Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man [calibre]

“I don’t see it that way, Archer, I really don’t.”

“Anyway, your instincts were right the other night. I did follow you to that diner. Which meant I saw you and your father in the parking lot of the wharf. Which of course means I saw him come in on his boat from visiting that island that a company with your hubby’s fingerprints all over recently bought from the feds.”

Kemper sat back, tapped ash into an ashtray, and took a swallow of her Manhattan.

“You were a busy boy, then, although I have no idea what you’re talking about. I thought you were going to tell me you burned down one of my father’s olive trees.”

“So the island was owned by the feds. And now it’s not. It’s owned by your husband, apparently.”

“No, it’s damn well not.”

This didn’t come from Beth Kemper. It came from her husband. They both turned to see him standing in the doorway, his hat in hand. His necktie was undone, his shirt was wrinkled, his hair was disheveled, and he didn’t look like the sparkling golden boy at this precise moment in time.

Beth rose and said in a concerned voice, “Douglas, are you all right?” There was genuine concern in both her voice and expression.

“No, Beth, I’m not. I’m really not, honey.” He paused and looked at her. “I…I just need some…help.”

Douglas walked forward while Archer watched both of them closely.

Beth reached her arms out to him and Douglas did the same, and a moment later they were wound as tightly as wire on a coil. They stood like that for a full ten seconds before they stepped back from one another.

Wilma Darling was right—he does love his wife.

Douglas looked at Archer. “I have no interest in that island.”

“Paperwork filed in the town hall says otherwise. You’re listed as the chairman of the board.”

“Anyone can list anyone else.”

“Any idea who might have listed you?”

“No, no idea. What was the name of the company?”

“Stearman Enterprises.”

The Kempers exchanged nervous glances.

“Yeah,” said Archer. “That was the model of your mother’s plane. The Stearman 75. Someone’s being either ironic or downright cruel.”

She looked at Douglas. “Do you know anything about this? I want the truth!”

“No. I swear. I’m involved with no company by that name. And I…wouldn’t have named it that.”

“The money behind Alfred Drake, maybe?” suggested Archer.

“Maybe,” said Douglas doubtfully.

Archer shook his head. “Wrong. There is no money behind Drake other than his own. He’s getting swamped by the bucks you and your father-in-law are throwing at this election. He knows he’s going to lose.” He glanced at Beth before saying to Douglas, “Would you say your vision of Bay Town coincides with what Ben Smalls had in store?”

“I would say so, yes. I know what it’s like to be wealthy. But I also know what it’s like to be poor.”

“And Alfred Drake also admired him, or says he did.”

“I believe they were friends, yes.”

“And you were friends with Smalls, too, correct, Mrs. Kemper?”

Douglas said, “His father was partners with Sawyer. You two grew up together, and he was at that luncheon.”

“When my mother died,” said Beth, without looking at him. “But I met him other times, too. We were friends.”

“Now that’s interesting,” said Archer. “Would you like to tell us what those other times consisted of?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” she said heatedly, which answered the question for Archer pretty well.

Douglas fast-walked over to the bar and poured himself a bourbon on the rocks and swallowed half of it before he got back to his wife and looked at her in a way that surprised Archer. It wasn’t angry or hurt or full of bluster. It was a look of resignation, of hopelessness. They sat hip to hip in the same chair, one of her hands resting on his thigh, Archer noted, in a protective manner.

Douglas said, “I wish I knew more to tell you, Archer. But things are not adding up.”

“Sheen’s dying, for one,” noted Archer.

“I can’t understand who would want to hurt Wilson.”

“You want to hear my theory?”

They both settled their gazes on him.

“You actually told me yourself,” said Archer.

Douglas frowned. “You’re going to have to spell it out, Archer. My thoughts are not too clear right now.”

“One question. Have the police been by to see you?”

Douglas wiped his brow. “No. But I think that situation is about to change, from what I’ve heard. But tell me why someone would want to kill Wilson.”

“Your wife has an alibi for the time Ruby Fraser was killed. She was with friends for dinner. Now, that alibi needs to be verified, and it will be. But the thing is, as you told me, Wilson Sheen was your only alibi for the time Fraser was murdered. You had dinner with him and then a meeting during the time Fraser was killed. Which means you no longer have an alibi, because dead men can’t give them.”

Douglas swallowed the rest of his bourbon and collapsed back against the chair. “Right,” he said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Beth looked worriedly at him and then said to Archer, “What can be done?”

“I’m not sure. But I do know that your husband is being set up as a patsy to take the fall.”

“I never had anything to do with Ruby Fraser, I swear.”

Archer glanced at Beth. She had told him she didn’t know whether her husband was sleeping with the lady. But now, in her countenance, he only saw belief in Douglas’s words. She gripped his hand to show her support.

“Okay, I believe you,” said Archer.

“You do?”

“I’ve seen and heard of other ladies throwing themselves at you. No go on their part. Why would that be?” He looked at Beth. “Because he loves you.”

Beth looked at Douglas, and Archer saw a glimmer of tears there, from both of them.

“But you’re not out of the woods,” continued Archer. “Talk to me about the island.”

“I don’t know anything about—good Lord, what is that?”

A door could be heard banging open; there was a shout followed by mingled cries, and feet pounding fast toward where they were. Archer had risen, his hand moving to his .38. The Kempers stood, too, staring at the doorway, their arms around one another.

Archer quickly moved the hand away from the gun when he saw who was arriving at the party.

Chief Carl Pickett and four of his beefy coppers, looking all nice and shiny in their brass buttons, clipped hats, shoulder straps, big guns, and brash countenances.

Archer could see they were all excited, and he knew why. Rousting a poor slob was not a thrill; they probably did it every day. But slinging mud at the rich, carrying them out of their palaces, now that could get a man’s blood going.

Pickett eyed all of them there, and a grin spread over his face as he extracted a small stogie from his pocket and took a moment to light up.

“Well, well,” said Pickett as the three stood there staring at him.

“What do you want?” demanded Douglas. And it was clearly a demand.

Pickett strolled over to him. “Don’t go all high and mighty on me, Kemper. You might be married to the boss’s daughter, but that means shit to me.”

“I’m my own boss.”

“Whatever you say. But what I’ve come here to say is, you’re under arrest.”

“For what!”

“Do I really have to spell it out for you and upset the missus?”

“You’re damn right you do,” insisted Beth.

“Okay. You’re being arrested for the murders of Ruby Fraser and Wilson Sheen.”

“What would possibly be my motivation?”