Ed McBain - The House That Jack Built

“I mean, Art never had any personal contact with her. It was my father who went to see her the first time, just before Christmas. And then me, last month sometime.”

“Uh-huh,” Matthew said.

“I know you can’t negotiate with my father, not while he’s in the hospital. But can’t you talk to me ? I mean, I’m the granddaughter, not Art. What the hell does Art have to do with Grandma?”

Matthew didn’t know what Art had to do with Grandma. He didn’t even know what Art had to do with Helen, unless he was the one who’d knocked her up. He knew only that Arthur Nelson Hurley owned a car that had been parked across the street from the Parrish house on Saturday afternoon. Two men had been sitting in that car, casing the house. One of them forty years old and wearing black. The other one a young redhead. Billy Walker was a redhead in his early twenties. Matthew figured the one in black had been Arthur Nelson Hurley.

“Any idea when he’ll be back?” he asked.

“I guess that’s my answer, huh?” Helen said. “She wants you to talk to him . That really ticks me off. She makes out that fucking check, it better be in my name, I’ll tell you that.”

Matthew said nothing.

“Is she going to meet my price?” Helen asked.

Matthew still said nothing.

“You sure know how to take orders, don’t you?” Helen said. “Grandma tells you talk to the man , you talk to the man .”

There was the sound of an automobile outside.

Helen went to the door and opened it.

A blue Honda Civic was just nosing in through the rain, braking to a stop in front of the unit.

The door on the driver’s side of the car opened. The man who stepped out of the car and came sprinting toward the cabin was at least forty years old. He was wearing not black, but green. Green polyester slacks and a green short-sleeved sports shirt. There was an earring in his left ear. The two cops sitting the Parrish house had mentioned that the one dressed in black had worn an earring in his left ear. He had worn his black hair long. He had looked like a total friggin’ hippie asshole.

“That’s Art,” Helen said.

Arthur Nelson Hurley came into the room.

“Damn rain,” he said, and looked at Matthew and said, “Who’s this?”

“Grandma’s lawyer,” Helen said.

“Oh?”

He looked at Matthew more closely.

“He’s got orders to talk only to you,” Helen said.

“Who are you representing?” Hurley asked. “The old lady? Or both her and her daughter?”

“Well…”

“What I’m asking, does Helen’s mother know you’re here? ”

“Well… no,” Matthew said.

“Then whatever you’ve got to say is coming from the old lady, is that right? Elise has nothing to…”

“Well, no, I wouldn’t say that, either.”

“What would you say?”

Matthew noticed that he had a tattoo on his left forearm. A huge snake strangling some kind of small helpless animal.

“Mr. Hurley,” he said, “as you know, I’m an attorney…”

“Right, Sophie Brechtmann’s lawyer.”

“Well… no.”

“You’re not Grandma’s lawyer?” Helen said.

“No.”

“Then who are you?”

“I’m representing a man named Ralph Parrish, who’s been accused of…”

“Parrish!”

The name hissed into the room as if it were coming from the tattooed snake on Hurley’s arm. Instead, it came from Billy’s mouth, an electric-blue whisper that seemed to surprise even him. He looked immediately to Hurley in apology, both of them realizing in the same instant that Billy’s repetition of the name had confirmed his recognition of it.

“Did you know Jonathan Parrish?” Matthew asked at once.

“What do you want here?” Hurley said.

“The State Attorney has made a demand for notice of alibi…”

“We never set foot inside that house!” Billy said.

“Were you anywhere near it on the morning of the murder?” Matthew said.

“Murder?” Billy said.

“What murder?” Hurley said.

“All we done…”

“Shut up, Billy. What murder? Who got murdered?”

“Jonathan Parrish.”

“Oh, shit!” Billy said.

“When?”

“Last month. The thirtieth.”

“Where?”

“His house on Whisper Key.”

“Oh, Jesus, Art! We were watching a house where a man got…”

“I told you to shut up!”

“I knew them damn pictures would get us in trouble!”

“Did he tell you to shut up?” Helen said.

“This man comes here talking about the State Attorney…”

“What pictures?” Matthew said.

“Goodbye, Mr. Hope,” Helen said.

White man gets made, it’s easy for him. He changes his clothes, he puts on a fake mustache or a phony nose, he starts driving a different car, he’s a whole new private investigator. Black man gets made, it’s tough shit. He can change his clothes, his car, his nose, his fingerprints, there’s one thing he can’t change. His color. He’s black. The person he’s tailing turns around and sees this black man, it doesn’t matter if he’s wearing a blond wig and a dress now, he’s still black and he’s the man doing the tailing, he’s the man who’s been made, man, and there ain’t a goddamn thing he can do about it.

Warren Chambers had been made.

The lady was on to him.

Driving into the parking lot of Marina Lou’s, the sky and the bay and the rain as gray as his aging gray Ford, Warren watched Leona Summerville get out of her green Jag and all he could think was I’ve been made.

He had followed her home from her doctor’s appointment at the Bayou Professional Building.

He had waited a discreet two blocks from her house on Peony Drive until she emerged again at four-thirty.

He had followed her here to Marina Lou’s. She had driven as straight as an arrow, no ring-around-the-rosie this time, the lady was on to him for sure, the lady knew he was behind her.

She was handing her keys to the valet now.

She had changed her clothes for cocktail time, pale blue pleated skirt and blouse, pale blue low-heeled pumps. Was her lover waiting inside for her? Little cozy drink overlooking Calusa Bay? Her eyes swept the parking lot. There was a smile on her face. He knew that she knew he was sitting there watching her. How could he possibly tell Matthew Hope that he had blown the surveillance?

Leona Summerville was about to enter the building.

And then, as though some unseen and all-powerful being had summoned into Warren’s presence the very object of his thoughts, Matthew Hope himself pulled up to the front door in his tan Karmann Ghia, and got out of the car.

“Leona!” he called.

She stopped. She turned. She smiled.

Matthew handed the valet his keys. Leona took his arm. Warren watched them as they went inside together.

Huh? he thought.

And suddenly wondered…

But no.

But why not?

Was it possible?

He hoped not.

He hated Byzantine plots.

Helen was weeping.

Hurley hated it when she cried.

He felt like hitting her when she cried, give her something to really cry about. At the same time, he felt like holding her, comforting her. He wondered if he loved her. These mixed feelings about her. Wanting to belt her, tell her to shut the fuck up, wanting to hold her at the same time. Feelings about what she was carrying inside her, too. His baby. Never felt like this in his life. Never. Wondered if it’d be a boy. Sort of hoped it’d be a girl. Boys had it tough in this world. Too many things out there waiting to fuck you up.

“Don’t cry, baby, come on now,” he said, and took her in his arms, and kissed her.