Ed Gorman: Rough Cut

Each time I typed the name Traynor I thought not of chain saws but of Cindy. I felt giddy in a way I hadn't in a long time. I'd picked a damned strange time to fall in love- but so be it. The taste of Cindy remained in my pores. It tasted great.

I didn't even think any more about checking out the newspaper clipping with Mrs. Bradford, the one who'd been robbed. All I could think of was Cindy…

That changed when Sarah Anders knocked on my door to tell me Detective Bonnell was in the reception area. Sarah saw the expression on my face and frowned. "It isn't over yet, is it?"

"No," I said, not sure what she meant.

She closed the door by leaning against it. This morning she looked the suburban matron. There was a mellowness in her mood I hadn't seen for a long time. "I had a long talk with my husband last night."

"You told him about Ron?"

"No. Not exactly. What I did tell him was how much I loved him, and how sorry I was that sometimes I acted so distant. I'm not sure he knew exactly what I was talking about but by the time we finished talking both of us felt better-I could tell."

A measure of how paranoid the murders had made me was that I began picturing Sarah's husband as a suspect. It is not a good way to live…

"I'm happy for you," I said.

"I just wish you looked better."

"Tired?"

"More than tired, Michael. The strain…" Apparently my air of puppy love wasn't reflected on a face with dark rings under the eyes and the paleness that comes from too much alcohol and too little sleep.

"I'll be all right," I said.

The way she looked at me, I thought maybe she knew something terrible about my health that I didn't. "I hope so," she said.

When she opened the door, Bonnell was standing there, still looking uncomfortable in a suit and tie. He came in with an earnest but enigmatic expression on his hard face. He put out his hand and I shook it. He sat down. Before my bottom reached my own chair, he said, "I wanted to tell you that I'm about to make an arrest in both murder cases."

"What?" My surprise was genuine.

He smiled. "Most murder cases aren't nearly as complicated as the press makes them out to be. Especially once you've established a motive."

I asked him if he wanted any coffee. He said sure enthusiastically. I got up and got him some. I wished for a bourbon and water but knew better.

I sat back down again.

He thanked me for the coffee and went on. "You ever hear of a Mrs. Bradford Amis?" he said.

"No," I lied. I was afraid my face was saying otherwise.

"Five months ago, she had nearly a quarter of a million dollars in gems taken from a wall safe in her home. She was having a party for charity. A lot of fancy society types were there, including your good friend Clay Traynor." He said "good friend" with his usual irony. "Guess who was also with him? Denny Harris and Ron Gettig."

"I'm not following you," I said. But my attempt at sounding stupid wasn't convincing to either of us.

"What if Traynor and Harris and Gettig got themselves invited to that party so they could take the gems?" he asked.

"Do you know who you're talking about? I mean, they're hardly the thief type."

"What's the 'thief type,' Mr. Ketchum? I don't think there is such a thing-especially when somebody is desperate."

"What did they have to be desperate about?" I was thinking of my conversation with Cindy. "Clay Traynor has a very good income-so did Denny and Gettig."

"You think so, huh?"

From his pocket he took a thick fold of papers. When he spread them out on the desk before me, I saw that they were bank and financial statements from a variety of sources.

"Here we have the financial status of the three men we're talking about," Bonnell went on. "When you give these reports a superficial look, everything seems all right. But when you look closely, you see that all three of them were deeply in debt."

He pushed the papers over to me.

Five minutes later, after having looked through everything, I saw that what he said was true. Everything from failed business ventures to expensive cars had put each man deeply, and perhaps irrevocably, in debt. What was most interesting was that two or three of the business ventures-a marina and a parts-supply house for foreign cars-they'd been in together, Clay, Denny, Ron Gettig. I realized it was time I contacted my personal accountant again-he was going through the agency books at night.

"Still think they didn't have motive enough to commit a robbery?"

"All right," I said, "I'll grant you motive, but how about actually doing it. They liked to play hard, but I still say they weren't criminal types. Anyway, how would they know how to break open a safe?"

He smiled. "I've been a busy man, Mr. Ketchum. I've got answers for every question."

I found myself smiling with him. He seemed to take a real delight in his work. But I didn't know what I was smiling about. If he booked Clay Traynor, events would set in motion the eventual-and probably sooner than later-transfer of power from Clay to his cousin, and the transfer of the account from Harris-Ketchum to some other agency.

No, I didn't have anything to smile about. My early morning mood of puppy love was fading fast.

"They didn't know how to break open a safe," Bonnell said, "but a security guard named Kenneth Martin did."

This time, I felt myself literally rise up from the chair. I was aware of Bonnell watching me closely. Instant sweat pasted my face and armpits.

Bonnell had indeed been busy.

"You all right?" he said.

I shrugged. "Didn't sleep very well last night. Upset stomach."

He held my eyes momentarily, enigmatically, then went on.

"I have warrants out for the arrest of both Clay Traynor and this man Kenneth Martin. I think I can prove that Harris and Traynor met Martin a few months before the party, got him planted in the security job, and had him help them steal her gems. Kenneth Martin has been around-never quite in prison but busted enough times for minor things that he might very well be able to pick a safe if he was offered enough money."

"Sounds like a bad movie."

"You've never heard of Kenneth Martin?"

I thought of the receipt in Stokes's blackmail envelope. I thought of Merle Wickes claiming the envelope. The receipt had been signed by one Kenneth Martin.

"You say you can prove all this?"

"I'm a careful man, Mr. Ketchum. I said I think I can prove all this. At the very least, I have enough circumstantial evidence to make an arrest of both Clay and Martin." He shook his head.

"I wanted to warn you about the arrest," Bonnell was saying. "Give you a little time to prepare yourself for the publicity about a client of yours killing your partner and one of your producers." He smiled. This time it wasn't a pleasant smile. "I also wanted to give you a chance to do a little rewriting."

"Rewriting?"

He sipped his coffee, trying to be as casual as possible. "Yeah. A few days ago you gave me a story about being with Clay Traynor the night Denny Harris was murdered. I thought in light of everything that's happened, you might want to do a little revision on that story of yours."

So there we were.

This wasn't the courtesy call I'd almost believed it to be. On the contrary, Bonnell was going to recruit me to do the one thing absolutely necessary to hanging Clay Traynor and losing the Traynor account in the process-break Clay's alibi.

"Well," he said, after a minute or two of my silence, "how about it, Mr. Ketchum? Was Clay with you the night of Denny Harris's murder?"

Just then-proving incontrovertibly that God is in fact up there watching over me-the intercom buzzed.

Sarah said, "Sorry to interrupt but there's a problem in production, Michael. Ab Levin just hit Tommy Byrnes and hit him pretty hard."