A Deadly Judgment by Jessica Fletcher Read Free Book Online Page B

“A pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Fletcher. My wife will be thrilled that I did.” He made his way in Whitney James’s direction, his gait casual, one shoulder dropped slightly lower than the other in what I describe as socialite slouch.
    “What does Mr. Warren Parker do for a living?” I asked Malcolm.
    “Dates rich, attractive, powerful women—when his wife is at their summer place on the Cape, which is most of the year. He’s good at it.”
    “Interesting way to make a living,” I said.
    “Actually, he’s a financier. With two character flaws.”
    “Oh? What are they?”
    “Dating Whitney James?”
    “That’s only one,” I said.
    “And he hates baked beans. Where the hell is my corned beef? You’d think all they serve in this establishment is whiskey.”

Chapter Six
    I was apprehensive about meeting Malcolm’s paid professional jury consultant, Jill Farkas. She was a professional; I was a rank amateur treading on her turf.
    But my fears were unfounded, at least initially. Ms. Farkas was a handsome, gracious woman partial to tailored brown suits. Her blond hair, streaked with silver, was carefully coiffed. She spoke in modulated tones. My reading of our first meeting said she didn’t resent my presence. Of course, I knew that could change once we disagreed on prospective jurors. But no sense worrying about it now. Tomorrow, when jury selection was to start, was time enough.
    Billy Brannigan’s defense team gathered around the small conference table in Malcolm’s office. Brannigan chose to sit in a chair apart from the group.
    “Okay,” Malcolm said, having removed his plaid jacket and loosened his tie. “What do we have?” He directed it his assistant defense counsel, Rachel Cohen.
    “I tried all morning to get hold of Cynthia Warren, but no luck.”
    “Cynthia Warren?” I asked.
    “Billy’s alibi,” Malcolm said, looking at his client. Brannigan didn’t react.
    “Where do you think she’s gone?” Malcolm asked.
    “Probably hasn’t gone anywhere, Malcolm,” Rachel replied. “She knows she isn’t scheduled to testify for at least a week, so there’s no reason for her to be on tap. Maybe it would make sense if we—”
    She was interrupted by the sound of the receptionist’s voice over the intercom. “For you, Rachel,” Linda said. “Your baby-sitter.”
    “Damn,” Rachel said, jumping up and fairly running from the room.
    I couldn’t help but smile. Her dual role as attorney and mother certainly kept her hopping.
    “Everybody had a chance to go over the juror questionnaires?” McLoon asked.
    “We nodded.
    “McLoon looked at his investigator, Ritchie Fleigler. “What have you dug up on the detectives?” he asked.
    Fleigler chuckled. “Detective John Sullivan isn’t going to be happy with what I’ve come up with,” he said.
    “Why?” McLoon asked.
    “Seems he once worked as a Chippendale dancer in New York.”
    “What in hell is a Chippendale dancer?” McLoon asked.
    “Like female strippers, only the men strip and dance for women.”
    “That so?” McLoon said, leaning back, a wicked grin on his face. “One of Boston’s homicide detectives used to take his clothes off in public?”
    “Just for a couple of months,” Fleigler said.
    “One day is enough,” said McLoon. “What else?”
    “Here’s the best part,” said Fleigler. “It seems John Sullivan, now Detective John Sullivan, got fired from his gig as a dancer for allegedly fondling one of his female customers.”
    “Music to my ears,” McLoon said. “It’s all documented?”
    “I have it right here,” Ritchie said, patting a file folder.
    McLoon now turned his attention to his personal assistant, Georgia Bobley. “Are all the logistics in place?” he asked.
    “Excuse me,” said Fleigler, “but I have more.”
    “Okay, shoot.”
    “I have a friend over at the coroner’s office.”
    “A female friend, I presume,” said McLoon.
    Fleigler smiled. “Of course. Anyway, she tells me