Ed McBain - Three Blind Mice

“Sure,” Matthew said.

“I mean it. Figure out a plan for next Saturday, okay? Work it out on paper, if you have to. Your shot, and where you think it’ll land on my side of the net, and what my possible responses might be, and where you’d have to be standing to be ready for my return, and where you’ll put the next shot to take advantage of my position on the court, and so on. Figure a plan for maybe five or six shots ahead, okay, and we’ll try it next week.”

“Okay,” Matthew said dubiously.

“It’ll work, wait and see,” Kit said, and smiled and looked at his watch. “I have to go,” he said. “Next Saturday at eight, okay?”

“See you,” Matthew said.

The call came at a little before ten that morning, while he was in the shower. He climbed out of the tub, wrapped a towel around his waist, went running into the study, and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” he said.

“Matthew?”

“Yes?”

“Patricia Demming,” she said.

“Naturally,” he said. “I’m dripping wet.”

“Sorry, is this a bad time, have you seen the papers this morning?”

“Yes.”

“What’d you think?”

He hesitated. She was the enemy, and this morning Kit had taught him a few things about dealing effectively with the enemy, either on a tennis court or a battlefield. Moreover, when the lady who was trying to cook your client called at ten in the morning wanting to know what you’d thought about the murder of her investigator…

“What’d you think?” he asked.

Lob a mortar from the left, he thought. Then hit the ball to her backhand and when she returned it down the line, smash it cross-court to where she wasn’t.

“I’d like to talk to you,” she said, surprising him completely. “Can you meet me at my office in an hour or so?”

“All right.”

“Thanks, Matthew,” she said, and hung up.

Matthew wondered what her game plan was.

On the baseball field adjoining the renovated motel that now served as the State Attorney’s office complex, some kids were playing pickup ball. Their voices carried on the stillness of the Saturday morning air, floating out over the ballpark fence and drifting in over the motel courtyard. In the tick of an instant, the voices carried Matthew back to Chicago. The house the family had lived in, the school he’d gone to, the park he and his sister had played in as children, all appeared in his mind like browning snapshots in an old album. He had not spoken to his sister in more than a month now. He realized all at once how much he missed her. The voices from the ballpark soared up over the fence. Summer voices. Baseball voices. He sighed as if burdened and walked quickly toward Patricia’s unit.

It was still relatively cool for this time of day, but the air conditioning was on in her office. She was dressed casually: jeans, sandals, a white T-shirt, her long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. This was her day off, the State Attorney’s offices were officially closed for the weekend. Except for the two of them, the place was empty. It felt strange being here without typewriters clacking and phones ringing, people running around with papers in blue legal binders.

“I’d have asked you to my house,” she said, “but I’m being painted.”

“407 Ocean,” he said. “Fatback Key.”

“Good memory,” she said.

“It’s a shorter ride here.”

“Whisper’s much closer, that’s true.”

“But Fatback’s much nicer.”

“Well, I’m not so sure.”

“Wilder, anyway.”

“Still a bit wilder, yes,” she admitted. “More Florida.”

A common expression down here. More Florida . Meaning as yet unspoiled. Florida as it used to be. People down here were always sighing for the Florida that used to be. Hoping to find it somewhere. But it wasn’t here anymore. Not even in the Everglades. Maybe no place in America was “here” anymore.

“I need your help,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows.

“This isn’t a trick, Matthew.”

He waited.

“I’ve never been as confused about a case in my life,” she said.

He kept waiting.

“If I’ve already got the real killer in jail,” she said, “then he’s a very stupid man. But if the real killer is still out there, he’s very stupid, too.”

“He’s out there, I’m sure of that,” Matthew said.

“Then why is he still killing people? We’ve already charged someone, why doesn’t he just leave well enough alone?”

“Nobody says a killer has to be a nuclear physicist.”

“Granted. My point is…”

“I understand your point.”

“If he’s already home free…”

“He may not think so.”

“But why would he play against such odds?”

“Maybe he’s worried.”

“About what? A witness who didn’t even see the right license plate?”

“But maybe Trinh was close enough. Maybe the killer was worried about that.”

“This is all arguendo, you realize.”

“I realize.”

“Because I’m not admitting there is a killer out there.”

“Right, we’re just exploring the possibility.”

“And I’ll be getting to your man in a minute.”

“I figured.”

“But let’s say, arguendo, that we’ve made a mistake, okay? We’ve got the wrong man. Arguendo.”

“Arguendo.”

“And let’s say, I’ll even give you this, let’s say he was worried about Trinh having seen that license-plate number, and he went out to kill him. Witnesses are killed all the time, you know…”

“Yes.”

“… so it’s not an unlikely scenario. But if he thought we were in possession of the right number, why didn’t he just get the hell out of town before we pounced on him? Why kill Trinh? That doesn’t make sense, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“And why go after Bannion next? An investigator for the S.A.’s office? That doesn’t make sense, either. The man would have to be crazy.”

“Maybe he is.”

“So I can’t find any reasons out there, Matthew. It all seems too… suicidal . We’ve already got a man in jail for the crimes, why cast doubt on the case? Which brings me to Leeds.”

“Leeds is in jail, you just said so. He’s not out on the streets murder—”

“His wife isn’t in jail, Matthew. And his brother-in-law isn’t in jail, either. Who happens to have a record, did you know that?”

“Yes, I know it.”

“Nice family.”

“They’re not related by blood, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“Cheap shot, forget it. What I am suggesting…”

“Don’t say it, Patricia.”

“Hear me out, we’re exploring.”

“All right, explore. Cautiously.”

“Let’s say Leeds is guilty of the crimes as charged. Let’s say, further…”

“Maybe we ought to quit right there.”

“We are not in a fucking courtroom, Matthew!”

He looked at her.

“Okay?” she said.

“Okay,” he said.

“Good. Let’s say Leeds realizes he hasn’t got a chance of beating the rap… no reflection on your ability…”

“Thanks.”

“… but he’s seen what we’ve got, and he’s read the writing on the wall, and he knows the next stop is the electric chair. Okay,” she said, and nodded, and began nibbling her lip. She was reaching for ideas, he realized, searching her mind, her brow furrowed, actually trying to dope this thing out. He suddenly trusted her. To a degree.

“Let’s say his wife is still furious about the bum verdict the jury brought in. By the way, Matthew, we tried our best on that one. She was raped, no question about it. And we indicted the right people for the crime. It was just her tough luck — and ours — to come up against a bleeding-heart jury.”