“The wine baron,” I interjected.
“The wine baron indeed. Another one of those men and women for whom the President of this country actually works. As I was saying, all the profit from my trades, after an appropriate set-aside for my VC friends up in Palo Alto, goes directly to their foundation, from whence it is put to use here in SLO.”
“Doing what?”
“Doing good, of course.” Packer smiled. “For instance, no child living in this county will ever go without medical care because of an inability to pay. No child living here will ever pay a penny in tuition at an institute of higher education, whether the local community college or Stanford. The local schools have fully funded music and arts programs, and free after-school tutoring in math and the sciences for all who need it.”
“You have made a lot of money,” I said, impressed.
“More than you can imagine. Enough to fund all that I just described plus a one hundred percent return for the VCs from whom the money was borrowed.”
“Stolen,” I said, shaking my head, “not borrowed. And Robin Hood notwithstanding, doing good with ill-got gains in no way alters the underlying crime.” Packer looked at me with obvious irritation for several seconds before responding. “As a convicted felon I should think you’re hardly—”
“You’re right,” I said, holding up a hand as I interrupted him. “My own appallingly long list of shortcomings, both moral and neurochemical, has been well documented by the California judicial system, and in any event I came down here only to find you, not to pass judgment. And having done so, as I said a minute ago, I was just curious as to why you stole the money. All that’s left now is a quick phone call to Roscoe Jackson and Joey and I are out of here.”
“I’m afraid you’re too late by about,” he looked at his watch and then back at me, a broad smile on his face, “eight hours or so.”
I nodded my head, knowing right away what he meant. “So a deal was done before you came in here tonight?”
“Pretty much. Judge Jackson drove up to San Francisco this morning and has spent most of today meeting first with the VCs and then with the U.S. Attorney.”
“Fast work.”
“Not really. We’ve been laying the groundwork for the past couple of months, lining up the support of both of California’s senators as well as a handful of House members.”
“Still,” I paused a second, running the numbers around in my head, “on the face of it you took a chance, and something about that worries me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You knew who I was at least two days ago, right? I mean, three days ago you first came in for pizza with your buds, and the next day you supposedly made your call to San Francisco. But then, even when you knew who I was you waited a couple of days before sending the judge up to make the deal, all of which time you couldn’t have known whether I was telling Roscoe Jackson or not.”
“Maybe I like to gamble.”
“Not about this,” I disagreed, shaking my head. “You’ve planned everything too well right from the beginning to risk a wild-card like me dropping a dime before you had a chance to make your deal.” Suddenly it hit me and I felt a major-league stomach ache coming on. “Oh, man,” I said with a genuine groan of pain, “Joey.” I shook my head again and looked at Packer. “You didn’t call anyone in San Francisco, did you?”
“Didn’t have to,” Packer confirmed. “That first time we came in, three days ago? The next morning, while you were still asleep, Joey called the judge and set up a meeting with me. He told me all about the deal you had with Roscoe Jack-son and that you weren’t going to call him until you knew more. That’s what gave us time to set things up in San Francisco without worrying about what you were up to. Joey knew you wouldn’t call Jackson without telling him first.”
“What was the deal? I mean, how much did he settle for?”
Packer looked around the pizzeria. “This place.” He smiled. “Joey didn’t want any money, just the freedom to keep this place going as his own. So part of my deal with the VCs was that they agreed to forgive the startup money they gave you to get the pizzeria going.”
“Meanwhile, assuming the VCs elect not to pay my fee for finding you, I take it in the shorts.”
“Consider it tuition,” Packer said as he stood to leave. “When push comes to shove I don’t trust anybody, and neither should you.”
As I had assumed they would, the VCs refused to pay me, taking the position that the instant Packer turned himself in our deal was rendered null and void. Roscoe tried to push them on it but could gain no traction, so I returned to San Francisco with my curiosity satisfied and my billfold empty. I probably could have sued, but they were too a big a client of Roscoe’s firm for me to want to rock that boat. Well before I left SLO I had gotten over my annoyance at Joey selling me out. He felt real bad about it but, as he pointed out with an eloquent shrug, in the final analysis a fellow’s got to look out for number one. You should have learned that at Folsom, he rather needlessly added. To show him there were no hard feelings I tried to warn him about what a treacherous snake Packer was, but he just laughed.
“I been gettin’ into bed wit’ crooks all my life,” Joey assured me as I was boarding the Greyhound for the ride north, the irony of his own statement apparently lost on him. “And this one’s easy money ’cause he don’t even know he’s a crook. He ain’t careful,” he rolled a toothpick around his mouth and smiled, “I’ll have him waitin’ tables for me before it’s all over.”
Your lips to God’s ear, Joey, I thought as the bus pulled away from the station. Your lips to God’s ear.
Does Thee Murder?
by Robin Hathaway
Robin Hathaway’s first novel, The Doctor Digs a Grave, which featured Dr. Fenimore, the protagonist of this story, won the St. Martins Malice Domestic prize, and later an Agatha Award. The author now has two series featuring doctor sleuths. In 2003’s Scarecrow she introduced a young woman doctor who provides healthcare to motel residents and makes her motel calls on a motorcycle Sleight of Hand, the most recent hook in that series, won the 2009 David Award.
“How terrible!” Mrs. Doyle frowned into the phone.
Horatio, the teenaged office clerk, looked up from his filing. Maybe the day wouldn’t be such a drag after all.
“Where did it happen?” Mrs. Doyle’s forehead wrinkled. “Oh, my — she was warned not to walk there alone.”
Horatio grimaced. “Blame the neighborhood,” he muttered.
“Of course, I’ll tell the doctor. He’ll be very upset.” As she replaced the receiver, her gaze met Horatio’s. “Miss Jennings — murdered by a mugger,” she said. There was a catch in her voice.
Horatio grunted. He knew Miss Jennings. She was one of the few patients who noticed him. Didn’t treat him like a piece of furniture. She once asked him about his career as if she were really interested.
The front door squeaked open. A patient or the doctor? Mrs. Doyle went to see.
“Inspector Rafferty called with some bad news,” Horatio heard the nurse say.
“Oh?”
“Miss Jennings was murdered.”
Horatio couldn’t hear the doctor’s reaction, but when he appeared in the doorway his face was gray and his mouth was set in a grim line. He nodded at Horatio and disappeared into his office, shutting the door behind him.
Martha Jennings was a Philadelphia institution. A wealthy Quaker, she was always involved in worthy causes. In the Quaker tradition, she believed in accumulating wealth, but not displaying it. If you met her on the street, you might mistake her for a homeless person. There was a story that she went into a bank one day wearing a coat held together with a large safety pin. A new young employee rose quickly with the intention of ushering her out. But he was intercepted by the bank manager, who hurried to greet the woman and escorted her into his office as if she were the Queen of England.