Дэвид Балдаччи - One Good Deed

“I know all that, Archer.”

Archer’s jaw dropped perceptibly. “What! How?”

“I spoke by phone with the lady and she told me the whole story. How she loved you, but you were a real gentleman. That she lied about her age and the car and pretty much everything else to get you on her side. And that her father browbeat her into lying about you, because he was worried it would sully his reputation having, as she told me he called her, ‘a slut’ for a daughter. And by the way, she’s still head over heels for you, though she’s married now and just had a baby.”

“Well, damn,” said an astonished Archer. “Why’d you call her in the first place?”

“Because I wanted to know what sort of man you were, Archer. See, what you do in the past can matter to what you do in the present and in the future. I believed you, in my gut. But it’s nice to have corroboration.”

“You like your corroboration.”

“In the detecting business, it’s damn important. Now the fact that she was still hankering for you shows that you got a real way with women, Archer, but the thing is, son, that’s not always good.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a two-way street. Meaning women can have their way with you .”

Archer thought about this and nodded. “I believe you might be speaking the truth there, Detective.”

“I think I am, Archer. I truly think I am.”

“Did Jackie see her father’s body?”

“She did.”

“How’d that go?”

“Funny you should ask. I’ve watched many a family member view their kin’s mortal remains. But I’ve never seen one who didn’t shed a single tear while doing so until yesterday.”

“So what now?”

“How much money you got?”

“Nearly three hundred dollars.”

“Well, lucky you, your bail is going to be set at two hundred dollars. We’ll go see the judge, you can enter your not-guilty plea, pay that amount over to the court, and you’re free to go for now.”

“Why are you really doing this? I understand that you believe I’m innocent. And I’m damn glad of that. But you’re taking a chance here with me. You could torpedo your whole career over this. The easy thing would be to lock me up and throw away the key. Nobody would care.”

“ I would care, Archer. When I took a plane up in the air, I had a whole crew counting on me to make the right decisions. And I tried my best to do that very thing. And I signed up for this job to see that bad folks got punished. Putting the innocent in jail is something I have no interest in, because that would mean I made the worst decision of all. I might as well have put the damn plane in a nosedive.”

“Well, I thank you for that.”

“Don’t thank me just yet, Archer. We got us a long row to hoe.”

After paying his bail and entering his plea, Archer slept fitfully in his hotel room that night. His coming so close to being in a jail cell again had upset him more than he would have thought possible. But he had far too much in the troubling department to concern him.

He awoke at six in the morning and managed to snatch a two-minute hot shower in the bath down the hall. He dressed and headed out to the Checkered Past for breakfast and a formulation of his plan going forward. The eggs and coffee were hot, the toast burned, the sliced tomatoes passable, and the slice of strip steak would have been of more use nailed to the bottom of his shoe than being eaten. And he loved every minute and bite of it because he was right now a free man. And he had no idea how long that would last. That just made a fellow appreciate things.

He bought a five-cent newspaper and sat on a bench reading the headlines, learning nothing of interest and actually growing even more depressed than he currently was by some of the news stories. But he used the paper to also shield himself from folks passing down the sidewalk. He was hoping one of those would be Ernestine Crabtree, but he never saw her, even though where he was perched was directly on the path from her house to the Courts and Municipality Building.

For the second time since he’d been here, the sky was cloudy and it looked like it might start raining again. At two minutes to eight he got up and headed to the Courts building.

The front doors had just been unlocked, and he set up his surveillance post in the lobby behind a poster on an easel telling folks about a drive to aid war widows. Archer dropped fifty cents in the can attached to the poster.

Eight thirty came and went. So did nine o’clock. Then ten o’clock. Then eleven.

Finally, he took the stairs up to Ernestine’s floor and headed to her office door. From the looks of her house, the woman had left town. But, like Shaw had taught him, he needed confirmation of that.

The parole office door was locked. And there was no sign on the door telling why the office was closed. He knocked several times and peered through the upper glass, but it was opaque, and the only thing he could tell was that there was no light on inside.

A matronly woman came out of the office across the hall carrying a bunch of file folders.

“Hello, ma’am?” said Archer.

“Yes?” she said, smiling.

“I was here to see Miss Crabtree, but she doesn’t appear to be in. Door’s locked.”

The woman frowned at Archer. “Here to see Miss Crabtree, are we?” She might as well have tacked on, You ex-convict, you .

“Yes, ma’am.”

The woman glanced at the door and then at the clock on the wall overhead and her expression changed to confusion.

“The door’s locked, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Did you try knocking?”

“I did indeed. I’ve been out here a while. I hope she’s not ill in there or anything.”

“Hmm. Wait just a minute.”

She went inside her office and returned with a key in hand.

“I work in the court clerk’s office, but this key will fit all the locks in the building.”

“Well, that’s handy,” said Archer. “Wouldn’t mind having a key like that.”

“Hmm,” she said disapprovingly. “What were you in for? And don’t say some petty crime. I’ve heard it all before. And don’t lie and say you’re innocent or misunderstood.”

“No, ma’am. Fact is, I was a bank robber.”

She looked at him with a new level of respect. “Indeed? Well, that’s where the money is, after all.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She unlocked the door, swung it wide, and said, “Miss Crabtree? It’s Mrs. Gibbons from across the hall. Yoo-hoo. Anyone in here?”

Clearly, the room was empty.

Archer also noted that the big, squat Royal typewriter was missing.

Archer said, “You want to check the ladies’ bathroom down the hall, ma’am? I, uh, can’t do that.”

“What? Oh yes, of course.”

As soon as she left, Archer looked in the wastebasket and searched the desk. Other than office supplies and parole office forms, the only thing in the drawers was a small book. He picked it up and read off the title: “ A Room of One’s Own .”

He remembered it as being her favorite one of Woolf’s works.

He slipped the book into his pocket when he heard the woman returning.

“She’s not in the bathroom,” she said when she appeared in the doorway.

“She might be sick at home.”

“Well, if so, she should have let someone know. If this is your day to meet with her, tell me your name so you won’t lose credit.”

“No, ma’am, it’s not my day. I was coming by to tell her that I got a job.”

“Really, where?”

“Slaughterhouse.”

“Hmm. Knocking in hogs’ heads, I suppose.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You sure you were a bank robber?”