“Say hello to Mike Harbin,” McWhitney said, so at least he got the answer to that question, and the bat was the fastest thing in the world.
6
I know, I know,” Wendy Beckham said into the phone, “I was supposed to be here yesterday. Things came up.”
“That’s okay,” her brother Jake said, from some hospital bed. “I ain’t going anywheres.”
Wendy pursued her own thought. A comfortably hefty woman in her mid-fifties, sensible from her neat gray hairdo to her flat shoes, Wendy Beckham Rodgers Beckham-again was used to pursuing her own thoughts, taking her own advice, making her own decisions, and helping out with the lives of those around her who needed help, whether they knew it or not. Like brother Jake, for instance.
“Family things,” she told him, “got in the way. Family things always come up, irritating but they’re your family, so you gotta do it. You wouldn’t know about things like that.”
“Come on, Wendy, not while I’m down.”
“You don’t sound down.”
“Then bring my tap shoes, we’ll go dancin.”
She took a deep breath. As usual, she had to fight aggravation just thinking about her baby brother, who would never stop being her brother, but would also never stop being a baby. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m busting your chops, and I shouldn’t do that.”
“Not till I’m on my feet.”
“I’ll just write everything down,” she said, “so I can wham you with it all at once, when you’re feeling better.”
“Then I’ll feel even better. When you coming over?”
“When are your visiting hours?”
“Eight a.m. to six p.m.”
“All day?”
“Well, I’m in a private room here. Wait’ll you see it. Better’n my house.”
“Jake, if you can afford that,” she said, judgmental and suspicious and not caring if she was, “I don’t wanna know how you can afford it.”
“Hey, listen, I got shot,” he told her. “I don’t pay for all this. I’m a crime victim over here.”
“There’s a new role to play. Listen, I gotta unpack, buy a couple groceries—you don’t stock up much around here—”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Okay, I’m not busting your chops. I’ll get there around two, okay?”
“Unless family things come up.”
“Now who’s busting whose chops?” she said, and hung up, and turned to the job of unpacking.
She’d never been in Jake’s mobile home before, but wasn’t surprised by what it looked like: a neat, compact, old-fashioned design with an overlay of Jake-the-slob. There were more dishes in the sink than on the shelf, and it had been a long time since anyone had cleaned the toilet or mopped the floor. Catch me being your housemaid, she silently announced, but she knew, before she got out of here, she would have done a lot of tidying up. And the worst of it was, Jake wouldn’t even notice.
Fortunately, he didn’t have that much clothing, so she could shove it all out of the way and put her own garments on hangers and shelves. His bathroom gear was at the hospital, leaving plenty of room—filthy sink—for hers.
She was just finishing up when a knock sounded, weirdly, on the metal door. Mistrustful, expecting no one, Wendy inched to the door, leaned against it, and called, “Who’s there?”
“Police.” But it was a woman’s voice.
Police? Something to do with the crime victim, no doubt. Wendy opened the door, and this didn’t look like any cop to her. A blonde stunner, tall and built, in a peach satin blouse under a brown leather car coat and black slacks. But she did hold up her shield for identification as she said, “Wendy Beckham?”
“That’s me.”
The cop smiled as though she knew a good joke about something, and said, “I’m Detective Second Grade Gwen Reversa, I’m assigned to your brother’s shooting. May I come in?”
“Sure. I just got here,” Wendy explained as the detective entered and Wendy shut the door. “Sit down anywhere. I’m still unpacking.”
“I asked the beat cop to keep an eye on the place,” Detective Reversa said, “let me know when you showed up.”
They both sat in Jake’s sloppy yet comfortable living room, and Wendy said, “I was supposed to get here yesterday, but there’s always last-minute fires to put out on the home front. I just called Jake at the hospital, he certainly sounds okay.”
“It’s not a bad wound,” the detective told her. “The bullet’s still in there, in the flesh, but it didn’t hurt anything serious. They’re supposed to take it out tomorrow. I’m looking forward to getting it to the lab.”
“I bet you are. You got any suspects?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, two of them,” the detective said, with another pleased smile. “But before I say anything about my idea, let me hear yours. Do you have any suspects?”
“Me, no.” Wendy hesitated, but the detective’s silence encouraged her to go on. “I don’t know how much you know about my brother.”
“Military police, bank security, stole from his employer, went to jail, got out, on parole, works for a motel not far from here. No more black marks on his record.”
Laughing, Wendy said, “I’d say, you know him about as well as I do. The thing is, since Jake and I both grew up, I’m talking about thirty years now, we haven’t exactly lived in each other’s pocket. Our parents are dead, neither of us lives in the old neighborhood. When I have family get-togethers these days, it’s my family, my kids and my in-laws. I got a divorce a while ago, but it was a strange kind of settlement. I got the kids, the house, the car, and his parents, who can’t stand him. He got the bank account, but that’s okay, I get it back in alimony and child support.”
“He’s good about that.”
“He’s one day late, his parents are all over him. He’s a lawyer, he makes good money, he doesn’t want that trouble, and also he can afford it. Can you imagine you’re talking with an important client, your secretary says your mother’s on the phone, you have to say ‘No! Tell her I’m out!’?”
The detective laughed, and then said, “The point is, Jake really isn’t very much in your life, or you in his.”
“Almost nothing, until this getting-shot business. It happened I had time on my hands. I was probably feeling a little guilty anyway, so I said I’d come here, help out while he was laid up. But who his friends are, who his enemies are, all of that, I haven’t known that kind of thing about him since we were both in high school. And he didn’t much want me knowing even then.”
“Sibling rivalry.”
Wendy shrugged. “He was a shortcutter, and I wasn’t. So who are your suspects?”
Again the detective laughed. “You know,” she said, “you just don’t seem too much like a Wendy to me.”
“I don’t?” Wendy didn’t get it. “Why? What’s a Wendy supposed to be like?”
“Not so forceful.” Smiling, the detective said, “You ought to become a Gwen, like me. They’re both from the same name, you know. Gwendolyn.”
“I didn’t know that,” Wendy said. “What is it, you don’t want to tell me about your suspects?”
Another laugh: “There, you see? Forceful. No, I’m happy to tell you, because so far, they’re only suspects. Before your brother went to jail, he was having an affair with the wife of the owner of the bank.”
Wendy said, “What? His employer? He’s dipping and he’s dipping?”
“It all came out when they caught his embezzlements,” the detective said. “Everybody insists it’s all over, and maybe it is, but when I went to see Mrs. Langen yesterday—”
“The wife.”
“The wife. She has a pistol permit, and is registered with a Colt Cobra thirty-eight-caliber revolver. It’s a very light, small defense gun, it weighs less than a pound, she probably carries it in her purse, when she carries it.”