All language subtitles for Homicide.Life.on.the.Street.S07E04.The.Twenty.Percent.Solution.1080p.PCOK.WEB-DL.AAC2.0.H.264-NTb_track3_[eng]

- The Marx brothers.
- They're hip.

Three points
for the brothers Marx,

including
Zeppo and Gummo, of course.

- Of course.
- Lenny Bruce.

Definitely hip, too hip
for his own good, in fact.

- Sigmund Freud!
- Used to be hip.

Not lately, though.

Penis envy, pay her no mind.

What the hell
are you talking about?

Jewish and hip, we're coming up
with the definitive list here.

- It's a short one.
- Not so short
as you think, Michael.

Thirty and counting, okay?

- Whoa.
- Right this way.

- Who's up?
- Ballard and Gharty.

In my office right now.

Oh, get your tongue
off the floor, Stu.

- Who the hell is she?
- Brigid O'Shaughnessy.

She shot Miles Archer
with the gun
she got from Thursby.

She shot Miles Archer,
so we're sending her over.

Miles Archer?
Whose case is that?

Surrounded by oxen.

Ballard, Gharty,
this is Darlene Everett
and her attorney.

- Wife of Mr. L. P. Everett.
- The writer.

The spy thriller guy.

Death in Kiev,
Mutiny on the Nimitz.

Oh, there's a movie, right?

There were four, actually.

Everything the guy writes
is a movie, he's a bestseller.

- Remember The Potemkin Factor?
- Not off hand.

Mr. Everett is missing.

Not missing, dead.

- Dead?
- He was murdered.

Okay, he's been murdered,
and the body is where, exactly?

Well, that's what
I need you for.

Homicide.

- Woody Allen.
- He's Jewish? Who knew?

You sleep with your mother,
it's a Greek tragedy,

you sleep with your girlfriend's
daughter, you're off my list.

Sammy Davis Jr.

- No way, that doesn't count.
- Why not?

Well, Sammy converted, so he's
an accessory after the fact.

That's right, he's Black,
so he's hip by definition.

So you're saying
all Black people are hip?

Name one who ain't.

George Washington Carver.

Please, how many things can
a white man do with a peanut?

Shelled or unshelled?

I got one.

Meldrick Lewis.

- He's Black.
- Yeah.

- But not particularly hip.
- Yep.

What you're talking about,
?

Point taken, I guess Sammy Davis
goes back on the list.

No, no, no, hold on, let's just
stop the game right here.

I could be accused
of a lot of things,

but falling off the cutting edge
is not one of them.

- Terri, am I down or am I down?
- What?

Am I hip? Tell these fools.

- Uh, you have your moments.
- Moments?

I don't know,
maybe you try too hard.

I'm not playing anymore.

L. P. Everett has been missing
for five days.

He was killed
by his literary agent,

Jake Benedek, by name.

Mrs. Everett,
as police officers,

we typically
find that foul play is

the least probable explanation
when adult males disappear.

Excuse me,
my husband did not run off,

if that's what
you're trying to suggest.

He was killed by his agent.

You sure of this?

The last time
I spoke with my husband,

he was at his office in Canton.

He was killed there.

You're saying

that you know that your
husband has been murdered,

where he was killed,
and who killed him.

That's right.

How can you possibly know that?

My husband told me.

- Hey, guys.
- Hey.

Ernestine Meade, 88 years,

no overt trauma,
found in the front room,
still in her nightgown.

- 88 years old?
- Right.

And no signs of trauma?

Why did you
even call us out here?

What you have here
is a natural death.

Definitely not, it's a burglary.

Given the nature
of this ongoing dispute

over literary rights
and representation,

it is now
my belief that my agent,

Jake Benedek,
plans to murder me.

In the event that I disappear,

I would suggest
that investigators

devote their attention
to Mr. Benedek.

This one should write itself.

Or call it

The 20% Solution.

You know,
this might be a publicity stunt.

Something to get headlines,
and sell more books.

We have real murders to work.

I think we should
dump this on Missing Persons.

No, it's
too high profile for that.

Once the press gets on it,
we're going to need to say
we did everything possible.

So, do everything possible.

Yep.

Ten to one, this hack
is at a Vegas craps table

with a bimbo on each arm.

One thing that definitely
does not make any sense here,

what in God's name is she doing
with the likes of Everett?

Well, a rumbled, middle-aged
white man with reading glasses

who spends his entire life
in front of a typewriter.

Gee, Stu, who can resist that?

Oh, "rumbled." "Rumbled," huh?

So now you're
talking trash on my dry cleaner.

So, who made the call?

Anonymous mail dialed 911.

Came over the radio
as a medic run,

so the paramedics
got here first.

- Who was here
when they pulled up?
- Just her.

And where
did the call come from?

Communication says
it came from the phone number
listed to this address.

Okay, well, I want
to get the phone receiver
dusted, please.

Well, it's a burglary.
I'll grant you that much.

An attempt at burglary, anyway.

If I'm half the constabulary
giant I pretend to be...

And you're always that.

...I can readily conclude
that our suspect entered

through
the first-floor window...

Carefully stacking
his booty by the front door.

...whereupon
the lady of the house awakens,

stumbles out of the bedroom,
and surprises Archer.

Maybe he hit her with this vase.

And our boy,
moral cripple that he is,

manages enough humanity
to dial the ambulance
before departing.

I think he must have panicked,
because he left everything
he came for right here.

Well, who can blame him?

He comes for a nice,
quiet house-breaking,

and he served a full plate
of chilled granny surprise.

Now I got ambos
and detectives
and the crime scene,

and everybody's
undies are in a bunch.

You should have
stayed in bed, Ernestine.

At 88 years old,
whatever goes bump in the night
is none of your business.

Wait, wait, wait,
wait, wait a minute,
you're blaming her?

Hey, she stays under the covers,

there's a couple
of burglary detectives here
with a ruined afternoon.

Am I right, or am I right?

You had a few days off
coming up, didn't you?

Three, had me a weekend rental

and our lovely
bartendress, Billie Lou.

One bedroom, beachfront condo.

Ernestine, sweetie,
how could you do this to me?

He said what?

Mr. Everett made
a taped declaration

suggesting
that if he ever disappeared
or was found murdered,

you would be
the person responsible.

He hasn't been seen
or heard from in five days.

- Did you check his office?
- Yes, no sign of foul play.

And his Jaguar
isn't parked in the garage.

Now, his wife tells us

that his
business relationship with you
had soured in recent months.

Three days in Mombasa.

He's in Mombasa?

I don't know
where the hell he is.

Although I could offer
some good guesses.

That there is the first
draft of his next novel

mailed to me a week ago

with a note
from your missing person.

A note?

Yep, he said he was exhausted,
but glad to have finished,

and that he was going to
get away for a while.

Do you have this note?

No, it was on one of those
little yellow Post-its.

I tossed it.

When a man
decides to go on vacation,
he usually takes his wife,

or if he doesn't,
he at least tells her
where he's headed.

Unless
he's going with a mistress.

Everett has a mistress?

Mm, a French one,

Claudette Pinchot.

He's had her in a suite
at the Colonnade for a year now.

You didn't hear that from me.

All right, all right,
but this videotape,

the one that gets
sent to Mrs. Everett

about the same time
you get this manuscript,

why all this talk
about you killing him?

Do you ever read
a book by L.P. Everett?

All of them.

All of them?
Geez. I'm his agent.

I've only flipped pages
in the first two.

Death in Kiev was brilliant.

Brilliant, huh?

This is a guy from Baltimore

who sells used appliances
for most of his adult life.

Then one day,
he writes a novel about spies

killing each other
on a nuclear aircraft carrier,

and "bada-boom,"

600,000 copies

fly off the shelves.

For ten years, this nebbish

from Patapsco Avenue
has been living

in his weird
little macho universe

where everyone
kills everyone else

in very clever ways
for very clever reasons.

He imagines this stuff.

Yet Mrs. Everett insists
that he was gonna fire you,

that he was talking
to other agents.

And he told me that he was
planning on leaving her,
all right?

Darlene is--
She's a lovely girl,

but she doesn't know money,
and she doesn't know publishing.

She's an actress,
that's what she knows.

Actress?

Yeah, you didn't recognize her?

He met her on the set of Kiev.
She played the Russian hooker.

The one that gets
decapitated in the missile silo?

Yeah, that's her.

Jeez, I didn't recognize her.

She looks different somehow.

Oh, the hair's the same.

Maybe it's the breast
reduction that threw you.

Reduction?

So do we or do we not have

a cause of death
on Ernestine Mead?

- Hard to say.
- What does that mean?

Well, what do you want it to be?

Do I have a choice?
Okay, I'll take a natural one.

- Slow down, Munch.
-"Slow down"?

What are you talking about?
Billie Lou, the condo?

Is there any indication
that Ernestine was murdered?

There's no
physical evidence of it,
no contusions, no abrasions.

She died of heart failure.

Straight-up angina
with an embolism chaser.

- So as far as that goes--
- Check, please, gentlemen.

- I'm out of here.
- Munch, stay.

So what's the twist?

It's a burglary, right?

She gets out of bed
in the early hours
of the morning,

she finds a burglar
ransacking the place.

If that's the theory,
I'd say he scared her to death.

He scared her to death?

She died as a result
of human intervention.

The fact
that a criminal terrified her.

Well, that
doesn't make it a murder.

Look, if you
strike someone with your fist,

and he falls down, and he dies
for whatever reason,

it's what, it's homicide,

it may be involuntary
manslaughter in court,

but manner of death is homicide.

Yeah, but you said
there's no indication
anybody hit the old lady.

True, but who knows
what the burglar did

when she confronted him?

I mean, he--
He might have screamed at her.

He might have threatened her.
These things are assaultive.

Do you know what I mean?

So you're saying that depending
on what happened in that room,

that this one,
it could go either way.

If you catch the burglar,

I would like
to ask him some questions.

And depending on his answers,
I'll give you a ruling,
until then I'm pending it.

You're standing
between me and true happiness.

I hope you know that.

What's that on your tie?
There's pesto sauce?

You wish.

If you see her, give a call.

According
to the garage attendant,

Claudette Pinchot's Mercedes
has been gone longer
than a week.

Hmm, and Omar here
hasn't seen her either.

The building manager
says that she has to
have her mail held.

I think we have our answer.

You know, that little
weasel and his spice
aren't off for a week,

and we are out here
spinning our wheels.

Well, let's get
back to the rotation,
catch a real murder.

Does the wife
know about the mistress?

No, not from us.

I think you should
give this to Missing Persons,

not that the guy
even wants to be found.

Well, she thinks
he's still dead,

she might go to the press
thinking we're doing nothing.

You saying we got to tell her?

It covers our ass, doesn't it?

Oh, boy.

What's the matter, Stu?

Oh, he's a guy, I'm a guy.

Speaking
from a male perspective,

it doesn't seem
like the right moment to me.

All right,
I'll give her the dish, then.

How are you gonna
break it to her?

I'm gonna ring the doorbell,
tell the silicone queen
I got good news and bad news.

- What's the good news?
- He ain't dead.

- Bad news?
- He ain't dead.

Once she hears the whole story,
there's no difference.

Ballard, Gharty.
You guys find a missing writer?

Not yet.

I guess he really knows
how to write mysteries, huh?

Oh, you're
a laugh riot, Falsone.

What'd I do?

I'm getting
the feeling that Ballard
doesn't like me very much.

You really don't get it, do you?

- What?
- She likes you.

Ballard likes you a lot.

- You think so?
- Yes.

Hey, what else
did she say about me?

You say you have an elderly
person who's lost consciousness?

An old lady, yeah, she fell,
and she's looking really pale.

Okay, do you know this lady?

Do you know
her medical situation?

No, we just met.

And who are you, sir?

It doesn't matter
who I am, just an ambulance,
as soon as you can.

Okay,
a medic unit is responding.

You'll be there to guide
the paramedics, correct?

- No, I gotta go.
- Sir? Sir?

Housebreaker
with a heart of gold.

Play it again,
I could use a good cry.

You don't seem surprised

that your husband
was having an affair.

It was an open marriage.

Open?

Yes, my husband
was a very sexual being.

I understood that.

So then, you also
were able to see other people.

Well, now,
why would I want to do that?

No, L. P.
was good enough for me.

Look, if my husband
wanted to leave town
with another woman,

he wouldn't
have to hide the fact.

I'm telling you
he's been murdered.

Excuse me, is there a phone?

It's right
through that door
in the library.

Mrs. Everett,
everything points to the fact

that your husband
and his, uh, friend

are out of town together.

Right.

Yet, he hasn't used
any of his credit cards,

cashed a check, or made
any airline reservations.

That's unusual. True.

Jake Benedek was taking

20% of everything
my husband made.

Now, do you know what
a literary agent usually takes?

10, maybe 15%.

I am telling you,
Jake knew that L. P. wanted out.

But, Mrs. Everett--

That was a state trooper at BWI.

Your husband's Jaguar has been
located in long-term parking.

He's dead. I know.

- We'll get back to you.
- Okay.

We'll see ourselves out.

By the way,

I thought you were
great in A Death in Kiev.

I mean,
until you had lost your head.

You think?
Gee, I don't know.

My character
wasn't very developed.

Oh, no,

I thought you were
very developed in that.

Thank you.

Found it locked.

Theft device activated.

No sign of any stripped ignition
or any other damage.

Let me guess, parked for a week.

Yep.

Want to tow it back
to headquarters to be
processed by the crime lab?

What for?
This ain't a crime.

Just leave it.

He and his French cutie
are gonna need it

when they fly back
from wherever.

Come on.

I don't know, Tim,

it doesn't sound
like there was any intent
to assault or scare Ernestine.

I mean, it sounds
like she just keeled over.

Look, John,
what about the vase, huh?
He might have tossed it at her.

He might have
threatened her with it.

It could have fallen
when she collapsed.

We're only gonna find that out
when we find the burglar,

and we get him in
for an interview.

More power to you,
you find him, you talk to him.

Are you bailing on me?

You know,
this isn't turning out
to be much of a murder,

and bucks and barmaids
have been an obsession of mine
since late adolescence.

You know, I guess,

I'm really not used
to having a partner

who's so quick to dump cases.

Oh, I know, I know.

You and Frank would investigate
all the existential implications

in your dogged
pursuit of justice.

Me, I'll be back Tuesday.

- Hey, big dog.
- Hey.

Munch.

Gee,
this is not a murder.

Our little scribe is on the wing
with his little girlfriend.

Come in my office.

Oh, lady, tell me you're
not who I think you are.

Uh-oh.

Everett's mistress
says that she's been
up at Deep Creek Lake

for the last eight days
waiting for Everett to arrive.

- He never does.
- Do you believe her?
- It's a credible story.

He tells her he's got
a couple more days of work,
she should go ahead without him.

She does, and he never shows,
she gets back to Baltimore,

finds out
that he's not to be found,

and, like
any responsible mistress,

reports him
disperu to the police.

All right,
correct me if I'm wrong,

we now have a famous writer
generally missing for nine days,

no crime scene,
no physical evidence,
no nothing.

You two don't exactly have
this case surrounded, do you?

Stivers, Falsone,
Sheppard, Giardello!

We just backed into a red ball.

Find me
a living writer or a dead one.

I don't care which.

All right,
potential suspects include

Everett's
literary agent, his wife,

maybe a mistress or two,
who knows.

Falsone, get a consent search
for both residences.

- Wife first, mistress second.
- Two searches coming up.

Recheck the airlines
for reservations,

and ring up
State Department of Customs.

You want to know
for sure our writer
hasn't used a passport

to leave the country, I got it.

Rene, get in touch
with the New York publisher.

Everett just finished
the manuscript,

I want to make sure
everything's in order.

And, Terri, you need to get
Everett's car to headquarters,

and have it
processed for evidence.

- And where's it at?
- BWI.

State police
found it in the long-term,
we screwed up by letting it sit.

Let's get over
to Everett's office.

It's the last place
he was known to be alive.

Well,
we checked it twice already.

Yeah, but now we have
a writer that's really missing.

So let's try it with fresh eyes.

Never mind a body,
we don't even have
a crime scene.

If I was writing
The 20% Solution,

what would I put in this room?

There is nothing
out of the ordinary
in this office.

There is no blood,
no bullet holes,
no sign of a struggle.

- No chair.
- What?

We're standing around
looking for stuff
that shouldn't be here.

We're not seeing
what should be here, and ain't.

Oh, be damned, there's no chair.

How's he gonna sit here,
and work if he doesn't
have a chair?

Ah!

Missing writer.
Missing writer's chair.

Now, why the hell would
a leather desk chair be missing?

There's blood on it,
you clean it.

Leather cleans up easy.

A bullet hole, a bullet hole.

If you put a couple of slugs

in that chair,

then there's no repairing it.

Bingo!

Semi-auto.

He stood right here,
and he walked the shots up.

"Boom, boom, boom, boom."

This is the scene,
they killed him
here at his own desk.

Yeah, but who's "they"?

Whoever shot Everett
went to a lot of trouble
to try and hide it.

Yeah, we found
a hole in the wall
where a bullet lodged.

Yeah, the shooter
dug out the slug,

then used the sword there
to cover the damage.

Two holes
in the desk were filled.

He couldn't fix a hole
on a leather chair,
so that's gone.

- Any, uh, trace of blood?
- No.

No, but we-- we checked
the cleaning closet on this one
and guess what?

Whoever killed him
mopped up the blood,

then took the tainted mop
and pail out with the body.

All right, check
with the building's management,

get a full background check
on all employees.

Also, find out if they hired
any new cleaning crews.

And you two pick up
Jake Benedek,

Everett's wife,
Everett's mistress,

anyone that you think
that might be a suspect.

Now?
It's 2:00 in the morning, Gee.

I don't give a damn
if it's 2:00 in the morning!

We've got a victim
that's been dead
more than a week

while some son of a bitch
plays us for a fool.

Now, I'm not a fool.
Are you a fool, Detective?

Can you say rhetorical?

Everett's editor in New York
says he received
a draft manuscript,

Baltimore postmark, a week ago.

That's consistent
with what Benedek says.

True, but the editor says

that Everett expressed
unhappiness with Benedek,

told the publishing house
not to deal with him
on the new book.

Well, that matches
the wife's story.

Also, the editor mentions
some ex-CIA mercenary type,
named Grenville Rawlins,

- used to be friends
with Everett.
- Ex-CIA?

Supposedly the real deal.
El Salvador, Beirut, Angola.

Rawlins complained to the editor

that he gave Everett
an unpublished manuscript,

only to have a lot of it show up
in Everett's books.

- So did he threaten to sue?
- More than that.

Says he used phrases
like "terminate"
and "extreme prejudice."

- Where does this Everett live?
- Essex.

I'll take the ride.
You got an address?

She was a little upset
about being bothered so late,

but now we're getting along
just great, ain't we?

You're very short, no?

Uh, après vous, mademoiselle.

Uh, Mrs. Everett?

Meet Ms. Pinchot.

Ms. Pinchot, Mrs. Everett.

Oh, there's the little tramp.

- Tu es cochonne.
- Yeah?

You're a flat-chested
little trollop.

- Salope!
- Tu parles, saloperie!

Ladies, ladies, ladies.

- Connard!
- Lighten up, will ya?
Okay?

- Whoa,
whoa, whoa, whoa!
- Ow!

So much for the open marriage.

My God.

Is there anyone on this case
who doesn't have a motive?

Mr. Benedek?

You ever hear
of an ex-CIA operative
named Grenville Rawlins?

Yeah, yeah, he, uh,
used to pal around with L. P.

They had a falling out.

He claims
that his own experiences

were used by Everett
in his books.

I said they had a falling out.

Have you had any contact
with Rawlins?

Oh, I, uh, I haven't seen him
in a couple of years.

Once he started talking
about suing my client,

I didn't want
anything to do with him.

Was Rawlins violent?

Why don't you just ask me

if I think
he would kill Everett?

Would he?

With real spies,
I figure they kill you

and they never talk about it.

But after listening
to Rawlins tell his bar stories,

I would have to say
he spent 20 years at Langley

stapling office reports.

He didn't scare anyone.

You move, you die.

You want to have a seat
for me right here, sir?

Hey, kids.
That there's Mr. Johnson.

He's the maintenance supervisor
of the office building
where Everett's office was.

And he tells me
the maintenance man

assigned to the floor
where Everett
was presumably killed,

he quit four days ago.

Can we ID this cleaning man?

He's the name of Norman Stokes
on his employment forms,

but I already ran that
through the computer.

There's nothing on that DOB,
nothing, not even the driver ID.

Fake name.
Sounds like our shooter.

The description is white male,
shock of snow-white hair,

medium build,
45, 50 years of age.

Why don't you call in
a sketch artist,
see how good his memory is?

I'm going to call in
a sketch artist
and see how good his memory is.

Yeah. Good idea.

My knees are killing me.

Try doing six weeks

in a North Vietnamese
tiger cage.

It'll redefine
your entire concept of pain.

Look, I'm with the Baltimore
field office.

Call there,
speak to the agent in charge.

I remember
there used to be
a special agent, Giardello.

Worked counterintelligence
out of Washington.

Did some of the undercover
for the Ames case.

- You got me.
- That was you?

That was a hell of a case.

I got to, uh,
I got to stretch
my legs out here.

Why didn't you say
you were counter-spy?

You here on company business?

I'm now the office's liaison

to the Baltimore City
Police Department.

I'm working
on a murder investigation.

- Who got killed?
- Maybe no one.

Maybe L. P. Everett.

Let's hope that it's not no one.

You don't seem
real broken up about it.

I gave Everett a manuscript

that would have made
John le Carré stand up
and salute.

Everett steals it,
turns it into literary tripe.

He's worse than a thief.
He's a hack.

Would you mind, uh,
taking a ride in the city
with me?

- It'd help us
clear some things up.
- No problem.

I'm always at the service
of this government.

Something
we don't quite understand,
Mr. Benedek.

And what would that be?

The manuscript
of Three Days in Mombasa

you showed me in your office
was marked first draft.

So?

So this is a copy
of the same work

sent to us
by Everett's New York
publishing house.

Yeah.
And this one is marked
final draft.

If you're still so buddy-buddy
with your client,

why don't you have
an up-to-date copy
of his latest work?

Maybe he made a mistake.

So, what you're saying
is that you didn't kill him,

but if you had killed, uh,

excuse me, terminated him,
you're such a professional--

If it was my work,

you wouldn't find enough
of the body
to fill a table spoon.

Mr. Rawlins, I'd like you
to meet Lieutenant Al Giardello.
Mr. Rawlins.

Pleasure.

Excuse me.

So, how's he feeling today?

Has pre-trial detention
made him any more talkative?

He claims to have been tortured
by the best of sadists

and dragged
through the worst of jails.

He says we don't even make
the top 100.

Mr. Rawlins,

my office has every intent
of prosecuting you
for the murder of L. P. Everett,

and I have to tell you

the disappearance
of a best-selling author

attracts publicity.

I'm gonna be
extremely aggressive
on this case.

Good for you.

You had an established motive
for killing Everett,

that of revenge
for an act of plagiarism.

You created an opportunity
by gaining employment
under a false name

with the cleaning crew
in Everett's office.

And in a manner
that would do
your former colleagues

in the intelligence
community proud,

you managed to dispose
of the victim completely.

This is a copy of an invoice

for the building maintenance
company for which you worked.

It shows the delivery
of eight 55-gallon barrels
of used chemical solvents

to Atco Recovery,

a hazardous waste disposal firm
in Curtis Bay.

Now, according to Atco,

seven of those barrels weighed
between 80 and 120 pounds.

The eighth, strangely enough,
weighed nearly 220.

Figure 150 for Everett himself?

Another 70 or 80
for some assorted items,

like, say,
pieces of a leather chair.

Mop, pail,

maybe even a murder weapon.

So we're right up there
at 220, aren't we?

For the sake
of my own curiosity,

what happened to the barrels
you're telling me about?

You know what happened.

They were neutralized
in an acid tank.

They don't exist anymore.

Well, no body, no murder,
that's what I figured.

I'll be home
after a preliminary appearance.

Listen, you son of a bitch,
with or without a body,

I will find a way to prove
and prosecute this murder.

So your only chance
to limit your exposure
is to give up Jake Benedek.

Benedek, you say?
Now, that's a familiar name,
but I'm not sure.

We subpoenaed bank statements
for Benedek's accounts.

They show cash withdrawals
totaling $80,000

in the two months prior
to Everett's disappearance.

Your statements show
cash deposits

in $9,000 increments
in order to avoid
IRS reporting guidelines

of about the same amount.

However did you get
so much cash, Mr. Rawlins?

Generous relatives,
bingo winnings.

I remember I sold
a pretty good-sized
stamp collection.

We know
Benedek's behind this,
all right?

We know he was gonna
lose Everett's new book
to another literary agent.

We know he knew enough
about the plagiarism
to get you to do his dirty work.

You give us Benedek,
and I can offer a second degree.

- And 30 in.
- And you know what?

In a high-profile killing
like this,
you can't expect any better.

I used to be
in a very competitive business.
Did I mention that?

Sometimes your friends
turned out to be your enemies.

Sometimes they stayed
your friends.

But the worst thing,
the most contemptible thing

was when an enemy
pretended to be a friend.

You know what I'm saying?

Try to turn you,
try to get you to betray
your own people,

get you to betray
your own country.

And they would try.
Yes, they would.

If a man can't stand
by the people he sides with,

where the hell
can he expect to stand?

L. P. Everett never understood
that part of it.

Now, you say he's dead.
Maybe so.

I don't know anything about it.

Oh! How was your weekend?

Homeric, how was yours?

Mine? I don't know.
Conscientious?

Morally and ethically
responsible?

You caught the burglar?

After much hard effort?

No.
Why don't you admit it?

You've been sitting here
for two days
reading the sports section.

Well, that is a damnable lie.

Which brings up another point.

Before you got shot,
you never read
the sports section.

You mostly read
the news columns.

It's true, very true.

- So out with it.
- Out with what?

Whatever half-baked,
on-the-mountaintop aphorism

now leads you to contemplate
the fine print
of an NFL line score.

You see, the Buddha
taught impermanence.

All that exists
is the present moment.

And what is athletic endeavor,

save for a series
of perfectly timed moments

executed for their own behalf?

Huh?

It's there...

and it's gone.

Timmy, do you even believe
half of what comes out
of your mouth?

Look, the line gives the Ravens
next week and seven points.

That's easy money in my book.

Well, keep
the moment pure, weedhopper.

Even Buddha
wouldn't take the points
on Jacksonville.

You're Bayliss, right?

You ask questions like that,
you're going to get into

like a half-hour
metaphysical discussion.

Hey, I'm Bayliss.

Baumgold, I'm working
felony follow-up

- at Northeastern.
- All right, yeah.

- I got something
for you.
- What's that?

You handled
an attempted burglary
up in Lauraville on Friday?

- One where
an old lady got killed.
- What about it?

We had a print hit
on an apartment burglary
last night.

Once we jacked the mope up,
he goes for 32 house break-ins,

including that one
with the old lady.

And he put himself in for that?

Well, he tells us about it
and asked if the woman's okay.

- Did you tell him
that it was a murder?
- I didn't tell him nothing.

He's still hoping
grandma's alive and kicking.

Well, let's call it a homicide.
I could use the clearance.

Oh, I see.
So now you want it
to be a murder.

He's in our lockup.
You want to talk to him or what?

- So you're copping
the 32 break-ins.
- Why the hell not?

Man, they offered me seven years
no matter how many cases
I copped to.

I look at it like this.

You get to clear
as many cases as you can,

and it don't cost me
a thing, right?

Right. That's how it works.

You burglary detectives,
too, right?

- You work with that gentleman
I talked to.
- Yeah, we do.

I was asking him
about a job I did

up off
of Harford Road somewhere.

Hamilton Avenue, I think.

This lady up there,
she passed out, man.

It scared me to death.
I just want to know she okay.

- She scared you to death, huh?
- Yeah.

I'm creeping around,
quiet as can be,

when all of a sudden
she's standing there
in a nightgown

with her hair up in rollers
and everything,

and then she just
stroked out, man,
right then and there.

- Yeah, what'd you do then?
- I dialed 911.

Couldn't wait around,
though, huh?

Hell no, man.
What was I gonna tell 'em
when it got there?

I spent what time I could
trying to make her comfortable.

Took the vase off the table,
put some cool wool on her face.

Besides that,
she seemed to be breathing
and all when I left.

It's a terrible thing
when you're all alone
and old like that.

If something happens to you,
huh, who you gonna rely on?

- Something like a burglary?
- Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know.

I'm a wrongdoing guy
with this type of stuff,

but even I draw the line
for myself, man.

For instance, I'll make
a silverware set disappear
in a heartbeat,

but people is people, right?

You know what I'm saying?

People is all that matter
in this world.

That old lady, is she okay?
Is she gonna be all right?

She's fine.

Man, I'm glad to hear that.

Not a murder.

Well, it's real natural.

What the hell?
Let's pick a jury
and see what happens.

It doesn't sound like you, Ed.

You're usually
the voice of caution.

Yeah, well, what can I tell you?
That nut Rawlins pisses me off.

Without a body, we are
at a real disadvantage here.

We can't even say
with absolute certainty
that a crime occurred.

Maybe we should wait.
See what evidence comes in.

You always say that
you only can try a case once.

They're not gonna find
a body, Al.
That body's gone.

But you think we could win?

We got a circumstantial web
connecting Benedek to Rawlins

and Rawlins to the disappearance
of L. P. Everett.

A very thin circumstantial web.

Yeah, but we can win?

Hell no, we can't win.

But you all did your job.

I'll do mine.

You don't have to
be best friends,

but we cannot go
into the courtroom

with the two of you
at each other's throats, either.

It would be too easy
for the defense

to put either of you
on the stand and suggest,

for example,
that maybe Claudette here
killed Mr. Everett

because he wouldn't leave
his wife.

Or that maybe you, Darlene,
killed your husband

because he was sleeping around.

If you both loved him,

then you both will do
what's necessary

to make sure
that his killers are punished.

- So we need to know.
- Did you love him?

- Okay.
- Uh, whoa, whoa, whoa.

One last thing I need to know.

Forgive me, ladies,
but you're both
very, very attractive.

I-- I mean,
you're both knockouts.

Until he got killed,
anyway, L. P. Everett,

he was a--
he was odds-on favorite

for luckiest man in Baltimore,
if you catch my drift.

For God's sakes.

What I'm trying to say is,
uh, you're--

I-- I've been a cop
for some time

and a man for longer,
and, um, I-- I--

To me, the way the world
usually works

is twos end up with twos

and fours with fours
and tens with tens.

I'm sorry.
Am I missing something here?

What is he babbling about?

Well, see, you're-- you're tens.

And Everett, I mean,

you know, I mean,
he was probably a great guy
and all, but, um--

You see my point, right?

- No?
- No.

Excuse me, please.

- Thank you.
- Yeah.

Well, never mind.

That's my last witness.

The State rests, Your Honor.

- Very well. Mr. Russom?
- Oh, Your Honor.

The defense chooses
to present no evidence

and asks to proceed
with closing arguments.

- Very well.
- Thank you, sir.

Ladies and gentlemen...

there has been no murder.

There has been no crime at all.

And, in precisely ten seconds,

the noted Baltimore writer
L. P. Everett

will walk through
those courtroom doors

and wave to us.

Well, I guess I'm wrong.

But the point,
ladies and gentlemen,

the point is
that we all turned to look,

to see if Everett would show up.

And that, you see,
is reasonable doubt.

Which is why you have
absolutely no choice...

but to acquit.

- I didn't know you smoked.
- It's my first.

It's a good dog, huh?

Yeah, as dogs go. Thanks.

Yeah, don't mention it.

People like to say I'm cheap,
but, you know,

I pick up a check
every now and again.

What are you doing Saturday?

Why are you asking?

I thought we might go out.

- Go out?
- Yeah. Still my treat.

Like dinner and dancing?

How about bowling?

- Bowling.
- Duckpin.

- Duckpin bowling.
- It's big in Baltimore,
very big.

- Eh.
- Oh, Eddie.

Jury's back.

12 minutes?

That took longer
than I thought it would.

Will the defendants
please rise?

Madam Forelady,
how say you to the charge
of first-degree murder?

We find the defendants guilty.

Hey, how-- Why,
after my brilliant summation?

How could you possibly convict?

Well, actually, 11 of us
were all set to acquit,

but then juror six spoke up.

What did juror six say?

Tell these guys what you told
the rest of us, honey.

I just told them
when everyone else was looking
at the door,

I looked over at Mr. Benedek
and Mr. Rawlins.

- So?
- I'm afraid they weren't looking
at the door.

They were looking
straight ahead.

They knew he wasn't coming.

Hey!

Don't look at me.

Yeah. Hey, who's rumpled now?