Sleight of Hand

CHAPTER Thirty-Eight

Dana decided to talk to Barry Lester’s girlfriend before attempting to talk to his lawyer. Guilty or innocent, Arthur Jefferson, a member of the bar, would refuse to divulge attorney-client communications, or anything that could harm his client. Tiffany Starr’s only connection to bars was the time she’d spent behind them or danced in them.

Dana used false names and disguises on occasion because she had gotten a lot of publicity from the stories about her cases that had run in Exposed. Before leaving home, Dana put on glasses and a blond wig. Tiffany Starr might spot the wig, but Dana guessed that a stripper would wear one from time to time and wouldn’t think anything of it.

Dana parked on a litter-strewn street in one of D.C.’s seamier neighborhoods. Starr lived on the third floor of a five-story brick apartment house decorated with gang graffiti. The elevator was broken and the odor of garbage and bad cooking permeated the stairwell. Dana held her breath until she was in front of Starr’s apartment.

A rail-thin woman with straight blond hair opened the door an inch and peered at Dana over the security chain. Cigarette smoke curled up from somewhere behind the door.

“Tiffany Starr?” Dana asked.

“Who wants to know?” the woman asked. There were dark circles under her eyes and her skin had a sickly pallor. Dana thought that Starr might have been attractive once upon a time, before drugs and hard living blunted any appeal she may have had.

“My name is Loren Parkhurst and I’d like to talk to you about Barry Lester’s case.”

“Why should I talk to you?” Starr asked.

“I’d prefer to tell you inside, where the neighbors can’t hear, if you know what I mean.”

Starr hesitated. Then she slipped off the chain and opened the door. She wore a T-shirt that stretched across breasts Dana was certain had once been smaller. The tight T-shirt and tighter jeans were knockoffs of high-priced brands. The tip of a tattoo peeked above the top of the T-shirt but Dana couldn’t make out what it was.

The apartment’s tiny front room was surprisingly tidy. The furniture was cheap but Monet and Picasso prints hung from walls with peeling paint. The pictures hinted at a past far different from the stripper’s present. Dana also noticed editions of People and several screen magazines stacked on an end table along with a Danielle Steel novel. That gave her an idea.

“You have a nice place here,” Dana said to break the ice when she was inside with the door closed.

“What’s this about Barry?” Starr asked, ignoring Dana’s attempt at small talk.

“Do you read Exposed?”

“Yeah, once in a while.”

Dana handed Starr a business card that identified Dana as a reporter for Exposed named Loren Parkhurst.

“I’m working on a story we plan on printing.”

“About Barry?”

“And you.”

“Me?” Starr said. Dana could see the woman’s eyes widen at the idea that she might become a celebrity.

“Would you mind if we sent a photographer up here to take some shots?”

“Uh, that would be okay, I guess,” Starr answered, trying to stay cool even though Dana could tell that she was thrilled by the attention she thought she’d receive from a national publication.

“Great. When is a good time? I know you’re probably busy.”

“I work nights, so I’m home most of the day.”

“Oh, where do you work?”

“A club. I’m a dancer. That’s how I met Barry.”

“Okay, then. I’ll have Oscar call to set up the shoot.”

“So, what’s this story about?”

“Do you mind if we sit down?” Dana asked.

“Take the sofa,” Starr said. A recliner faced the TV. Starr sat on it and looked expectantly at Dana, who sighed and suddenly looked very serious.

“I don’t want to alarm you, Tiffany, but you could be in trouble.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Barry told the police that Horace Blair confessed to him that he killed his wife, then told him where Carrie Blair was buried.”

“So?”

“We find it hard to believe.”

“That’s Barry’s business.”

“That may be true, but you can see that it’s important that we get your side of the story to set the record straight.”

“There is no ‘side.’ Barry got himself in this mess. I don’t know anything about it.”

“Don’t you?” Dana asked.

“What would I know?”

“There are two possibilities here, Tiffany. One is that a prominent and powerful businessman with degrees from Harvard and Princeton confessed to a man he barely knew that he murdered his wife. That, to put it mildly, is highly unlikely.”

“Barry’s very persuasive. You can’t believe how good he is at conning people.”

“Horace Blair deals with the top executives in corporations and heads of state. I find it hard to believe Barry could convince Blair to spill his guts in the space of a few hours. But Barry would know where Carrie’s grave was hidden if someone told him where she was buried. You and his attorney are the only people who visited him at the jail.”

Starr took a drag on her cigarette. Dana could almost see the wheels turning.

“Horace Blair has powerful connections, Tiffany. If the authorities find out that Barry set him up, it will go hard on Barry, and anyone who helped him. If that someone is you, you can save yourself by coming clean.”

“I have nothing to say because I didn’t do anything,” the woman insisted, but Dana didn’t believe her.

“Did Charles Benedict ask you to talk to Barry?”

As soon as Dana asked the question she knew she’d made a mistake. Starr’s already pale complexion lost any color it had and she jumped to her feet.

“I want you to go. Now.”

Dana rose, too, and looked Starr in the eye. “My number is on my card. Think about your situation and call me if you want to talk. It will be easier talking to me than the FBI.”

Dana was halfway out the door when Starr asked, “Is that photographer still coming?”

“From what you’ve told me, there’s no story. If you change your mind, you know where to reach me.”



The door closed behind Dana, and Starr put her eye to the peephole. When Cutler started down the stairs, Tiffany started pacing. She hadn’t signed on for this, she told herself. All she was supposed to do was tell some stuff to Barry that was going to help him get out of jail. Nothing was supposed to happen to her. Reporters weren’t supposed to be coming around. Parkhurst had mentioned the FBI, for Christ’s sake. No one had said the FBI was going to be involved.

Starr lit up a cigarette and wished she had some blow in the apartment. F*cking rehab! She really wanted to get away from that shit, but a little powder would calm her down, and she needed to be calm to think this through.

Starr flopped onto the recliner. She stared at the ceiling as if she believed an answer might appear there. She took a deep drag on her smoke and thought about the FBI. She definitely did not want anything to do with the FBI. Someone was going to have to fix this because she was definitely going to look out for number one if the F-f*cking-B-f*cking-I came to call. And there was only one person who could fix this, the person who had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

Starr levered herself out of her chair and grabbed her phone.

“We have a problem,” she said as soon as Charles Benedict answered. “I just got a visit from a reporter for Exposed. She knows I talked to Barry at the jail.”

“I don’t think it’s wise to discuss this matter over the phone, do you?”

“What I don’t think is wise is for me to go down for Barry’s shit.”

“Let’s meet someplace and talk about this calmly.”

“I’ll meet, but you better be prepared to sweeten the pot, because the reporter was talking about the FBI, and she mentioned your name.”

“She mentioned me?”

“Yeah, Charlie. She wanted to know if you told me to talk to Barry.”

“I’m sorry if the reporter bothered you, but you have nothing to worry about. I’ll take care of you. I have meetings all afternoon, but we can meet tonight. That will give me time to go to the bank.”

Starr hung up. The possibility of getting some cash got her worked up. She was almost sorry Barry would be getting out, too. All Barry had brought her was trouble. She danced her ass off at the club and brought home peanuts, which that son of a bitch always managed to sweet-talk her into giving him. And there were his big schemes, the sure things, get-rich-quick plans that never panned out.

Tiffany was sick of being broke, and she knew Barry screwed anyone who’d let him. F*cking Barry. He was the root of all of her problems. Maybe she should rat him out. If she made a deal with the feds they could put her in witness protection. She’d be able to get out of this shithole. Maybe they’d send her someplace nice, like Hawaii or Las Vegas. She really liked Las Vegas.

Tiffany made a decision. She’d meet with Benedict and see what he had to offer. If it wasn’t enough, she’d call the reporter, rat out Barry, and get the f*ck out of Dodge.