“Well, all I know is she hasn’t given me a hell of a lot of encouragement.”
I stood up. My guts were starting to tell me that I was wasting my time with him. “Don’t give up, fella. People sometimes wait a long time to get what they want. Only makes it better when they do get it.”
“That’s what they told us in pre-med,” he said. “Yeah, I’ll wait for Jane. But I won’t kill for her. And I didn’t.”
I started toward the front door. “Yeah, Albert, I know you didn’t.”
Damn.
25
I’d be less than honest if I didn’t say that I truly wanted Albert to be the murderer. That would have made matters so much easier. I just couldn’t accept that Jane Collingswood was a killer; pretty girls don’t go around committing such nasty acts.
Right, and Tricky Dick was basically a good guy who got some bad advice.
I didn’t want to think LeAnn Gwynn had done it; I was too sorry for her. James Hughes couldn’t have done it, either; his father and my father were best friends.
As if that meant anything.
And Bubba Hayes was out, unless he killed Mr. Kennedy to throw me and everybody else off the track. Hey, now there’s a novel theory. Come to think of it, Bubba struck me as a guy who could do something sleazy like that.
Only he hadn’t, and I knew it. Five suspects: five people who couldn’t possibly have killed Conrad Fletcher. Only thing was, he was still dead. If everybody was innocent, then how’d he get dead? Maybe I did it in my sleep. Yeah, that’s it. They sneaked some drug into me in the emergency room that made me go flappers, drove me to kill on sight anyone who’d just had sex with a nurse.
Talk about desperate. I was so deep in reverie that I didn’t even swear or lay on my horn when the snooty blue-haired Belle Meade society matron in a maroon Cadillac Fleetwood pulled out in front of me onto West End and nearly drove me up on the sidewalk. I slammed on the brakes, scraped my tires against the curb for half a block, then went on without even giving the old bitch the Universal Sign Language Gesture of Disdain.
Maybe there was somebody I hadn’t found yet-some person in the hospital who had some yet undiscovered grudge, some private hatred, some unknown motivation for icing Conrad. Or maybe I was letting my instincts cloud my judgment. Most of what I was relying on was feeling, but feeling that in each case was backed up by just enough hard fact to be solid.
Back at the office, the answering machine was as empty of messages as I was of answers. I was certainly going to rejoice when the new Yellow Pages appeared; at least my small display ad might result in an occasional call. I wasn’t sure which would ruin me first, the poverty or die loneliness.
I leaned back in the chair, loosened my tie, and kicked my feet up on the desk. There wasn’t much to do besides think. Down the hall, Ray, Slim, and company were already tuning up guitars for the Friday afternoon songfest. I could hear the metallic spewing of beer can pop tops as they were pulled. Outside, rush hour had already begun. Office workers were bailing out everywhere possible to start the weekend early.
Everybody, it seemed, was either having a good time or looking forward to one. Everybody except me. I wasn’t even going to see Rachel until Sunday night. The weekend stretched out before me like fourth down and hopeless. I felt like breaking into a chorus of “Oh, Lonesome Me.”
I left the office quietly, not wanting to be noticed by the developing party down the hall. It was hot as blazes outside, but I decided to walk to the bank anyway. Too much trouble to get the car out of the lot. I cashed a check for fifty dollars, which left me with less than five hundred in my account and no prospects. Rachel was going to get her way after all. You can’t play detective when you’re standing behind a stainless steel counter wearing a paper hat and going: “Hey, was that eat-in or take-out?”
I spent the rest of the afternoon back in the office waiting for the traffic to thin out. I drew diagrams on paper, outlining everybody I thought could be involved in the murder. There had to be something I wasn’t seeing, some other pattern, some other possibility. I hadn’t gone to detective school, but I’d read my share of crime novels. That had to be worth something.
Okay, what was it Sherlock Holmes said? “Eliminate the impossible, and whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.” Or something like that. Maybe it was Miss Marple. Hell, I don’t know. I sat there, staring at the wall, going over every possibility. He owed Bubba money, and a lot of it. But if he killed Conrad, that money was gone forever. Like it is now. No, it made more sense to squeeze him, not kill him. Maybe there was some other person at the hospital who hated him for some other reason, but with five thousand people wandering that hospital in any given twenty-four-hour period, how was I going to find the one who hated Conrad Fletcher enough to do him in?
Damn it, I thought, I’m going around in circles. It was time to clear the brain. I needed something to take my mind off. What I wanted to do was call Rachel. But being pushy wasn’t going to get me anywhere with her. Besides, dating the murdered victim’s widow is no way to forget the murder.
Marsha Helms-that’s it. She wanted to see me again. I wanted to see her, but given how things stood with Rachel, that almost felt like cheating. Besides, truth be told, I really wasn’t in the mood to see anyone. At least not anyone I had to share any involvement with. What I needed was an old-fashioned dose of emotionally detached male bonding.
Walter-yeah. Split a pizza, coupla beers, maybe take in a movie. My leg was still too bunged up to play racquetball, but I wouldn’t mind shooting some stick if we could find a pool hall that didn’t have a bunch of bikers hanging around looking to crush some skulls.
I thumbed through the Rolodex and stopped at Walter Quintan’s card. I punched the number up and listened through five rings before the secretary answered.
“Potter and Bell. May I help you?”
“Walter Quinlan, please. Harry James Denton calling.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Quintan’s in a meeting. I expect him out within the hour. Can he call you?”
I gave her my number.
“May I say what this is in reference to?”
“I’m his racquetball partner.”
“Oh,” she said, pausing for a second. “Sorry to hear about your leg.”
I winced. “He told you, huh?”
“Yeah, from what I hear, Walt’s a real killer on the racquetball court.”
Great, I thought, now even women I’ve never met think I’m a wimp. “He’s not so tough,” I said. “I’ve taken him once or twice.”
Another hour passed before he called. By then I’d forgotten I’d left him a message. I was so surprised to hear the phone ring, in fact, I nearly fell out of my chair going for it.
“Denton Agency,” I said, “Private Investigations.”
“Hey, dude. What’s happening?”
“Nothing much, man. Just waiting for you to call so I can close down the office.”
“Rough week, huh?”
“I’ve had better. Listen, I thought we’d go split a pitcher, get a pizza, maybe catch a movie or shoot some pool. What do you say?”
There was this protracted silence, as if he didn’t want to accept my invitation, but didn’t want to come out and say he didn’t want to spend Friday night hanging around with another bachelor. I knew it was a lost cause by the third second. “Hey, man,” I said, “you got plans, it’s okay.”
“In fact, I’m going to be tied up most of the weekend.”
“Hey, great, who is she? Anybody I know?”
“Just somebody I’ve been seeing.”
“Anything serious? She the one you were talking about before?”
“Yeah on both counts. I think it’s serious. I don’t know. Maybe.”
“For a guy who’s just found true love, you don’t sound too happy.”
“Oh, no, man, I don’t mean to sound that way. It’s just that, well … Damn, man, I don’t know. Life’s just complicated sometimes.”