Paul Robertson: According to Their Deeds

“I also suppose that was you following us to the train station, after Edmund Cane called to tell you we were coming to New York. We had that suitcase of books, so you would have assumed we were packed for the night, and there wouldn’t be anyone in the building. You might really have been successful with making those all look like accidents.

“And now, I don’t know what you were planning next. You claim that you recovered the things stolen from Derek’s house and you’ve tried to involve Angelo, of all people. I think you were setting up the next death, where Angelo would kill me, but die himself somehow. And Norman? That was ridiculous. You recovered those stolen items from your own attic, and there wasn’t any DNA on them. Certainly not any that was months old. That was ridiculous, too.

“But at least it gave me a way to get you here for this conversation. So now I do have some questions, and you need to answer them.”

“I don’t need to do anything.”

“But you’ve been exposed now, Mr. Kelly. It’s over.”

“I don’t think so.” Frank Kelly tapped his fingers on the packing bench beside him. “I don’t think so, because it’s just the two of us sitting here. You could have taken this whole thing to Watts and D.C. Homicide yourself. So why are we just sitting here together?”

“I wanted to be sure.”

“It’s more than that. What papers did you have in that book, anyway?”

“Karen Liu’s checks, John Borchard’s overturned convictions, Patrick White’s law school paper, the list of payments to you, and Galen Jones’s drug connection. And one other.”

“Sounds like the top-sellers, there,” Frank said. “Borchard knew about Bastien’s secret drawer and so did I, so he couldn’t keep those first four papers there. Jones knew about the drawer, too. I think I know what the last one was. You looked through the papers that Borchard got from the desk. What were you looking for?” He waited, but Charles didn’t answer. “You wanted to know what he had on you.”

“I didn’t find anything.”

“You already had it. That one other paper.”

“I was afraid so,” Charles said. “I’d hoped it wasn’t.”

“That’s straight from the files at the orphanage, the FitzRobert place.” Frank Kelly folded his arms. “Let’s say I let you out of here alive. If this goes to trial, all that stuff will come out. Karen Liu is going to sink like a stone. But your main problem is that you’ve got homicidal maniacs in your family tree. Hey, sorry to be blunt, but that’s the clinical name. How’s your Dorothy going to feel when she finds out her mother was crazy, and that her son inherited it right down the line?”

Charles didn’t answer.

“So here’s a deal. We just walk away. You don’t tell anyone about me, and I don’t tell anyone everything I know. Just pretend we never had this conversation.”

“I don’t think I’d feel very safe about that.”

“You can make some arrangements. Write the whole long story and put it in a safe place where it goes to the newspaper if anything ever happens to you. I admit it’s messy but I don’t see any alternative.”

“You would have killed three people and nothing would happen to you?”

“They were not nice people. Right?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does. You could almost say they got what they deserved.”

“And would you get what you deserve? You’ve killed two people in the last two days. What kind of homicidal maniac have you become?”

“Hey, watch it,” Frank said. “Did your man Angelo get what he deserved? Aren’t you all about second chances, Beale? Why didn’t you drop those papers in the police department’s inbox the day you found them? Because you didn’t want Borchard or Liu to get shoved out the same window that poor Patrick did. I’ve been reading you like a book.”

“I think at this point, Karen Liu is ready to face her charges.”

“You should worry more about yourself.”

“It would be very hard on Dorothy to know the truth,” Charles said. “But we’ll get past it.”

“Get past it? I think you’re underestimating what this will do to her. She’s going to realize that your William killed himself because he inherited a defective mind from his mother. Think about something like that long enough and you might go crazy.”

“How did you get that paper?” Charles asked.

“I looked in her file at the orphanage.”

“Then you’ve made a mistake,” Charles said. “We’ve seen her file. Her mother never killed anyone. She and Dorothy’s father were missionaries in China. They died there when she was an infant.”

“This was a separate file. It was marked closed. You never saw it.”

“I know what file you mean. We never did see what was in it. But it wasn’t Dorothy’s. It was William’s. Didn’t you know that we adopted him?”

The telephone in his pocket rang again. He reached for it, but even faster Mr. Kelly had his hand inside his jacket.

“Don’t touch it.”

Charles put his hand down. “My wife is getting very worried. She doesn’t know where I am.”

“Who does?”

“No one.”

Mr. Kelly shook his head. “Then there’s something else going on here. Why would you walk into this room if you knew you were never coming out? You should at least have kept Highberg in here.”

“I wanted him away from danger.”

“Where’s the paper you talked about? The list of money Derek Bastien paid me?”

“I have it with me. I didn’t want it found before I talked to you. You see, it’s part of the reason I didn’t give the papers to the police either. I can’t save you from your punishment, Mr. Kelly, and I wouldn’t. But I was hoping there was something I could do to rescue you. Something.” He sighed. “You’re right. I am all about second chances.”

“Then you’re all about being a complete idiot. You’re going to save other people and you can’t even save yourself?”

“For whatever you’ve done to me,” Charles said, “I forgive you.”

The door opened.

A long gray mustache looked into the room, and Galen Jones’s bright eyes above it.

Frank Kelly suddenly smiled. “Jones? Right? Galen Jones. What do you want?” His eyes stayed on Charles. “We’re just talking antiques.”

Mr. Jones hesitated. “I was meeting Beale. I’m making a chess table for him. It’s ten o’clock, right? Thursday? Highberg said you were up here.” His eyes stayed on Frank Kelly. “Something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong,” Mr. Kelly said. “He’ll be done in a few minutes. You could wait downstairs.”

“Okay.” Mr. Jones stood for a moment more. Then he shook his head. “What’s happening?”

“I said nothing.” The smile was gone. “Get lost.”

“Highberg said you were talking about Bastien’s desk.”

Charles nodded slowly, and his eyes stayed on Galen Jones. “I’m just trying to do the right thing.”

Mr. Jones visibly tensed, and his eyes went to Frank Kelly’s hand resting on his lap, but tense and not at rest. “What are you-”

“I said get lost!”

“Nobody talks to me that way!”

The hand twitched. “If you don’t-”

Jones stepped forward. “I’ve had enough of you.”

Mr. Kelly’s hand moved, deliberate and threatening. His eyes were full on Galen Jones.

But another hand moved fast. With all his strength Charles pulled at a box on the bench beside him and hurled it as hard as he could. Its whole weight seemed to hang for an endless moment in the space between them. Then it half caught Frank Kelly’s shoulder but didn’t slow or veer, and an awful, heavy blow hit him full in the face, carrying him and his chair backward, still in the same shattering crash, all the way to the floor.