Mildred Pierced by Stuart M. Kaminsky

face forward with their backs against the dirty white wall.
    Shelly was facing us at the end of the line to our right. He was wearing a blue shirt and an expression of openmouthed blinking bewilderment. He took off his glasses and squinted into the darkness in front of him.
    “Number five,” said one of the detectives. “Put your glasses back on.”
    Shelly put the glasses back on.
    Next to him was Jerry Pants, a pickpocket I recognized, who was two inches shorter, thirty pounds lighter and about a decade younger than Shelly. Jerry Pants looked bored. He had played this game many times before. In the middle of the lineup was a cop whose name I didn’t remember. The cop was tall, in good shape, and blank of face. Next to him was someone about Shelly’s shape and age, who even had a bald head and wore glasses. The glasses weren’t as thick as Shelly’s and I’d give five-to-one they were plain glass. He was a dark-skinned Negro. The last man in line, at the far left, was lean with a wrinkled face, large eyes, and a grin that revealed a very small number of teeth. He bounced from one foot to another, either practicing a dance step or needing the bathroom.
    “Now take your time,” Sheridan said behind us. “Look at them carefully.”
    “Tony,” Marty said with a sigh. “This is supposed to be a lineup, not a sideshow.”
    “You wanted the lineup, Martin,” Sheridan said evenly.
    “Miss Cassin has already given a description of the man she saw in the park,” Marty said. “There should be five men up there who fit the description, not one.”
    “We get who we can get,” Sheridan said. “Well, miss?”
    “The one on the far right,” John Crawford said, her voice a little higher than normal and her accent that of a Southern belle, or at least one in a movie.
    “Number five, step forward,” the cop called out.
    No one moved. Pants put his hand on Shelly’s shoulder and Shelly said, “Who me?”
    “You,” said the cop.
    Shelly shuffled forward.
    “You sure?” Sheridan asked over her shoulder.
    “That’s the man,” she said. “I gather he hasn’t confessed to his crime.”
    “He hasn’t confessed,” said Marty slowly, “because he is innocent.”
    “You can go now, miss,” Sheridan said. “We’ll be in touch if we need you further.”
    Crawford rose, her face averted from cops and Sheridan, and followed me out of the room.
    “They recognized me, didn’t they?” she asked as soon as we were in the empty hallway.
    “Marty and Sheridan? Yes. Marty won’t want you to testify in a trial court. Who would doubt the word of Joan Crawford?”
    She laughed.
    “You might be surprised,” she said. “I’ve lied with great sincerity to a great many people, primarily men, and even on occasion to myself.”
    “You’d make a great prosecution witness,” I said, walking with her to the elevator. “My guess is Sheridan’ll figure he’s better off keeping this one as quiet as he can. He’s not ambitious. He doesn’t like reporters.”
    “But if Dr. Minck’s lawyer and Mr. Sheridan do not come to an agreement …”
    “You’re out of the bag, which is why we’re going to Lincoln Park now.”
    Marty Leib called out, “Wait,” before the elevator arrived. We turned to watch him move slowly toward us.
    “Nice suit,” I said.
    Marty nodded and looked at Joan Crawford.
    “Miss Cassin,” he said with a smile that said he clearly knew who she was. They shook hands. He didn’t let hers go. “I represent Dr. Minck, the man you just identified. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”
    “Well … I—”
    “Dr. Minck has asked to see Mr. Peters. While he’s doing that, you and I can spend a few minutes together, please.”
    He still held her hand tightly.
    “I don’t bite,” he said with a smile.
    “I do,” Crawford answered, pulling her hand from his angrily. “Do I have to talk to him?” she asked me.
    She was my client. Shelly was my friend. Marty was Shelly’s best chance