are the rules, you know. Next they’ll probably require us to wear tee-shirts with big bulls eyes painted on, so the bad guys can have an easier target to hit. And from what I hear, that broad who’s the new district attorney is a real ball-buster. You’re a criminal lawyer, do you know her?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

I can tell that the computer in his brain is spinning. After a few minutes, he looks at me and says. “Oh yeah, you’re the one. Now I remember. Well, I owe you.”

“It’s funny you should mention that. I’ve got a little situation I need some help with. Some sleazeball is harassing my friend’s fiancée.”

“You want me to talk to him?”

“I don’t want him killed. I just want to know who he is. I can handle it from there.”

I give him the note that Olive gave me.

“Here’s his cell phone number.”

Tony doesn’t say anything. He takes the note and sticks it in his pocket. It’s a nice quiet conversation-less ride back to the Marina.

* * * * * *

Chapter 4

Back at the boat, I’m greeted with a dogmail message that urges me to call a Miss April May. This name sounds like a joke of some sort, but the kid usually screens the calls pretty good, so it’s probably real. I dial her number and the sweetest, sexiest, most sensual feminine voice I’ve ever heard answers the phone. I immediately conjure up a picture of some gorgeous female to match the voice, sit back on the couch, and in my sick mind get ready to enjoy a conversation with some sexy supermodel.

After a brief exchange of small talk, she explains that she’s being evicted from her apartment because of her tiny Chihuahua.

“April, is there anything in your lease that prevents you from having a dog live with you in the apartment?”

“No, it’s not that he’s living with me, it’s what he does outside.”

“Okay, I give up. Exactly what does he do outside that is causing your eviction?”

“He does his business.”

Other than the huge beast that lives with us on the boat, I don’t know much about dogs, but if by ‘doing his business,’ she means that he leaves a souvenir on the ground, I can’t imagine Chihuahua droppings as a reason for eviction.

“Why is that causing you to be evicted, April?”

“Well, that’s not exactly what’s causing me to be evicted, but the manager of the apartment building told me that if I didn’t move out, he’d turn me in to the police for multiple violations of the dog dropping laws, and that I’d lose Charlie and probably go to jail.”

Having the brain of a brilliant lawyer, I put two and two together and figure that Charlie must be the little rat she calls a dog.

“April, if the law he’s talking about requires you to pick up your dog’s droppings, have you been doing that?”

“No Mister Sharp, I haven’t. I’ve got a slight problem with my back, and it’s too hard for me to bend over to pick Charlie’s stuff up. Mister Sharp, I’m really worried about this. And I’m not the only one he’s been threatening. There’s a nice older couple living upstairs of me, and he says that they’re moving out too. I don’t see them very often.”

“April, just how old is that ‘older’ couple?”

“Oh my goodness, they must be almost fifty.”

At this point my image of a life with April has just disappeared. She’s obviously a twenty-something bimbo who thinks that everyone over thirty is a senior citizen. Besides, if I were ever to go out with a supermodel, I’d have the fear that if we were involved in an auto accident she’d place a higher priority on her broken nail than on my broken leg.

I tell April that she should call Suzi to make an appointment to come and see us. She tells me that Suzi already told her to come by this afternoon, so she’ll be at the boat in an hour. This gives me some time to try and find out why our law practice has sunk lower than merely ‘going to the dogs,’ we’re now down to the dog droppings.

The answer to today’s mystery is solved when the phone rings and my caller display shows Olive’s cell phone number.

“Hello Olive. Before you ask, I just want you to know that I’m already working on that guy who’s bothering you. We should have some information on him later this week.”

“Oh thanks, Mister Sharp, but I was only calling to see if you had a chance to speak to April.”

“She’s a friend of yours?”

“Well, sort of. I was with Suzi a couple of times when she took Bernie to the dog park, and he’s really friends with Charlie… that’s April’s dog.”

“Yeah, I know. You mean that the huge Saint Bernard and the tiny Chihuahua are friends, and they play together?”

“Oh, yes. They’”