The Professional (14 page)

“God is kind,” I said.

“Tell me about Jackson,” Belson said.

He had a notebook on the desk in front of him, and as I talked, every once in a while he wrote things in it.

“I don’t know quite what he does, but I know he makes a lot of dough, and I know all of it isn’t clean.”

“He wired?” Belson said.

“I would say so.”

“Got any names?” Belson said.

“I know a name, but it’s a guy just did me a favor, and unless I think he did Jackson, which I don’t, I won’t name him.”

“We could insist,” Belson said.

“You could,” I said.

“We can be insistent as a sonovabitch,” Belson said.

“I know.”

“But you won’t tell us anyway,” Belson said.

“No.”

“Known you a long time,” Belson said.

“And yet here we are,” I said. “Still in the bloom of youth.” Belson nodded.

“You get a suspicion,” he said, “you let me know.”

“At once,” I said.

“Sure,” Belson said. “I’ll check with the organized-crime guys.”

“I would,” I said.

“What’s your connection to him?”

I told him everything, as it was, except that I didn’t name the other women. And I didn’t mention Tony Marcus.

“And how did you resolve the problem?”

“Tireless negotiation,” I said.

“Wife buy into it?” Belson said.

“She said she did.”

“Think she might have not meant it.”

“Probably,” I said.

“Think she might have aced him?”

“She might have,” I said. “But at the time Jackson was killed she was talking to me in my office with a woman named Estelle.”

“What a coincidence,” Belson said.

“It is,” I said.

“Estelle who?”

“Don’t know her last name. She’s a trainer at Pinnacle Fitness.”

“Want to tell me why they were there?”

“Beth said her life had been threatened and wanted me to protect her. Said her husband had been threatened, too. Estelle was there for moral support, I guess.”

Belson wrote in the notebook.

“Were you planning on mentioning this?” he said.

“Sure,” I said. “But I thought it would be good training for you to learn of it through sound investigative procedure.”

“Geez,” Belson said. “With your help maybe I’ll make lieutenant.”

“I think you have to take the lieutenant’s exam first,” I said.

“I’ll get to it,” Belson said. “You want to tell me about the wife, what’s her name”—he glanced at his notes—“Beth.”

I told him about her visit the previous evening.

“You remember what the note said?”

“ ‘Your husband had betrayed me,’ ” I said. “ ‘For this you both shall die.’ ”

Belson wrote it down.

“Didn’t seem to work out that way,” he said.

“Shit happens,” I said.

Belson nodded.

“You believe all of this?”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Think she might have been setting up an alibi?”

“Maybe,” I said. “But if she was, was Estelle in it, too?”

“And Gary Cockhound?” Belson said.

“It was a fairly elaborate fake, if it was a fake,” I said.

“The kind amateurs use,” Belson said.

“True,” I said.

“On the other hand, since she didn’t actually do it,” Belson said, “who did? Eisenhower?”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“What’s your gut tell you?” Belson said.

“My gut says there’s something wrong with this,” I said. “It also says that Gary Eisenhower isn’t part of it.”

Belson wrote in his notebook.

“On the other hand,” he said, “your gut isn’t too bright.”

“True,” I said. “Mostly it just knows when I’m hungry.”

I SAT WITH BETH in her expensive off-white living room, which looked like it had been decorated by the pound. Beth was in a black dress that proclaimed her mourning and showed off her body.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.

“You told the police about me,” she said.

“I did.”

“That was mean,” she said.

“No, it wasn’t,” I said. “I’m your alibi. You would have told them you were with me, and I would have confirmed it, and the cops would have said, ‘How come you didn’t tell us about her?’ ”

“Why do I need an alibi?” she said.

“You’re the spouse of a murder victim.”

“And that automatically makes me a suspect?” she said.

“They have to eliminate you,” I said.

“I suppose,” she said.

“Any thoughts on who might have done it?”

“I should think the warning note I showed you would be a clue,” she said.

“Not much hard information,” I said. “Do you still have the envelope?”

“Envelope?”

“That it came in.”

“Oh, no,” Beth said. “I threw it away. There was no return address or anything.”

“Was it addressed in hand or typed or one of those little computer address stickers?”

“Hand,” she said.

“Remember where it was postmarked?”

“Boston, maybe,” she said. “I don’t know. I’m not used to threatening letters. I’m not a detective. I just threw the envelope away.”

“Sure,” I said. “Nice outfit you’re wearing.”

“Oh, this, well, it’s . . . I’m kind of in mourning. You think it’s okay?”

“Swell,” I said. “Are you his only heir?”

“There’s a couple of ex-wives,” she said. “No children. I’m the only one in the will.”

“Well,” I said. “There’s a plus.”

“It is a plus,” she said. “But there’s no need for you to be so snarky about it. My husband has just been murdered.”

“True,” I said.

“I mean, we had our problems, sure. . . .”

“And now you don’t,” I said.

She was sitting on the ivory-colored couch. I was sitting on a straight-backed armchair across from her. She squared her shoulders and sat more upright.

“Do you suspect me?” she said.

“I remain open-minded,” I said.

“What a terrible thing to say. It’s disgusting that you could even think that.”

“Disgusting,” I said.

“Why do you even care?” she said. “Has someone hired you to work on this case?”

“No,” I said.

“Then why don’t you go off somewhere and be disgusting on someone else’s business.”

“I’ve been involved with this for a while,” I said. “It’s my line of work. I feel some obligation to see what I can do.”

“Well, don’t think you have any obligation to me,” Beth said. “I’d like it if I never saw you again.”

“You, too?” I said.

I SPENT THE WEEKEND at Susan’s place, where, after some early morning excitement, we usually sat in her kitchen and had a lingering Sunday brunch prepared mostly by me. This morning was a little different; we were having scrambled eggs prepared by Susan. It was one of her two specialties, the other being boiled water. I added a ragout of peppers, onions, and mushrooms to grace the plate, and we ate it with oatmeal toast. Pearl came from her spot on the living-room couch and joined us, alert for any spillage.

“I talked with Beth Jackson on Friday,” I said.

“Are you still suspicious of her?”

“Let me recount our discussion,” I said.

“I’m all ears,” Susan said.

“Actually,” I said. “Not all.”

She smiled, and I gave her, almost verbatim, my conversation with Beth.

“You like to show off that you can do that,” Susan said. “Don’t you.”

“Yes,” I said. “Is there anything bothersome about what you heard.”

“Your voice was sexually exciting?” Susan said.

“Besides that,” I said.

“In relation to the murder,” Susan said.

“Yes.”

Susan was silent, her mind running over the conversation. “Remember why she came to me the night of the murder,” I said.

“She wanted you to protect her,” Susan said. “And, at least peripherally, her husband.”

“Correct,” I said.

“And now”—Susan began to speak faster, trying to keep up with her mind—“when half the threat has been executed, she should be more desperate for protection.”

“Bingo,” I said.

“And she isn’t,” Susan said. “She doesn’t want to ever see you again.”

“Or words to that effect,” I said.

“Which would lead a trained observer,” Susan said, “to conclude that she no longer thought there was a threat.”

“It might,” I said. “Or she might have found me so disgusting that she preferred to look elsewhere for protection.”

“No,” Susan said. “Not if she’s in fear of her life. However disgusting she may have found you, you are also safety. She would have embraced you.”

“Who wouldn’t,” I said.

“I was speaking metaphorically,” Susan said.

“Oh,” I said.

“But we know she didn’t do it herself,” Susan said.

“I can vouch for that,” I said. “In fact, it seems too carefully done. She comes to me at five. At five-ten an anonymous caller reports a shooting, cops are there by five-thirty. Beth doesn’t leave my office until about six.”

“A lot of people could have made an anonymous call,” Susan said. “They saw it happen but didn’t want to be involved.”

“Nine-one-one records all call numbers. This one was from a disposable phone.”

“They can’t trace it?”

“Correct,” I said.

“So it could have been someone who just happened to use a disposable phone, or it could have been a deliberate way to avoid identification.”

“How many people you know that carry disposable phones?” I said.

“Nobody.”

“Guy also tried to disguise his voice. Belson said it’s a man speaking in a falsetto.”

“So it could have been the murderer,” Susan said.

“Could have been,” I said.

“But why would he call the police? Wouldn’t it be in his better interest not to?”

“One would think,” I said.

“Unless he wanted to establish that the murder took place while Beth was with you,” Susan said.

“Which means she was involved,” I said.

“Or Estelle,” Susan said.

“Or both,” I said.

“Why would Estelle be involved?”

“Why do people usually kill other people?” I said.

“Mostly over love or money,” Susan said.

“If Estelle’s involved,” I said, “it wouldn’t be about love.”

“You can’t be sure,” Susan said. “Human emotion is sometimes very convolute.”

“I’ve heard that,” I said.

Susan smiled and drank some coffee.

“How about Gary Eisenhower?” she said.

“You think he might do that?” I said.

“No,” Susan said.

“Shrink insight or woman’s intuition?” I said.

“Sometimes there’s not much difference,” Susan said.

“I don’t think he did it, either,” I said.

“Gumshoe insight?” Susan said. “Or male intuition?”

I grinned at her.

“Sometimes,” I said, “there’s not much difference.”

“Does he have an alibi?” Susan said.

“Don’t know,” I said. “Belson was supposed to interview him today.”

“So,” Susan said, “pending what you get from Belson, if it wasn’t Gary, who did the actual shooting?”

“Damn,” I said. “You don’t know that, either?”

“Sorry,” Susan said.

“And you a Harvard Ph.D.”

“I know,” Susan said. “Puzzling, isn’t it.”

GARY EISENHOWER CAME to my office on Monday morning, while I was reading the paper.

“You know,” I said, as he sat down. “I don’t think I’ve ever disagreed with anything in Doonesbury.”

“Doonesbury?”

“Guy’s always on the money,” I said.

“Yeah, right,” Gary said. “Beth Jackson’s husband got killed.”

“I know that,” I said.

“You know anything more?” Gary said.

“He was shot twice in the head in the parking garage at International Place,” I said.

“They know who did it?”

“No.”

“They got any suspects?” Gary said.

“No.”

“What about Beth?”

“She’s got an ironclad alibi,” I said.

“No, I mean, is she safe?”

“Don’t know,” I said.

“You’re not giving her security?”

“Nope.”

“But,” Gary said, “the letter said both of them, and obviously they meant it.”

“She told me to get lost,” I said.

“Don’t you hate when that happens,” Gary said.

“You get used to it,” I said.

Gary grinned.

“Wouldn’t know,” he said. “I see Boo around, maybe he’s looking out for her.”

“Boo?”

“Yeah.”

“Without Zel?” I said.

“Haven’t seen Zel,” Gary said. “Maybe they broke up.”

I nodded.

“Cops talk to you yet?” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Detective named Belson.”

“How’d that go,” I said.

“I’m clear,” he said. “I was cultivating a new client. Belson talked with her. Told her he saw no need to involve her husband.”

“New client a member at Pinnacle Fitness?”

He smiled.

“Sure,” he said. “Thing keeps working, you don’t go to something else.”

“You seen Beth,” I said. “Since the murder?”

“Yeah. She’s not devastated.”

“She got the money,” I said.

“Yep, and she’s talking about her and me picking up again.”

“So you’re not exactly devastated,” I said.

“Money’s good,” he said. “But I kind of like it when they ain’t free as a bird, you know? They got a husband and don’t want to leave him, makes everything work better for me.”

“How’s Estelle feel about Beth?” I said.

“She likes her,” Gary said.

“She doesn’t mind your client list?” I said.

“Naw,” Gary said. “Estelle’s pretty cool. The whole blackmail scheme was more hers than mine, tell you the truth.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Gary said. “She used to do some videotape work, training clients, you know?”

“So the hidden cameras were her doing,” I said.

“Yeah,” Gary said. “Behind every successful man . . .”

“And she doesn’t mind sharing you with other women,” I said.

“No,” Gary said. “She . . .” He paused. “The first time we started using the hidden cameras and the voice recorders, it was for her.”

“You mean so she could watch and listen?”

“Yeah,” Gary said. “It turns her on.”

I nodded.

“How’d you feel about it?” I said.

“Well, you know, it was a little creepy at first.”