Rough Cut (5 page)

    I had a terrible, uncharitable thought as I stared at her. I did not think of her grief, or of her wan, anguished child- all I could think of, watching her wild eyes and hearing her curses, was to wonder if she could have killed Denny Harris.

    

    

    Clay Traynor appeared in my office door one hour after Julie Wickes had left, dressed in a red-and-black-checked hunting shirt, a wide, hand-tooled belt, designer jeans, and hunting boots. He was tall and angular and looked like a model for the L. L. Bean Company. In his hand he carried a white Stetson that he tossed dramatically across the room to my desk. It landed with a bounce across my coffee cup. Traynor studied me with his Nordic, good-looking face, testing me to see if I would show annoyance that he'd nearly spilled Brim across several final drafts of scripts. I didn't, of course. I'm a good adman and good admen know how to secrete local anesthetic so they can deaden appropriate nerves.

    "Your partner," he said. "Seems he's still out playing." He laughed his big bear laugh and came into my office. He had played soccer in college and he still enjoyed a brawl. Clay had inherited the Traynor business from his father. He had a beautiful, faithless wife and a stadiumful of friends who drank his drinks and indulged his whims and privately considered him a fool. Throwing his cowboy hat across a coffee cup like Buck Jones was only one of a thousand irritating habits he had cultivated. He didn't have much else to do.

    That he was also an hour late seemed not to bother him. At least he didn't mention it.

    As he dropped himself in the leather chair across from my desk, I saw that up close his face did not look nearly as self-confident as his getup. A long night with booze had given the eyes a suffering cast and the fingers that barely perceptible twitch that can foreshadow permanent nerve damage. Which, in his case, was entirely possible. His younger cousin Ron actually ran Traynor. Clay was simply a figurehead, a man who divided his time between chasing waitresses and making his advertising people miserable.

    To show you the kind of guy I am-obviously superior to a bastard like Clay-four months ago I'd gotten up at his birthday party and proposed a toast to him. And I hadn't stopped there-no, sir. I went right ahead and made a little speech that compared him favorably with Socrates, Babe Ruth, Mother Teresa, and General Douglas MacArthur.

    "Made you mad just then, didn't I?" There was a smirk in his voice, but for some reason it was halfhearted. Usually he could get me angry quickly and totally. Today there was something almost pathetic about him, like a pitcher in a slump throwing his best strike-out pitch only to get it knocked out of the park.

    "When?" I said, trying to sound surprised and unaware of what he was talking about.

    He leaned over and retrieved his hat. "My hat. I could've spilled your coffee all over your desk."

    "Oh, that," I said, shrugging it off. "Yeah."

    "I could see it in your eyes. You were pissed. No doubt about it." Stalking is one of his favorite games. He was stalking me now. But why?

    "Your partner always puts up with me. Maybe now it's your turn."

    The way he said it-so sharply-jarred me for a moment. The curiousness of his remark about maybe it being my turn made me stare at him.

    Did he somehow know that Denny was dead?

    But then I remembered him saying much the same thing to Merle Wickes one afternoon at lunch-something about abusiveness working all the way down the pecking order.

    Obviously, the thought of Denny back there bloody and dead in bed was starting to take its toll. I hadn't realized it until now, but at least a part of me had been in shock for many hours after my discovery.

    "You still with me, Michael?" Clay was saying.

    "Oh, yeah, sorry. My mind was drifting, I guess."

    He held up his Rolex as if it were a prop in a TV commercial and tapped it. "Maybe he's visiting the VD clinic downtown. Some of those chicks he spends time with-" He laughed one of those laughs that made me part of an in-group joke.

    It wasn't a group I wanted to be a part of. I'd been alone long enough. I wanted a wife, maybe another kid. I didn't want to know any women who spent time with people like Clay or Denny. They were all members of the same leper colony…

    "I hope you've got some great ideas for lunch," Clay said. "I'm fresh out."

    I was just about to suggest a new seafood restaurant when the scream came.

    I didn't have time to get across my office threshold before the screaming became much more serious-became the kind of eternal, baleful sobbing you hear during wartime when mothers learn their sons have been killed…

    

    

    "Can I get you some more coffee, Mr. Ketchum?"

    I put my hand over my cup, shook my head. In the past two and a half hours since Sarah Anders had screamed, I'd had five or six cups and my nerves were shot.

    I'd already talked to Detective Bonnell, the officer in charge of the investigation, and I would have to talk to him again. Soon. He had come directly to our offices from the murder scene and was interviewing the people closest to Denny.

    Sarah's call to the police had worked. They'd found Denny's bloody body with no trouble.

    "You want a sandwich, Mr. Ketchum? I'd be happy to get you one."

    "Tommy," I said, "sometimes you get me down."

    He flushed instantly. He looked terror-stricken. "I do, Mr. Ketchum?"

    "Yeah, like right now." I was unloading a lot of my own griefs and anxieties on the kid, but I did not give a particular damn. "You know I don't like to be called Mr. Ketchum, but here you are again, calling me that."

    "Gee, I'm sorry." He didn't look sorry, though, he looked angry. I couldn't blame him.

    "And I'm very tired of your generalized butt-kissing, Tommy. I really am. Everybody up here believes that you're a hard worker and a good kid. No need to keep reminding us. Your work speaks for itself."

    In the silence that followed I realized that I'd hurt his feelings and managed to make myself feel very foolish in the process.

    "Gee, I-"

    Thank God there was a knock on the door just then and thank God it was Clay Traynor and thank God he did his usual boorish number and came right in without me inviting him.

    Except when I got a better look at him I saw he was not wearing his standard smirk. The eyes looked bad and a tiny, deadly twitch could be seen on the right edge of his mouth.

    He looked like he couldn't decide whether to ask me for some fatherly advice or to smash my face in.

    He glanced at Tommy as if the kid were one of life's real annoyances, then dropped himself into one of the chairs across from my desk.

    I nodded to Tommy. "We'll talk more later."

    By now Tommy was white. The poor bastard probably thought he was on the verge of being fired.

    "It's OK, Tommy," I said. "Everything's OK."

    "You sure?" he said.

    "Yeah, I'm sure."

    He scanned my face for any trace of insincerity. Finding none seemed to relax him. "OK," he said, "later."

    After Tommy had closed the door behind him, Clay said, "You like that kid?"

    I shrugged. "He's all right. Just tries a little too hard sometimes."

    "Something about him…"He sighed and stared into the fists that sat in his lap. The way his head wagged, the way his eyes weren't quite in focus, I could see that he was drunk from both the night before and from whatever he'd needed to get himself going this morning. He had shaved but there were too many nicks and he had washed his hair but there was too much grease on it and he had changed clothes but the red tie was too sporty for the button-down shirt. "Poor sonofabitch," he said. Obviously he was through talking about Tommy. He was talking about Denny. "Goddamn good guy…"he said and tears started in his eyes and the twitch on the side of his mouth got much, much worse. "Goddamn good buddy of mine…"

    I let him find his own pace for expressing the things he needed to say.

    "Who the hell coulda done it?" he said after a time.

    "I don't know."

    He smiled a worn smile. "Probably some husband whose old lady he was poking."

    "Could be."

    "The poor sonofabitch," he said.

    "Yeah."

    "I mean, I know you two didn't get along especially well. But he admired your talents, Michael. He really did."

    "Well, for what it's worth, I admired his."

    Much as Tommy had done, he searched my face for any evidence of insincerity. Then he went back into his semistupor.

    I got up and went over to the dry bar and made him the kind of drink sailors dream of three months out to sea. He didn't even look up, just took it automatically and began drinking immediately.

    Five minutes later, the booze wrought something like a miracle. The twitch stopped. His eye grew bright. He sat up straighter in the chair.

    "It could have been robbery," he said. The hopeful tone of his voice surprised me-as if he were going to wish robbery into being the motive.

    I had never seen Clay seem so young or vulnerable. Maybe it was weakness from his hangover. Whatever, his almost clinging presence bothered me.

    "Robbery seems pretty unlikely, Clay," I said. "From what the cop said, I mean. All those stab wounds."

    "Some robbers are junkies. They can get crazy-"

    I shook my head. "I don't think so."

    Clay pulled himself to the edge of the chair.

    "I suppose you're wondering about the account," he said.

    I shrugged. "I guess right now I'm more wondering about Denny."

    Some of the old fire caught in his face. "You didn't like him. Why the hell pretend otherwise?"

    His anger gave the room a heat in the overcast day. "He was still my partner and had been for twelve years."

    He calmed down. "I just wanted to assure you that if I have anything to do with it, the account will be staying here."

    Now, since most advertising people are certified paranoids, the most significant words in his statement were not the reassurance that the account would be staying here-but rather the phrase
"if I have anything to do with it."

    In that little phrase was an obscure and ominous meaning that made me forget all about Denny and made me think instead of losing half my business-at a minimum. And failing all the people depending on me.

    The catch was… Clay, being a vainglorious bastard, could never admit that his cousin Ron had any real influence on his decisions.

    Why would he admit that Ron actually called most of the shots now?

    "I mean," Clay said, "I guess you know all about Ron's friend Bill Spencer."

    Yeah, I knew all about Ron's friend Bill Spencer. Spence was president of the largest agency in the city and our chief rival. Spence and Ron were golfing buddies. Ron had every intention of someday driving a wedge between Clay and my agency-whatever it took. Then Spence would have the account.

    "Hey," Clay laughed, "no need to look all shook up. I just mentioned that to let you know that I'd like to keep right on working with you."

    The way I sighed-relief was embarrassing. To me, anyway. Clay laughed again. He found me amusing.

    "Of course," he said, "I'm going to have to ask you certain favors from time to time."

    "Hell, yes," I said. I would rather have talked about the quality of work he was getting from Harris-Ketchum-which was damned good; sales were up and our stuff consistently won awards-but if he wanted to talk about favors, sure, fine, all right. That's what I was here for.

    "Any time," I said, having visions of spending long nights with him at any number of sleazy watering holes, or hiking through the woods in order to beat the shit out of defenseless little animals.

    Favors. He'd come to the right place. No doubt about that.

    "Well then," he said, "how about starting right now?"

    "Sure. What can I do for you?"

    "Well," he said, studying his Stetson, "Denny has something of mine that I'd really like back."

    "I'll help you find it. No problem, Clay."

    He glanced at me. I hadn't ever seen him sweat before. His face was slick. "Now that he's dead, the thing he had doesn't mean anything. What I need now is another kind of favor."

    "Absolutely."

    "See, last night I decided to run by his place and pick up this thing…" He glanced furtively around the office-

    Tommy had had the good sense to close the door behind him. "… I found him there. Already dead." Jesus.

    He leaned closer. Now we were co-conspirators. "You can imagine I don't want to be implicated in any way…"He looked at me significantly. "That would give Ron all the ammunition he needs to take over the presidency of Traynor…" He smiled nervously. "The Board of Directors-well, you know what they think of me already. If I were implicated-well, both you and I would be out of a job."

    "This favor you need-" I started to say.

    "What I need," he said, "I guess you'd call it an alibi."

    Which was just when Detective Bonnell chose to knock on the door.

    

    

    "Damn," Clay Traynor said after Bonnell had identified himself from behind the closed door.

    I shot him a wary glance, then got up, walked around my desk, and opened the door.

    "Hope I'm not disturbing you," Bonnell said. He was a large man who could have been mistaken for fat until you noticed how tightly his flesh clung to his facial bones. Obviously he took care of himself. He wore a brown suit and tan topcoat without looking quite comfortable in either. He appeared to be in his early fifties, yet he had retained an animal energy that said he'd rather be working on the docks somewhere, or putting up a house. His dark, intelligent eyes held irony and made him seem all the more dangerous.