Lawrence Sanders - McNally's risk

"I was on a forty-eight," he explained. "Then they called me to come in to honcho this mess."

"Who found the car?"

"Some kid who was snorkeling. Just chance. It could have laid there for days, weeks, or months without being spotted. We got a hook on it, but like I told you, it's upside down and it's a tough haul."

We walked down to the shoreline. The winch was whining and the cable was retracting very, very slowly. We stood silently and watched the Jeep come skidding out of the lake. The winch stopped when the car was in the shallows. Then four huskies, two uniformed cops, and two wet-suited divers began turning it over. It was a muscle job, and it took five tries before they got the Cherokee onto its wheels.

"Rather them than me," Al said. "Instant hernia."

The winch started up again, not straining now, and the car was pulled up onto the beach. Water streamed from it and strands of seaweed were clinging to the windshield. We moved forward for a closer look. The door on the driver's side was open and the window was shattered.

"Take a look," Rogoff said.

I peered within. Marcia Hawkin was lying face up in the back. Her eyes were wide. She stared at nothing. She was still wearing the middy blouse and silk skirt but one shoe was off. That single bare foot-small, pale, limp-affected me most.

"Squirrel," I said softly.

"What?" Al said.

"Squirrel," I repeated. "Her nickname. Her father called her that."

"Then he knew," Al said roughly. "She was a real wacko."

Thomas Bunion, the Assistant ME, was there and directed the removal of the body after photographs and a video had been taken of the car's interior.

"What's that?" I asked Rogoff, pointing through a back window.

He shielded his eyes from the rays of the lowering sun. "Looks like a sheet," he said. "All wadded up. Stained. Could be blood. Or maybe stuff in the water. I'll leave it to the wonks."

"Al," I said, "did you drive your pickup here?"

"Sure," he said. "It's parked up near the road. Why?"

"Want to follow me back to my place?"

He looked at me. "Now why should I do that?"

"Because," I said, "I have something I think you better see."

And I told him how Marcia Hawkin had given me a letter to be opened only in the event of her death. The sergeant listened intently.

"You haven't opened it, Archy?" he asked when I had finished.

"Of course not. I promised her."

"I wish you had told me this morning when we talked about her."

"Why should I have done that, Al? She had just been reported missing. And you told me yourself that the Department would take no action for forty-eight hours."

"Yeah, but if I had known she left you a letter it might have changed things."

"How so?"

"Because it meant she figured she could die-and soon. Most young kids think they're going to live forever. Where is the letter now?"

"In my desk at home."

"Let's go," he said.

We were at the Chez McNally in less than an hour. I stopped in the kitchen to pluck a bottle of Sterling vodka from the freezer and fill a plastic bowl with cubes from the ice tray. Then we tramped upstairs to my barrack.

Al likes to claim he's inured to the sight of violent death. He's lying, of course, because he's a sensitive man. I don't even try to pretend. That bare foot of the dead Marcia Hawkin had spooked me. The sergeant made no objection when I poured us heavy vodka-rocks. We both gulped and sighed.

I sat behind my desk, took out Squirrel's white envelope, and held it out to him.

"Don't you want to open it, Archy?" Rogoff said. "After all, the girl gave the letter to you."

I shook my head. "It's totally irrational," I admitted, "but I just can't. You do it."

I handed him my opener, which looks like a miniature Persian dagger. He slit the flap of the envelope carefully and shook out the contents, a single sheet of white notepaper, and unfolded it with the tip of the dagger. He bent over my desk to read.

"Well?" I said impatiently. "What does it say?"

He chuffed a dry laugh. "Written in ink, addressed 'To Whom It May Concern.' How does that grab you? And it's signed Marcia Hawkin."

"All right, all right!" I cried. "But what does it say?"

He looked up at me with a queer expression. "One sentence," he said. "It says 'I murdered my father.' "

That evening, during the cocktail hour, I informed my parents of the death of Marcia Hawkin. They were as much bewildered as shocked, for the sudden and brutal loss of two lives in one family seemed totally inexplicable. Mother, I believe, was ready to ascribe it to a cruel vagary of fate. But father, I knew, suspected dark mischief was afoot. He is instinctively suspicious of linked events others might term a coincidence.

"Was the young woman a suicide, Archy?" he inquired.

"I really don't know, sir," I answered. "Sergeant Rogoff promised to tell me what he can after the cause of death has been established."

"She was a friend of yours?" he asked, busying himself with the martini pitcher.

"She thought so," I said defensively, "although I had spoken to her only three or four times. She seemed quite disturbed."

"How awful," the mater said. "Perhaps her father's murder was the reason. I must send Louise a letter of condolence."

"No need, mother," I said, "I intend to call on her tomorrow, and I'll express our sympathy."

"Oh yes, Archy," she said, "that would be nice. And be sure to ask if there is anything we can do to help."

And we left it at that. I mentioned nothing of the final letter Marcia had entrusted to my care. Rogoff and I had decided to keep that dreadful message from public knowledge until its authenticity could be determined. As Al said, she was such a scatty kid she might have imagined the patricide.

"Or protecting someone else," I suggested. "The actual killer."

"Yeah," the sergeant said. "That, too."

Dinner that evening was baked salmon with a heavenly crust of dill. I knew it was a magnificent dish, but it was one of the rare occasions in my life when my appetite faltered, and I refused a third helping. As soon as decently possible, I excused myself and retired to my aerie.

There I poured myself a marc and opened a fresh packet of English Ovals. Wasn't it Mark Twain who said, "It's easy to stop smoking; I've done it a dozen times." If it wasn't Mr. Clemens, it might have been Fred Allen. No matter; I had no intention that evening of even trying. I lighted up, sipped my brandy, and thought of Marcia Hawkin. Squirrel.

I tried to recall everything she had said during our final conversation. Then I consulted my journal, which offered some assistance but no actual quotations. She had spoken of taking control of her own life, of solving her money worries, of outsmarting persons unknown who were apparently treating her with contempt.

I did remember exactly one thing she had said, and in light of what I had witnessed that afternoon it was so poignant I drained my drink and poured another. She had said, "I'm in the driver's seat now." But the last time I saw her, she wasn't in the driver's seat at all, was she. She was crumpled in the rear of a sodden car, one pale, dead foot dangling.

I endured that aching memory as long as I could, and then I phoned Consuela Garcia. I had to talk to a young woman who was still alive. After what had happened to Shirley Feebling and Marcia Hawkin I was beginning to fear I had become a Jonah and all the ladies of my acquaintance were doomed.

"Hiya, Archy," Connie said warmly. "I'm glad you called. Did you hear what happened to Marcia Hawkin? It was on TV."

"Yes," I said, "I heard."

"Sounds like suicide to me," she said. "The poor kid. Maybe her father's murder pushed her over the edge."

"Maybe. What have you been up to, Connie?"