Brett Halliday: Blue Murder

Tucker lived among wealthy neighbors, with ocean under his front windows. He met Shayne at the door and thanked him gravely for coming. If he was upset about anything, he was enough of an actor not to show it. He had a short scar on one cheekbone, from a long-ago accident, strong lines at the corners of his mouth. His hair was still thick, but going white. Naturally his teeth were extremely good. A white suit was one of his trademarks, and that was what he was wearing now, with white shoes and a tie. Shayne, by contrast, had been drinking in an Opa-locka bar after a round of golf, and he still wore golf clothes.

After shaking hands with a politician’s grip, Tucker took Shayne into a room filled with plants, with glass on two sides. While he was making his guest a drink, he replenished his own.

“I don’t know how much Judge Nickerson told you,” he said, turning. “My wife has left me.”

Shayne accepted the drink. The nominating convention was less than a week away, and if Tucker was having domestic trouble, it might cost him some support. A wife who photographed well and did what she was told was a big help in politics at this level. But of course Shayne wasn’t here because of an interest in Tucker’s career.

“Nickerson said something to me about Frankie Capp.”

Tucker’s lip came back in a quick grimace, not quite a smile. “That was to get your attention. We had a hunch you might not consider my wife’s departure the major calamity of the week. Nickerson tells me you don’t usually take husband-and-wife cases. Capp, yes. She’s been seen with him. I understand you thought you had him on something last year, and he was too quick for you.”

Shayne swirled the cognac in the small bouquet glass. “He bribed two jurors. He’s one of the names on my list. How long has she been gone?”

Tucker drew a long breath and suddenly looked older. “I’m not sure. Bear with me for a minute. People in public life are fair game for gossip and rumors. I don’t know what you’ve heard about Gretchen.”

His fingers were white around the glass. Shayne waited a moment.

“I didn’t even know Gretchen was her name. Politics isn’t my subject, and I was out of town during the election. If I’ve seen her on television it didn’t stay with me.”

“I only wish you’d seen her on television,” Tucker said dryly. “That would be highly unlikely, I’m afraid. I may have some sharp things to say about the woman, and she’s been absolutely maddening, impossible, but damn it, I still hope we can get back together…”

He broke off and began again after a swallow of Scotch. “One of the things she refuses to do, one of the many things, is to make appearances with me. There aren’t many unmarried congressmen. There are occasions when it’s considered peculiar not to show up with your wife. But two years ago, at breakfast one morning, Gretchen announced that she was through with all that. If there was any political angle — and there’s a political angle to everything, if you look hard enough — that would be my affair, not hers. She didn’t intend to spend the rest of her life humbly helping me get reelected, over and over. Well, fine. We haven’t had children. I want her to be independent. The old-style political wife isn’t that much of an asset anymore. But just to goof around the house watching soap operas—”

He swallowed the rest of that sentence, along with more Scotch. “Hell, Shayne, she wouldn’t ask people in for drinks. That would be playing politics. She not only refused to go out for dinner, she lost the invitations. You can’t stay in this business long that way.”

“Why haven’t you divorced her?”

“The subject has come up. Obviously. Divorce used to be a dirty word in politics, but less so now.” He gave Shayne a sharp look. “Does that make me sound like an opportunistic bastard? Politics is how I make my living.”

Shayne started a question, but Tucker overrode him. “I’m also considering Gretchen’s health and well-being, believe it or not. She’s in some kind of trouble. Maybe I had something to do with that, I don’t know. I don’t think I love her anymore, if I ever did. But I can’t stand aside while she smashes herself into pieces, and there’s a good chance that may be happening now. She was twenty-five when we married, I was ten years older. Shayne, to begin with,” he said painfully, “she was — absolutely — marvelous. Marvelous! She seemed to understand what I was trying to do. She enjoyed the wheeling and dealing. That lasted about a year. God knows what happened then. She started refusing me in bed. Naturally it isn’t easy to talk about this, but it may have a bearing. I was putting in long hours. The first time around, I barely squeaked through, with a plurality of a hundred and fifty, which was reduced to a hundred and fifteen on the recount. I think I did more work for my constituents than any other freshman on the Hill, and I had no trouble the next time. Meanwhile, Gretchen was drinking too much, new people had come into her life, there were a couple of drug episodes that scared me. I got her to a shrink, and she’s been seeing him regularly since.”

“What kind of drugs?”

“Hallucinogens, barbiturates. When I say I was scared, I also mean disgusted. I simply do not understand people who are willing to take chances with that delicate thing, the brain. But the doctor asked me to hang on, not pull the rug out. She was getting new insights, more self-understanding, you know the way they talk.”

“When was this?”

“Six months ago. We’ve been drifting since. This happens to be a fairly touchy moment for me. People tell me I have the nomination sewed up. But it’s going to be close. The wrong kind of story will kill me. I tried to get her to see this, to agree not to embarrass me publicly, and after the election she could have anything she wanted in the way of a property settlement, alimony. The funny thing is, I don’t think she’s really so desperate to get a divorce. It’s been too much fun bugging me. She isn’t the easiest person in the world to talk to. After about one and a half rational statements, she starts fighting dirty. In the end, I may have to do it the hard way and bring in the drugs and the disappearances and the rest. But in addition to her other qualities, she’s extremely intelligent. If she decides the intelligent thing to do here is to hurt me, I’m afraid she’ll be able to think up a way to do it.”

“Wouldn’t she wait till after you get the nomination?”

“I’ve been wondering,” Tucker said. “You asked me how long she’s been gone. I try to get away from Washington every weekend, Thursday to Monday usually, and Gretchen decided — unilaterally, as usual — not to go back at all, but to stay here through the week. That was all right with me. I don’t enjoy this tension and bickering. I didn’t press her to find out how she was spending her time, or with whom. She did volunteer, though, that she’s been logging three or four hours a day reading for the blind. Anna Karenina, three chapters a day. Needless to say, I was pleased to hear it. Well, we were getting out a piece of campaign literature, and my people wanted to stick in something about Gretchen, more or less to prove that I’m married. I told them about this reading program, and they used it. A couple of days ago we had a phone call. Apparently she’s never been near the program for the blind. Why did she bother to invent such a story? Who the hell knows? I suppose she thought I’d relax and wouldn’t check up on her. When I came down last Thursday, she wasn’t here. No note, nothing. I don’t know how much she took with her. Our things are mixed up between Washington and here. I think a suitcase, but I’m not positive. Her birth control stuff, her typewriter, some jewelry. She cashed a check for five hundred, which cleaned out her account.”