Ed McBain - Goldilocks

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Let me tempt you.”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “From the way it looks now, I may not even be able to call you later.”

“Why not?” she asked at once. “Is something wrong?”

“Jamie Purchase’s wife and kids were murdered last night.”

“You’re joking!”

“No, honey, I wish I—”

“Oh, Matt, how awful. Do they know who did it?”

“Not yet.”

“It wasn’t Jamie, was it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“But you’re not sure.”

“I just don’t know, Aggie.”

“What do the police think?”

“A man named Ehrenberg’s in charge of the investigation. He said Jamie’s not a suspect, but I’m not sure I believe him.”

“What’d Jamie tell you?”

“That he didn’t do it. Honey, I’ve got to go. What time will you be through with that rehearsal?”

“One at the very latest.”

“I’ll try to call you after that. Aggie...?”

“Yes, darling?”

“I almost told her last night. I almost told Susan I wanted a divorce.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

“All right, darling.”

“Aggie, I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“I’ll try to call later.”

“Yes.”

“I love you,” I said, and put the phone gently back on the cradle. I fished another dime from my pocket, looked up the number for the Magnolia Garden Motel, and quickly dialed it.

“Magnolia Garden,” a woman said, “good morning.”

“Good morning,” I said. “May I please speak to Dr. Purchase, he’s in room number twelve.”

“Unit number twelve, yes, sir,” she said. “Dr. Purchase, Dr. Purchase...” Her voice trailed. I had the feeling she was running her index finger down a list of guests. “He’s checked out, sir,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When did he leave?”

“About nine, I guess it was. Calusa Cab picked him up.”

“Thank you,” I said, and hung up. It was very hot in the phone booth. I opened the door to let in some air. A trailer truck was rumbling past, it filled the booth with noise and diesel exhaust. I knew from experience that taxicab companies, in Calusa or anywhere else, would tell no one but the police where they had driven a passenger. I debated calling Calusa Cab and saying I was Detective Ehrenberg. I didn’t have the nerve. Instead, I tried to figure where Jamie might have gone at nine in the morning, still dressed in what he was wearing the night before — he’d taken nothing with him when we left the house. Not even a shaving kit. I figured the only place he could have gone was back home to shower and shave and change his clothes. I knew the number by heart.

“Detective Di Luca,” a voice said. Ehrenberg’s partner, the small dark man with the blue eyes. His voice was rather high-pitched. It came as a surprise. I’d have expected from him something closer to a rasp or a whisper.

“This is Matthew Hope,” I said. “I’m Dr. Purchase’s attorney.”

“Yes, sir, good morning,” Di Luca said.

“Good morning. I was wondering if Dr. Purchase might be there.”

“Yes, sir, he got here just a little while ago. Did you want to speak to him?”

“If I may.”

“Well... just a second, okay?”

He put down the phone. I heard him yelling something to somebody named Harry. I caught the word “doctor,” and then Jamie came on the line.

“Hello?” he said.

“Jamie, this is Matt. Listen to me. I want to see you right away, and not at the house with policemen crawling all over the place.”

“What’s wrong, Matt?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I have to talk to you. How nearly dressed are you?”

“I’m dressed.”

“Had you planned on working today?”

“No. I’ve already called in and told Louise to cancel my appointments.”

“Good. Can you get to my office by ten-thirty?”

“What is it, Matt?”

“Can you get there?”

“Yes, sure.”

“I’ll see you then,” I said. “Good-bye, Jamie.”

“Good-bye, Matt,” he said. His voice seemed puzzled.

I put the receiver back onto the hook and went out to where I’d parked the car near the air hose. The garage attendant was standing there with his hands on his hips. He seemed offended about something; I guessed I was blocking his hose. He kept watching me as I climbed into the car. Just as I started to back out, he said, “How much you want for that car?”

“It’s not for sale,” I said.

“You ought to get that fender fixed,” he said. “Ruins the look of it.”

“I’ll get around to it.”

“They don’t make those cars no more, you know.”

“I know,” I said. “It’s a classic.”

“Damn right, it is,” he said.

The day was beginning to warm up. I turned on the air conditioner. It rattled and clonked and clunked, but it cooled off the automobile. It was almost ten o’clock when I reached the cutoff to Route 74. I switched on the radio and caught the last few bars of a schmaltzy arrangement of “Sunrise, Sunset.” The news came on immediately afterward. The lead story was the murder of Maureen Purchase and her daughters Emily and Eve.

It was real at last.

Cynthia Huellen was a native Floridian with long blonde hair and a glorious tan that she worked at almost fanatically; never a weekend went by that did not find Cynthia on a beach or a boat. She was easily the most beautiful person in the law offices of Summerville & Hope, twenty-three years old, and employed by us as a receptionist. We kept telling her to quit the job and go to law school instead. She already had a B.A. from the University of South Florida, and we were ready to take her into the firm the minute she passed her bar exams. Cynthia just grinned and said, “No, I don’t want the hassle of school again.”

She looked up as I came into the office.

“Frank would like to see you right away,” she said.

“Okay. Any calls?”

“Mr. Galatier.”

“What’d he want?”

“Said to remind you of his appointment at twelve.”

“How could I forget? Anybody else?”

“Your wife. Said it wasn’t important.”

“Okay. Buzz Frank and tell him I’m going to shower and change. I’ll be with him in five minutes. Tell him Jamie’s coming in at ten-thirty.”

“What an awful, awful thing,” Cynthia said.

“Yes. And Cyn, I think maybe you’d better call Galatier and tell him I can’t see him after all. It’s liable to get hectic around here, and I won’t need a goddamn lunatic underfoot.”

“Did you win?” Cynthia asked.

“No,” I answered.

The one luxury I’d insisted on in our offices was a shower stall. The architect wanted to put it on the wall between my office and Frank’s, next door to the bathroom, where the plumbing was going to be. But he couldn’t do this without cutting down on the interior size of Frank’s office. Frank said he did not mind people taking showers in the office when they should have been taking them at home. He did, however, mind his office being trimmed to the size of a broom closet simply to accommodate a sweaty athlete. Our architect had opted for the other side of the corridor instead, putting the shower stall between the conference room and Karl Jennings’s office — Karl was just out of law school and enjoyed no executive privileges. I went into my own office, picked up my change of clothes, and was starting toward the door again when the telephone rang. I put everything down on the leather couch opposite the desk and picked up the phone.

“Yes?” I said.

“Mr. Hope, it’s your wife again,” Cynthia said. “Can you talk to her now?”

“All right, put her on,” I said. I looked at my watch. It was almost ten past ten; Jamie would be here in twenty minutes and I still hadn’t talked to Frank.