Deadly Trade: A Deacon Bishop Mystery

Chapter 1

It was late-afternoon on a cloudy, July. I was in my office finalizing notes concerning the reuniting of a sixteen-year-old female with her bewildered father. He was delighted at my success. So much so, he vowed to chant it to the heavens. The girl was less enthusiastic. As was Ronny Platt, the musician with whom she fled. Ronny was charged with a variety of offenses, including statutory rape. All of which meant an expensive, embarrassing trial for him--along with a multitude of lies proffered to his wife.

I marked the case 'closed' but before I could file it, the office door banged open and a man stormed in.

The fellow was squat, fiftyish, and dressed in brown tweeds. His suit was wide across the shoulders and short in the leg. Thick, black hair abounded upon a head round enough to rattle bowling pins. The former was parted in the middle and greased back along each side. Four heavy strides took him across the room to my desk.

Sign on your office says 'Deacon Bishop, Private Investigations,' he said, glowering. His eyes were green and protruding. They stared snakelike and unblinking. If you're such a hot-shit detective, why aren't you doing something?

Based upon his heaving chest, red face, flailing arms and less than cheery tone of voice, it did not take much detecting to note the fellow's disagreeable mood.

You just missed my latest performance, I remarked. I pushed the file folder off to one side and stared at a pockmarked face the color of an overripe plum. Take a seat up close. I'm looking forward to your coronary.

He slumped into one of the customer chairs fronting the desk and leaned forward, one of his thick forearms resting upon the desktop. Just find the goddamn bastard, he roared, in a gravelly snarl. His breath soured the air between us with each heaving gasp. His skin dripped with perspiration.

I rocked back in the swivel chair and lit a cigarette. Why not? I said. I've got a few minutes. Have you been blessed with a name? Or should I call you 'asshole'?

His chin dipped. Then he gave his head a dismal wag. Goddamn wise-ass! he grunted, the color of his face fading to its near-normal rustiness. Albert Ferris. My name is Albert Ferris. Okay?

"Very good, Mr. Ferris. Now which bastard would you like me to find? Austin has so many. I think it has to do with inbreeding and the ever-present, corrupt, political machine. My favorite bastard is the one who refers to himself as, 'The Judge'. He's quite easy to locate. All I have to do is ask for the nearest brain-dead bozo who couldn't cut it as a litigator. Would he do?"

Ferris' broad shoulders drooped. Some days it ain't worth getting out of bed. Then he took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face. Jason Peterson is who I'm looking for.

That's two for you. Now what's your plan for Jason, Mr. Ferris?

The squat man stiffened upright, creaking the chair with the force of his movement. He shoved the wet handkerchief back into his trousers. Then he glanced back in the direction from which he came as if worried he might be set upon. After which, he returned his unblinking stare to me, tilting toward the desk. A flush rose in his face, like when an inexperienced tongue first tastes the fire from a Serrano pepper. I set myself for his next verbal volley.

What do you care? Ferris's voice rasped like dry bones sliding down a steel ramp. I'm willin' to foot the goddamn bill, ain't I? Any price you say; okay? All you gotta' do is point-out the bastard!

I blew smoke at him. I don't crawl into deep, dark holes without a flashlight, Mr. Ferris.

His eyes finally blinked. Then his brow furrowed with confusion, squeezing out a fresh layer of sweat. What in God's name are you talking about?

You're about to bust an artery. You're so tense the muscles in your neck are bulging. If I was to guess, you're planning to kill Jason Peterson. So what's he got on you, Mr. Ferris? Maybe there's an alternative to murder--considering Texas is infamous for executions.

Ferris started to rise, but caught himself. Then one stubby finger thumped the desktop as he shouted, That's not part of the deal, Bishop!

I rocked my chair forward. It was nice chatting with you, Mr. Ferris. I particularly enjoyed your shouts. The vibration they set up cleared my sinuses. Let's do it again sometime soon.

One of his wide hands became a fist and punched the air between us. Look, I get you're taking extra risks working in the dark. So, charge me an extra price, Goddamn it! I've got money, okay? That's what money's for.

I nodded unsympathetically. I'll send you a bill for listening.

Ferris splayed has hands entreatingly. Do it! I buy guys like you every day with pocket change.

I snuffed out my cigarette in the ashtray on the desk. His last remark thinned my patience. Not me, Mr. Ferris.

All right. I got out of line there. His voice once more went soft. Look. I ain't a bad guy. Then as his word-count built so did the rage in his tone and the bulge to his eyes. I just want you to find the lousy son-of-a-bitch! That's all you gotta' do. I ain't gonna' do him no harm! Fair enough, for Christ's sake?

I was no longer interested in extending tolerance or understanding. You expect me to believe you're trying to find Jason Peterson to add his address to your Christmas list, Mr. Ferris?

The squat man slapped one hairy paw, on the desk with a resounding splat. It ain't like I'm gonna' kill the louse--not like he don't deserve it!

I leaned my elbows on the yellow notepad in front of me and made a teepee out of my fingers. I've got a license to maintain, Mr. Ferris. There are rules. If I get careless and break those rules I'm out of business. And, despite your claims, I think you've got something unpleasant planned for Jason Peterson. I'll play no part in it.

What kinda' Private Detective are you?

I fought an urge to leap up and exercise my knuckles upon his left ear. My kind, Mr. Ferris. Have a nice day.

He shook his round head as if trying to re-hook a lost connection, deep in his brain. You got me all wrong, he pleaded. I ain't the violent type. I'm just a building contractor. I put up high-rises and bridges. Sure, sometimes I get short-tempered. But it ain't like I bury bodies, for Christ's sake!

You don't have to. Not with all those deep concrete footings your constructs require.

I ain't never killed nobody in my whole life--not on purpose, anyway! he bellowed, throwing his big arms up, his fists balled into maces.

Nevertheless, you're not leveling with me, Mr. Ferris.

He made it to his feet this time. You calling me a liar?

I leaned back and propped my feet upon the desk. If the shoe fits, Mr. Ferris. Only if the shoe fits. Now, either tell me what's behind your need to find Jason, or take a hike. You're making me late for my needlepoint class.

Ferris's face pinked, and his eyes renewed their snakelike stare. Sweet Jesus, what I go through for that girl! Okay. Maybe I ain't been on the square. Not, completely. Maybe I got plans for Peterson what ain't so nice. But they ain't what you're thinkin'. He stomped one big foot in frustration. All I'm gonna' do is stuff his Goddamn pockets full of money and drag his skinny ass out of town! There ain't no law against that, is there?

I think the Attorney General might object to the dragging part. But we'll worry about it when the time comes. Exactly why does Jason Peterson deserve your special brand of financial consideration?

There you go again! he bellowed. His thick fingers clawed at the back of his neck before collapsing to his sides in frustration. Askin' unrelated questions. They ain't part of this deal!

I got to my feet this time. Instead of lunging across the desk and battering him like I wanted, I spread my fingers upon the top and let my nails dig into the varnished oak. The only deal we have is my letting you waste time, Mr. Ferris. Now, answer or get out.

My daughter's why. He muttered a curse and kicked at the air. She married that low-life, no good, scum-sucking bastard! He treats her like shit, I tell you. Well I've had enough. If he leaves for good, she'll come back home where she belongs. Now, if I ain't bein' reasonable I don't know who is!

And if Peterson turns down your offer, Mr. Ferris?

I heard his molars crunch like boulders being dragged across tiny seashells. But Ferris did not reply. Slowly, he settled back into the chair, more sweat spreading across his pained face.

I continued, If Peterson comes to harm, I'll have no choice but to go to the police with the details of all that's passed between us. Is he worth dying for, Mr. Ferris?

His molars gritted some more.

Does your daughter know about your plans for Jason?

More teeth-grinding.

How much money do you intend to offer Jason? I asked, despairing for any kind of verbal response.

He leaned forward the veins in his neck sticking out like squirming purple worms. Fifty grand! he roared. There was a pause. After another session of grinding dentition he said, Okay. We'll do it your way. I don't have to know where the skinny son-of-a-bitch is. You just find the bastard. When you do, you tell him about my offer. If he goes for it, you can even deliver the money. If he turns you down--well, the bastard had better not!

I settled back into the swivel chair, took out my pen and began jotting notes on the yellow pad. Okay, Mr. Ferris. Before I can start I'll need more information. What does Peterson do for a living?

He doesn't. He's a goddamn doper!

Jason must get money some way to manage all this hiding-out where you can't find him.

His brow furrowed, pinching his eyes nearly closed as if a steel nail was being driven into his skull. Plays jazz, or so he calls it. I bought him a Goddamn horn. Everybody says he great. He batted the air with one palm. I don't much like it."

The doping, or the music? I jibed.

Ferris slapped my desktop, again. There you go with them damn unnecessary questions!

It's hard not to do when I'm dealing with a man of your unique intellect, Mr. Ferris.

He took my remark as a compliment, and nodded appreciatively.

How did your daughter meet Jason? I asked.

Ferris leaned against the back of the chair, far from being relaxed. Ellie? I'll be damned if I know. She just showed up with the bastard, ten or twelve years ago. I'm lookin' at my Baby-girl standing next to a dirty dog. And she's telling me they're married. His voice was now soft with sorrow, and disappointment. Peterson is nothing but a long haired, filthy scum-bag who doesn't have brains enough to blow his own goddamn nose. But, from the look on Baby-girl's face you'd think she'd won the lottery. Great God almighty, I don't understand women.

Neither do I. But their built-ins keep me trying. Does Jason belong to a musician's union?

Ferris shrugged his huge shoulders. How the hell would I know? Maybe. I suppose. Ellie'd know.

Where does your daughter live?

Why, for Christ's sake?

I returned his unblinking stare. Because she probably knows where Jason hangs out and who his friends are, Mr. Ferris.

His green eyes narrowed sharply. That's not part of the deal, either.

The fact you're here proves you don't have a clue as to where Jason might be. Ellie probably does.

Damn it all! I didn't figure on you talking to Ellie. He made an overwhelmed gesture. I guess there ain't no way 'round it. His finger pierced the air between us. But, I don't want her to know the deal, understand? His cold green eyes gave me another going over as if I were a rat crawling around a python's cage. Not, the, deal. Clear?

I nodded.

Ellie lives over on Calumet Avenue, in Lampasas, he said. Number 2137, apartment 311. It's a goddamn dump. She won't come home, where she belongs. And I'll be damned if I'll hand out cash to that horn-playin' shit-headed, low-life, no-good bastard unless it's walkin' money! He raked his sausage-like fingers through his greased-back hair as if his scalp was on fire. I got a deal with the landlord, okay? She falls behind in the rent he talks to me, not her, okay? I take care of it, okay? You're gonna' do this, then?

I stood up and nodded.

Ferris dragged out a money-clip loaded with hundred-dollar bills. Then he pulled the green pile from the clip and tossed it onto the desk. Draw against that. When you need more let me know.

Ferris stuffed the clip back into his pocket and got to his feet. His heavy legs shook. His neck twisted one way and then another, like a turkey at a shoot waiting for its turn in the target area. However he did not move. There was something more Ferris wanted to say, but he did not know how to go about it.

I'll find Jason, Mr. Ferris, I warned. If anything unpleasant happens to him afterward, you and I will have another discussion. But there won't be a desk between us then That's the other part of our deal. Understood?

Ferris stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets, clinching his fingers against the bottoms. You got a daughter, Mr. Bishop?

I wagged my head.

He scratched one of his big ears thoughtfully as if trying to decide whether to give me some additional information. Then he turned and slogged out, like a man walking away from everything but what was on his back.

I picked up the money and counted it. There was nearly two thousand dollars in recently-printed greenbacks. They felt crisply pleasurable in my hands. I went over to the safe, opened it and stuffed the cash inside. Then I shut it, spun the dial and returned to my chair. I could not help but smile as I sat down. There was nothing like a money-pile to give an old man young ideas.

I leaned back in the chair and propped my feet upon the desktop. I was about to close my eyes for a well-deserved nap when a woman entered. She was tall, dark, thin and graying. Her pretty face was completely lacking in makeup. She was dressed in a faded Sisters of Compassion uniform. Clasped within the grasp of one hand was a bundle of green cards. The other reached out to me.

I am Lydia Pinkham, she announced, waving the bundle. I'm selling pancake-supper tickets. It's a fundraiser for the homeless. How many would you like to buy?

I sat up with a start, my feet hitting the floor with a bang. You mean with money?

It's for the less-fortunate, she said, a soft plea in her voice. Each ticket costs $5.00. It's all you can eat.

I stood. What about promotional items? I could use a toaster.

Her head wagged. But we're serving sausages.

Lydia Pinkham reminded me of a girl I went to school with: Edna Larkin. Both were the goody-two-shoes type who was always chasing dreams, always thinking the best of people, always giving her time and dedication to anyone in need. I seduced Edna the night of our senior prom with empty promises of love-everlasting. More out of guilt over Edna than compassion for the unfortunate, I took out my money clip and peeled off a five-dollar bill.

Instead of sausages, how about a prayer at your next gathering? I asked. There's a slight stain on my errant soul. Nothing serious. But a little outside help would be appreciated. I'd ask my priest. Unfortunately, Father Drapula went off-track due to circumstances of the six-legged kind.

Off-track? she echoed in confusion.

I'm told he's taken quite a shine to his padded cell.

You expect me to believe your priest has six legs?

Father Drapula's very fond of spiders. The caretakers of the asylum let him draw pictures of his favorites on the floor. He's in a straightjacket so he has to fit the crayons between his toes.

She glanced at the money-clip before offering me a nervous smile. Prayers are limited to purchases of two or more tickets.

I peeled off two more five spots. Her eyes went to the three bills in my hand, her mouth slightly parted, as if I held the world within my grasp.

I will also say a prayer for your priest's recovery, Lydia declared, her voice lilting slightly with anticipation.

I went over and handed her the bills. She smelled of scented soap and innocence. Father Drapula's problem is temporary, I explained. Apparently the members of his congregation objected to receiving little critters in the mail. Mine is ongoing.

Lydia Pinkham laughed softly, her voice giving my heart a tug. She was not the type of woman I preferred. In fact she was just the opposite. My idea for a good time was a sexpot with few brains, fewer morals and no inhibitions. However there was something special about Lydia's unselfish dedication to others. It created a strong allure--not unlike Edna on the night of the prom.

I hope you're not skipping Mass because of his absence, she softly scolded.

I wagged my head. With my leanings, I can't afford to. That's why I visit Father Drapula each Sunday. I receive a personal sermon and he gets a pint of gin. However, I find it hard to accept absolution from a man in a straitjacket. His hands can't move. And there's something unnerving about seeing the sign-of-the-cross made below-the-waist.

Lydia gave me another confused, questioning look.

It's a guy thing, I explained.

Her cheeks pinked at the implication. Nevertheless, she took three green cards from the bundle and handed them to me.

I suppose you're married, I said.

She tittered nervously, giving her head a wag. After a heartfelt Bless you, Sir! Lydia turned and hurried out.

I stuffed the tickets into my wallet, went back to the chair behind the desk, and sat. You would have squandered the fifteen bucks anyway, I mused. I flopped my feet onto the desktop and closed my eyes. You would have tossed it away on women, horses and other wanton forms of frivolity! Well, maybe one very cheap woman. I drifted off dreaming about trumpet-playing blondes, brunettes blowing licorice-sticks and redheads riding thoroughbreds--naked, of course.

Chapter 2

Several hours later my dreams shuddered back to reality. I awoke to thunder, a growling stomach, a dry mouth and vague memories of an off-key accordion playing polka music. Outside, bolt after sizzling bolt of blue-white lightening crackled through an oil-slick sky. Between blasts, torrents of rain cascaded across the office windows in twisted, gray sheets. Inside, I dropped my feet to the floor. Then I stood and jerked the Buick's keys from my trouser pocket. Despite the storm I decided a Tex-Mex supper, topped off by a beer or two, ought to end the day on a happily belching note. But in my own anticipatory way, I opened the desk's center drawer and took out a roll of antacids. There was no sense in being completely reckless in the duodenal theatre of war. The question was whether I should prepare for the inevitable agony of Serrano peppers mingling with stomach acid by ingesting the antacids now, or later. I decided to throw caution to the storm and wait until my favorite seasonings made their gastric intervention. Then with my stomach making another demand for fuel and my taste buds tingling for all that was spicy, I headed around the desk.

Three steps later, another charge of lightning sent my office into darkness. I stopped, waiting for my eyes to adjust. A blaring truck horn outside on the street below drew my attention to the windows. The streetlamps glowed yellow against the rain, like misting sulfur. The semaphore on the corner remained functional, going from green to yellow to red. Across the intersection, the usual fluorescent haze erupted from the Chow Mien joint. Beyond this were miles and miles of glimmering lights. The hairs on the back of my neck rose as I considered the probability of a power failure impacting only one building in a city the size of Austin, Texas. As Father Drapula would say, the prospects were as slim as finding a hymnbook in a brothel.

I tried to reason the situation. There was the possibility of power being lost at the building level due to transformer failure. There was also a chance the main circuit-breaker in the building shorted out due to a lightning strike. However, such situations were even less likely than a misplaced hymnal. Nevertheless they were plausible. Then, I heard the soft purr of the elevator rising from one of the floors, below. My stomach knotted. The chance of only one floor within a building losing power went far beyond the realm of probability. At least, in my dirty little world.

I jerked the Mauser from its holster beneath my left arm. There were only three occupied areas on the fourth floor, counting my office. The other two consisted of the beauty school at one end of the hallway, and the attorney directly across. At this time of the evening, both of those would be closed. That left only me and my complaining stomach as reason for the unexpected darkness. I dragged my coat-sleeve across my perspiring upper lip. Nothing ruined my day like knowing something unpleasant was forthcoming for the person dearest to my heart. Yours, truly.

God, I hate dying on an empty stomach, I mused.

I eased off the Mauser's safety and crept forward. With each unsteady movement I weighed possibilities of who would be on the tear. Tact had never been my strong point. Consequently, there were hundreds of people to consider. However my behavior of late would not be likely to offend anyone. Again, my stomach let go a growl of complaint.

There was no consoling it. Unfortunately, supper was not likely part of the forthcoming fun and games.

Still another growl. It was as if it knew I was about to pay dearly for my next bite of salsa and chips.

When I got to the reception room outside my private office, a woman's scream erupted from the hallway. This was followed immediately by a man's cursing. Then there was a gunshot.

I gripped the Mauser in both hands and took another step. A moment later, something heavy thudded against the outer door. Instinctively I raised the pistol; my heart vibrating at my throat like a kettledrum.

Who's there? I shouted through the darkness, hoping they would go away--or mention pizza delivery.

Hinges creaked. Then I caught sight of the door's outline as it swung inward. A gigantic shadow followed, tottering towards me. I took aim and repeated my demand for identification. The shadow stopped.

Dirty pool, Bishop, a faintly familiar male voice, whimpered.

Lightening flashed upon a big man dressed in a plaid sportcoat. The glare reflected from something metallic in one of his big hands. I opened my mouth to speak. But before I could make a sound, there was a blinding flash. This was instantly followed by a deafening explosion. Then all about me floated the stench of burned gunpowder.

I dropped to one knee and returned fire, the Mauser's muzzle-blast blazing yellow in his direction. He moved forward, unabated. My unexpected visitor was either tough as saddle leather or the round missed its target. Again there came an explosion. This time something buzzed past my left ear.

I squeezed the Mauser's trigger once more.

In response I heard the dull thup of lead ripping through living flesh.

The shadow faltered. Seconds of silence ticked as I waited, expecting the worst.

Drop it! I managed to croak.

The shadow whimpered, Deidre. My God, Deidre!

I saw him wobble. Then lightening blared five times in quick succession, flashing like a massive strobe light. He fell during the blue-white sheets of light, his knees dropping to the floor in stop-action. When darkness once more settled around me, I got up and sidestepped, keeping my weapon aimed at the kneeling form.

Ya' done me good, Bishop, he gurgled. Then the fellow toppled forward with a sloppy thud, and lay still.

The lights came to life as if cued. On the reception room floor, laying face down, was Harry Wright--a one-time private detective with a taste for loud clothes, and blackmail. A brown toupee dangled off one side of his bald head, drooping over a puffy ear like a hairy pancake. His sportcoat was unbuttoned. One of his fat paws gripped a tired looking Lugar. The other was tucked beneath his big, leaking belly.

I waited a full minute, watching his back. However not so much as a breath moved him. Finally I crept over, squatted down, and jerked the pistol from his hand. The blood oozing from beneath him created a red, smelly pool. I stuffed his gun into my coat pocket, wondering the 'what', 'who' and 'why' of Harry's visit.

Harry Wright and I shared a long history of disagreements. The last of which earned Harry several weeks in the county hospital's intensive care, ward. I'd caught him in my office rifling the filing cabinets. The encounter did not result in what I would consider a pitched slug-fest. Harry made a couple of good round-houses. I decked him with a well-connected left. Then I set about the task of making certain there was no misunderstanding as to the foolishness of his intrusion. Still, it was out of character for him to come gunning straight-on. Harry was the ambush type, the kind of sweetheart who preferred a blindsiding sap over direct confrontation. I touched the side of his fleshy neck seeking a pulse. As expected, there was none.

A door slammed to my left.

With a startled curse, I twisted on my haunches toward the hall taking aim through the open doorway. The Mauser's sights locked upon a young dark-eyed blonde standing just outside the entrance to the law-office. She was pale, red-lipped, petite and neatly dressed in a pink blouse and a gray skirt. Her short hair stood straight out from her scalp in clumped stalks, the recent fashion for young women. With the exception of nylon-stockings, her feet were bare and her left hand gripped a pair of black shoes. She'd slung a large, black purse over her right shoulder. I guessed her age to be about twenty-five.

Don't move! I growled.

Her right hand knotted at her mouth, her forearms crushing the pink cloth against her small breasts.

Don't shoot! she begged across white knuckles, her voice shrill with fear. I won't say anything. I promise!

Her face was angelic, something the dirty old man in me would have remembered had I seen her before.

Were you the one who screamed? I lowered the Mauser.

She wagged her head like a little girl expecting a dose of bad-tasting medicine. "Please don't kill me!

I stood up and holstered the Mauser. What's your name?

Tracy Compton, she whimpered, her right hand dropping and then slipping behind her. I'll say anything you want, do anything you want.

I nodded toward the door behind her. Do you work there?

She tilted her head toward me in mute reply, her right hand reappearing as it slid across the door toward the knob. She was now tear-eyed and quivering. Her innocent face was stiff with terror as if I was Azreael, the angel of death--something which convinced me she was telling the truth.

I took out my Private Investigator's ID and held it up. My name is Deacon Bishop. This is my office.

Tracy visibly relaxed, letting go a sigh. Then her hands dropped to her sides, her shoulders dipping with relief. You're the private detective, she gasped. Thank God. I thought--

Call the police, I interrupted. Tell them who you are, the building address. Tell them a man tried to kill me and he is dead. Then, wait in your office. They'll want to talk to you.

Tracy's upper teeth dug into her lower lip like alabaster daggers plunging into a plush red pillow. But she did not move.

Didn't you hear me? I demanded, impatiently. I've got a dead man, here!

Her mouth twisted like she was going to cry. Then she took a tentative step forward, her right hand outstretched as if feeling her way through a darkened room. Are you sure he's dead? Maybe, he's in shock? I know first aid. I could

Do what I told you, damn it!

Tracy uttered a terrified cry, whirled and ran into the office behind, slamming the door after herself.

I rolled Harry onto his back. Blue bulges from constant worry were beneath his blindly staring eyes. Fresh scratch-marks traced a bloody quadrate down the side of one fat cheek. His mouth was twisted in angry complaint, probably because he died without killing me. I quickly rummaged through his pockets.

In one was a bundle of cash amounting to several hundred dollars. In another was a wallet containing a phony Police Captain's ID and Harry's driving license. The latter displayed an address in a tough section of East Austin. The remaining pockets held a collection of matchbooks from the Clipped Wing Nightclub. I jerked up his pant-legs. Holstered around one fat ankle was a snub-nosed .38 special. I found the mate to it tucked under his belt, beneath his shirt. If he owned bragging rights to house or car keys, Harry died without their company.

I lifted each of his arms in turn to examine his hands. The latter were thick and wide like flattened soccer-balls. His fingers were stubby and pink, the nails bitten back to the quick. Dirt clung to the folds of his knuckles, like feeding worms, except for the middle digit on his left hand. Blood glistened there from a fresh scrape, possibly the result of slugging someone. The blonde's face was not damaged. If someone went toe-to-toe with Harry, he or she was probably sporting a split lip or a closed eye.

I opened several buttons near the bloodied area of his shirt and pulled the sticky cloth away from his hairy middle. In addition to the round I sent into him, a small caliber bullet roosted in Harry's solar plexus. The flesh behind the blood-soaked cloth was scorched. Whoever was responsible for the first wound stood close enough to press the weapon against his big belly and smell Harry's tinny cologne.

A sound came from the hall. The blonde was on her way back, this time without her shoes and purse. Tracy tapped knuckles lightly upon the doorjamb even though I was staring directly at her. Then she slinked over, her hands clutched in prayer-fashion.

They're coming, she whispered, as if Harry might object.

I told you to wait in your office.

I was afraid to be alone. Tracy squatted beside me. Her brown eyes darted from Harry's face, to mine. Do you know him?

His name was Harry Wright. He used to be a private investigator until jury-tampering nullified his license.

Why would he want to kill you?

I returned what I'd taken out of Harry's pockets. Then I stood up and moved past Tracy, into the hallway.

I'm the type who collects enemies the way blondes like you collect stares, I muttered, over one shoulder. Harry was one of them. I don't remember seeing you, before.

I started work last week. I'm the bookkeeper.

I turned to face her. How come you're working so late?

Quarterly reports. She ran her fingers through her hair in a detached motion. I need the overtime. My brother and I share an apartment. But he's not working, yet.

My eyes scanned the corridor from door to door, looking for anything to explain what went on before Harry made his fatal appearance at my office door. At mid-hall I spotted droplets of blood. They glowed upon the white marble floor like tiny ruby buttons. The first was in a directly line to the office from which Tracy came. The others formed an increasingly wet trail to my door. I returned my attention to her, wondering how much more she knew.

Tracy now stood next to Harry's corpse, her eyes riveted upon me, her nylon-encased feet circled by his blood. I let my stare dip to her hands. She had nails long enough to do the scratches on Harry's face. But her fingers were clean, no bloodstains. Of course, she could have washed them while I was dodging bullets in the dark. But it didn't seem likely Tracy would remain after such a bloodcurdling encounter. She was too timid.

Did you see who did it? I asked.

Her eyebrows arched suggestively as she pointed at me.

I pointed down at the blood drops. No. Who shot Harry, out here?

The lines around her mouth dimpled, and then crimped into a web of fear.

I've never seen him, before, she suddenly sobbed, as if reading my suspicious thoughts. Her front teeth chewed her trembling lower lip for a few seconds. Then she took a deep breath and continued in a more controlled fashion, I was working alone. I had the door locked. The lights went out. I thought it was the storm. I got up. Then I heard the scream. Afterwards I heard the first bang. That's when I opened the office door. I thought there might be a fire. But it was dark. When I didn't smell any smoke I closed the door, and waited. She pointed to Harry. He must have come to rob someone.

I shook my head. Harry was flush and loaded for bear. He was a worried man on a dangerous job. It's the only explanation for the hardware he carried. As far as I can tell, you and I are the only ones on this floor. But Harry didn't come to play patty-cake with me. I was an afterthought. Did you scratch his face?

Her blond hair fanned as she shook her head in denial. I've never seen him before.

Was anyone with you, tonight? Your brother, for example?

Melvin? No. I told you, I was alone. Her knuckles went white as she formed fists. Then her eyes brightened. But there was someone in the hall. A woman. The scream, remember?

You saw her?

Tracy shook her head. But, she wore high heels. I heard them clicking on the steps when she ran down the stairs. And I smelled her perfume. It was Shalimar.

How many bangs did you hear?

She thought a moment, her lips moving in silence. Then Tracy murmured, Three. Maybe four. I'm not sure. All this is so terrible I can't keep it straight!

Sirens wailed in the background as a reminder of how short I was on time. I went back into my office, stopping directly in front of Tracy. You're sure you didn't scream?

Her eyes darted away as eyes often do when someone is about to lie. I'd never do that.

Was the scream before or after the first shot?

Tracy backed away from me. Before, I think. I don't know. Maybe after. I can't remember. Everything's a blur.

The sirens wound down and then went dead just outside the building. Tracy turned toward the office windows as car doors slammed on the street below. Then her hands twisted in the folds of her skirt as if she were wringing the life from it.

What are you afraid of? I asked.

Her chin tilted down, her eyes dropping to Harry's corpse. It was then she realized Harry's blood was soaking her stockings. My God!

I touched her shoulder to draw her attention back to me. I did not think Tracy was responsible for shooting Harry. However, I doubted her lack of involvement in the events leading up to it. I was also convinced she stayed late for reasons other than quarterly reports.

Tracy whirled away as if jabbed by a cattle prod. Don't touch me!

The locals will have questions, I warned. If there's something going on between you and Harry, tell me. I can help.

She licked her lips and gave a furtive glance toward the hallway. I don't want to get involved.

Just being here puts you in it, Tracy.

Her body trembled as if some inner thing was fighting to get out. You had every right to kill him, she declared. You don't need me as a witness.

I moved toward her. What's got you scared, Tracy? Harry? Was he after you? Why did he come here?

Her mouth gaped. But, no sound came out. Anxiously, she twisted toward the windows. As I watched, she wiped her palms on her skirt. They left frightened damp traces on the gray cloth. Her stare returned to me. Still, she said nothing.

When we were face to face I put my hands on her shoulders. Are the police looking for you?

She leaned forward pressing her forehead to my chest. Not them. I could face that. It's someone else. If my name and picture get in the paper, he'll know where I am. He'll kill me.

I tilted her chin up with one finger. What's this scary guy's name?

Her face lost all expression, as if she were utterly lost. Then she whispered, Frank Portello.

Death impacts people in different ways. Some get angry. Some become terrified. Some put on an innocent act and hope the rest of the world takes it at face value. Very few claim a mafia boss—the Capo di Tutti Capi--like Frank Portello is out to kill them.

I tried to conceal my disbelief as I asked, Why is Old Frank after you?

The corners of her mouth sagged. I have something Frank wants, something that'll put him in the death-house.

Being a cop squandered a third of my life. Mostly in efforts to put Frank Portello and his sons behind bars. Not once in all those years was I successful. Bribed judges. Bribed jurors. Bribed or missing witnesses. Always, something went wrong. Always, the three of them walked.

What kind of something? I asked, with more than a hint of eagerness.

A book.

His accounts? I pressed, hopefully.

"His private ledger, she whispered. Pay-offs to who and for what. He's got everybody looking for me. His men. Cops he owns. People on the street. Anybody can collect on the reward. All they have to do is point. I had to dye and cut my hair so I wouldn't be recognized. Now."

If Tracy possessed Frank's private record, decades of frustration would finally be repaid by sweet success. And I was willing to pay with bullets, lies and blood to get my hands on it! Unfortunately, my only chance at getting hold of the book meant excluding Tracy from the unavoidable investigation into Harry's death. Old Frank would be informed immediately as to who was involved. Once she was identified, Tracy's life would quickly come under Frank's unsympathetic control.

She would be taken into custody as a material witness, but Tracy would never arrive at the detention center. Instead, she would be whisked away to secluded spot where torture would ensure her cooperation. No matter how determined she might be, within minutes Tracy would divulge the ledger's location. Once Frank had it, she would be killed--her body never found.

Get your pantyhose off, I ordered.

She gave me a look of disgust before retreating a step. What do you take me for?

I pointed down at her bloody feet. You can't go out like that. You'll leave a trail.

She stumbled back; hiking up her skirt, as if to wade a stream. Then her hands clawed at the nylon, tearing it to shreds. Seconds later, she stood before me nearly naked, her hands holding up her skirt, her bulging eyes staring in horror at the blood-saturated garment, on the floor.

I'm going to be sick, she choked.

She tried to run past me, her skirt dropping like a curtain on the best act I had seen in months. I sidestepped and grabbed her into my arms. Tracy's body felt taut and hot against mine. Desire spread from my groin to my chest, then to my head. She looked up at me, her mouth quivering. Then I felt her pelvis press firmly against mine.

Please? she begged. Help me?

I pushed her back, holding Tracy at arms’ length. My eyes drifted from her face, to the points of her small breasts, to her skirt, to her bare legs below; my dirty mind remembering all she had displayed.

I'll do anything, she pleaded.

I released her, then picked up the shredded nylon before pointing to the hall. Take the steps to the basement. You'll find a tunnel to the hotel next door. Tomorrow when you return to work we'll talk about Frank, understand? Be sure you lock up as you leave. Now hurry.

She gave me a fleeting smile before sprinting back to her office.

I went to one of the windows and opened it. Police cruisers were gathering on the rain-drenched streets like dogs at a food dish. I tossed the pantyhose to the storm, shut the window and then quickly moved out into the hallway. There, I wiped up the bloody traces of Tracy's bare feet with my handkerchief. I still suspected she was concealing something, but I was not about to pass on a chance to nail Frank Portello.

It was then my eyes noted something small and brassy near the stair exit. I went over and crouched down by it. On the floor was the casing from a .32 automatic, probably from the round first hitting Harry. I took out my pen and slid the tip into the small cartridge's opening and lifted it. The stampings on the base indicated it was from a common manufacturer. However there was a curious mark from where the weapon's extractor pins hooked onto the cartridge during ejection from the firing chamber. It left a distinctive dent. I tilted my pen downward and allowed the cartridge to slip back to its place on the floor.

Chapter 3

Seconds after Tracy took to the stairs, I heard the elevator whine as it crawled up from the first floor. I lit a cigarette and waited in the hallway near the first drops of Harry's blood. A fatal shooting, whether done by accident, self-defense or otherwise, is treated as a homicide at the outset.