Ringer by Brian M Wiprud Page A

Tyson Grant and Purity, so it had become a hobby to study them. I could hardly be expected to spend all day preparing for my date with Dixie, so why not?
    The paparazzi were in force in front of One Centre Street, so I climbed the stairs and went in. Police were inside checking bags, but I had none, so walked through the scanners and then up to a cop standing by the elevators.
    “Can you tell me where the Purity Grant hearing would be?”
    “You’ll never get in now,” he snorted. “Upstairs, third floor, look for the crowds.”
    I went upstairs anyway and found a crowd that contained a very mixed bag of people. Of course, there were reporters and court artists, who were easily identified among the rest because of their sketch pads. They all spoke to each other in low tones and checked their watches.
    Then there were people who looked like a collection of people you’d find in a bus station, not very well dressed ones, who didn’t look like they knew each other. Their eyes were turned expectantly in my direction and beyond, like they were expecting a Greyhound bus. I had not known this at the time, but there are crime gawkers who spend all their time haunting the courthouses. They entertain themselves at the expense of other people’s problems and feed off the fleeting fame of the infamous. Obviously, attending a court hearing featuring Purity Grant was not to be missed.
    I approached one of the gawkers, an older woman in a worn sweater whose only makeup was bright red lipstick.
    “Excuse me, miss, but could you tell me if this is the courtroom where the Purity Grant hearing is taking place?”
    “You shoulda got here earlier. All full up.”
    “Ah, so this is the right place, then?”
    “All full up.”
    One of the reporter types was at my elbow. He wore a suede jacket, cowboy boots, close-cropped ginger hair, and a smile on one side of his face. His eyes inspected my white suit carefully.
    “You don’t look like one of these scumtators .” He waved a hand at the woman, who snarled at him. “And you’re not press. Who are you?”
    I put out my hand. “Morty.”
    He clasped my hand. “Skip Baker. I’m with the Daily Post . Who are you with? Not just a spectator?”
    “I am an interested party.”
    Skip cocked a blond eyebrow at me. “Legal expert of some kind? No, you’d have been here earlier. You know Purity? Her father?”
    I grinned. “Who does not know the Grants?”
    He laughed softly. “Cagey, aren’t we? You want me to get you in?”
    “How much would I have to pay?”
    “You don’t pay, you get here early.”
    “Then how would you get me in?”
    “I have a press card. Only they know me, I don’t have to flash it. You take mine, stick close to me, flash it, and they won’t think anything about it. Done it before.”
    I folded my arms. I am from East Brooklyn and do not so easily trust helpful strangers. “Skip, why would you do this for me?”
    He chuckled, his eyes sweeping the other reporters. “Hey, I’m guessing you’re a friend of the family, connected somehow. I get you in, I’m a nice guy, maybe you do me a favor in return sometime, give me a little inside info. Anything you want to tell me. Or not. No skin off me. Doesn’t hurt to be a nice guy and not get anything in return.”
    Now it was my turn to laugh. “You are quite a character, Skip. I will accept your offer, and if I have any information that I feel would be useful, I will pass it along. I will tell you this much right now: I am sympathetic to the Grants, so have no wish to say anything that would do them harm.” Certainly nothing that would have interfered with obtaining the Caravaca ring. Besides, all I knew about Robert Tyson Grant, really, was what he ate for lunch.
    “Morty, if you want to go off record and tell me that Purity is secretly a nun, that’s OK with me. Every little bit helps.”
    The bus people all went to their tiptoes. There was some commotion by the elevators down the hall. A gang of men