Ed McBain - Cinderella

“Le contó de su hermana,” Domingo said.

“No, she didn’t!” Kate said.

“ Did she tell you about your sister?” Ernesto asked. “That your sister is dead?”

Kate said nothing. If they knew her sister was dead... oh my God, if they knew ...

Ernesto sighed deeply, and nodded to Domingo.

Kate broke for the door, screaming, tripping over Domingo’s immediately extended leg and foot, falling headlong across the room, twisting so she wouldn’t land square on her face, her left cheek nonetheless colliding with the floor. Pain rocketed into her skull but she started to get to her feet at once, coming up like a runner, palms flat on the floor, legs behind her and ready to push off, ready to propel her toward that bedroom door and into the living room, and out the front door and down the stairs to the street, screaming all the way. But Domingo jumped on her back and knocked her to the floor again, straddling her like a rider on a fallen animal, his left hand grabbing for her long hair, twisting it in his fist, pulling back on it, head and chin rising, his right hand — the hand with the knife — coming around her body instantly and slashing swiftly across her throat.

Her eyes opened wide.

She saw blood gushing from her throat in a torrent.

A scream bubbled soundlessly in her mouth.

In an instant, she was dead.

Domingo wiped the blade of his knife on her skirt, and then ran his hand up her thigh to her panties. Ernesto watched him and said nothing. He tore the page with Anne Santoro’s address and phone number from the address book, and then walked toward the bedroom door.

“ Vienes ?” he asked.

Domingo nodded.

At ten o’clock on Wednesday morning, Matthew remembered that he had to call Susan about the Father’s Day weekend. He did not much feel like making this particular call. On his desk were copies of the two files he had Xeroxed at Otto Samalson’s office on Monday. Matthew wanted to read those files more thoroughly than he had yesterday, when he’d only briefly glanced through them. He had asked Cynthia Huellen, the firm’s factotum, not to put through any calls. But now he was about to make one. To Susan. Who, on Sunday night, had left his bedroom in a huff.

Years ago, when there were still some laughs left in their marriage, he and Susan had defined a “huff” as a “small two-wheeled carriage.” A person who went off in a huff was therefore a somewhat lower-class individual who could not afford to hire or own a “high dudgeon.” A high dudgeon was one of those big old expensive four-wheelers. A person who went off in “high dudgeon” was usually quite well off. A person who was in a “tizzy,” however, was truly rich since a tizzy was a luxurious coach drawn by a great team of horses to a stately mansion called “Sixes and Sevens.” All at Sixes and Sevens were in a tizzy save for Tempest, the youngest daughter, who was in a “teapot.” A teapot was even smaller than a huff, about the size of a cart, but fitted with a striped parasol that...

And so it had gone.

In the days when their marriage was still alive.

These days, their marriage was as dead as old Aunt Hattie, who had left Sixes and Sevens in a “trice,” which was a flat-bedded vehicle used to transport coffins. Dead and gone. Like all things mortal. Which is why he had no burning desire to talk to Susan today. But place the call he did. Dialed the number by heart — used to be his number, after all — dialed all seven numerals, and waited. Listened to the ringing on the other end. Waited. Five... six... seven... all at Sixes and Sevens...

“Hello?”

Susan’s voice.

“Susan, hi, it’s Matthew.”

“Matthew! I was just about to call you!”

“I wanted to discuss arrangements for the weekend,” he said. Business as usual. Forget the foolish hugging and kissing on Sunday. “You do remember it’s...?”

“Father’s Day, yes, of course,” she said. “But, Matthew, first I want to apologize for Sunday night.”

“There’s no need.”

“I’m so ashamed, I could die.”

“Well, really...”

“That’s why I was calling,” she said. “To apologize. I’m genuinely sorry, Matthew.”

“So am I,” he said, and guessed he meant it.

“Walking out,” she said. “Dumb. Just plain dumb.” She hesitated and then said, “Just when it was getting good, too.”

There was a sudden silence on the line.

Matthew cleared his throat.

“Uh, Susan,” he said, “about the weekend...”

“Yes, the weekend,” Susan said. “Here’s what I thought, if it’s okay with you. Can you pick her up here at about five on Friday?”

“Sure, that’ll—”

“And if you have a little time, maybe you can come in for a drink.”

Another silence on the line.

“Yes, I’d like that,” Matthew said.

“So would I,” Susan said.

“So... Friday at five, right?”

“Right. See you then. And Matthew...?”

“Yes?”

Her voice lowered. “It really was getting good.”

There was a small click on the line.

It sounded like a maiden’s blush.

Smiling, he put the receiver back on the cradle and pulled the first of the two folders to him. Both folders had been labeled here at the office yesterday morning, after he’d given the photocopied pages to Cynthia. Both folders contained Otto’s standard contract form, signed by himself and the party or parties hiring him, stapled to which was a two-paragraph rider. The first paragraph stated why Otto was being hired, and the second was a disclaimer to the effect that whereas Otto would investigate diligently and in good faith, there was no guarantee, stated or implied, that he would necessarily achieve results. That Otto had felt it essential to add this rider to his basic contract indicated that he’d been burned before and was taking no chances on collecting his fee. Each folder also contained Otto’s daily notes on the case, all of them typed clean.

The first folder was labeled DAVID LARKIN.

Whether you approached the place by land or by sea, it didn’t make any difference. Either way, you could see the sign announcing Larkin Boats. Big white double-sided sign with ice-blue plastic lettering on each side, LARKIN BOATS. Biggest retailer of boats in all Calusa, sold them new, sold them used, sold them from dinghies to yachts — Larkin Boats, his TV commercials said, The Way to the Water. The showroom was on the Trail itself, but behind that was a deepwater canal and enough dock space to accommodate fifteen, twenty boats, depending on the size. Bird sanctuary just beyond the canal, and beyond that the Inland Waterway, man wants to take a boat out for a spin, be my guest. Larkin Boats, The Way to the Water.

Late that Wednesday morning, Larkin was sitting with Jimmy the Accountant on the foredeck of a fifty-seven-foot Chris-Craft Constellation, a boat maybe twenty years old but still in terrific shape, could take you clear to the Bahamas if you wanted it to. Larkin was wearing jeans and Topsiders, and a white T-shirt with blue lettering on it: Larkin Boats, The Way to the Water. Jimmy the Accountant was wearing a green polyester suit and pointy brown shoes and a white shirt with a tie looked like somebody vomited on it and mirrored sunglasses and a narrow-brimmed straw fedora. Jimmy was five feet eight inches tall and he weighed a hundred and eighty pounds, and Larkin thought he looked more like a fat spic than the Italian he actually was. Jimmy’s real name was James Anthony Largura but almost everybody called him Jimmy the Accountant or Jimmy Legs, both names having to do with his occupation. Jimmy the Accountant came to see you when there was an accounting due. Jimmy Legs broke your legs if you didn’t account to his satisfaction. Or your arms. Or your head. Or sometimes only your eyeglasses.