Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man

“Well, you have at least one,” pointed out Archer, drawing a glare from Dawson.

“ Was Ruby seeing anybody, rich or not?” asked Dash.

“Truth is she didn’t have nobody special. Working here doesn’t really allow for that, does it? Part of the job is making all the men feel special. Hard to do that if you’re gaga over somebody. Takes away your, um, generous spirit.”

“I thought she was a performer on the stage, not a bedspring squeaker,” replied Dash.

“And maybe she was making one guy feel special and then she stopped and he didn’t like it,” opined Archer.

“Well, I have no clue as to who that might be. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some serious drinking to do.”

Outside in the sunshine Dash looked around and said, “I remember when this was just an empty field.”

“I guess it’s good business for Sawyer Armstrong.”

“He’s always been able to sniff out the dollars.”

“You said you’ve known him a long time.”

“Sometimes I think too long. With him, one minute it’s honey, the next a shotgun.”

Archer rubbed his injured face. “It was pretty easy for me to figure that out last night.”

“That was just him sniffing around the shrubs seeing if someone dropped something of value, Archer. Don’t read too much into it.”

“He really didn’t like that we questioned his daughter.”

“I’m sure he didn’t, especially seeing as how she thinks her hubby is guilty as charged.”

“And that might derail Kemper’s mayoral run, you mean?”

“Well, I could see Armstrong thinking that way, sure.”

“With Ruby dead, you think the newspapers will get wind of this?”

“I think whoever killed Ruby certainly hopes so.”

“Again, to queer Kemper’s shot at the mayor’s office?”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t sound sure.”

“We been working this case for one day. I’m not sure of a damn thing, except that Mabel Dawson knows more than she’s letting on. Let’s take a walk around back.”

The rear grounds were made up of upper and lower terraces, paved courtyards, open spaces and private ones rimmed with hedges, along with tables, chairs, chaises, freestanding umbrellas to shield the sun’s rays, and a large fountain on the top terrace that bled water down into a series of cast stone pods to form a gentle waterfall that somehow ended in a firepit before the water was recirculated to the top. At this hour of the day there were few patrons back here, but some of the staff were wiping off the furniture and others were restocking a large bar set on wheels that sat under a large circus-tent-sized pavilion.

Dash said, “At least two main doors that I can see leading out to the top terrace, but I’m sure there are more. Service entrances in particular are not always visible, and they like it that way. Tradesman’s entrance is on the left side.”

They walked over to a thin, reedy man with short white hair and a mottled complexion. He wore dark pants and a white collared shirt, and he was wiping down the furniture.

Dash flashed his license and said, “Besides the main doors up there, how else could someone who works here get out without being noticed?”

The man pointed to a paved path to the right of the upper terrace that curved past a row of green hedges.

“Up there is where we come and go. Boss don’t like the hired help taking the main doors ’cept for the hostesses and the waiters and waitresses. Us riffraff got to hide if we can manage it. We ain’t good enough to be seen apparently by the ‘patrons’ here.” He plucked a cigarette from behind his ear and lit up before he grinned a gap-toothed grin. He smelled of smoke and garlic and sweat. “You’re here about that gal, Ruby. Got her throat slit, somebody said.”

“Did you know her?”

The man shook his head and puffed on his cigarette. “Look at me. Gal like that wouldn’t give a guy like me the time of day.”

“So you knew who she was?”

“Sure. Seen her around.”

“And did the fact that she wouldn’t give you the time of day make you mad?” said Dash.

The man’s grin faded and his skin turned a soupy gray. “Hey, fella, I had nothing to do with what happened to her. I don’t even work evenings. I was home with the missus.”

“Name?”

“Tom, Tom Boswell.”

“Address?”

“Fourteen Ocean Way.”

“You on the water?” asked Archer as he wrote this down and then ran his eye over the man’s plain clothes.

Dash said, “The street names in Bay Town are funny, Archer, and not in the way you might think. Ocean Way is close to the ocean the way the earth is close to the sun.”

“That’s a fact,” said Boswell. “And the town dump is at the end of a road called Tuxedo Boulevard.”

“You know anybody who might have had a beef with Ruby?” asked Dash.

Boswell shook his head. “No. I don’t know nobody that knows her. I work out here for the most part, not inside.”

“So you wouldn’t know if she had any enemies or boyfriends?”

“No sir.”

“Ever see anybody talking to her?”

“No sir.”

A boy in a cap and buttons ran up to them waving a piece of paper. “Mr. Dash?”

Dash nodded. “That’s me, kid.”

The boy handed him a note. “This is for you.” Then he turned and hustled away.

Dash opened the note and read it. “Well, Archer, we’ve been summoned by the king.”

“The king? I thought we were a democracy, not a monarchy.”

“In a few years you’ll change your mind. You just need more seasoning.”

As they walked off Archer said, “So is it Sawyer Armstrong?”

“Who else? Now, if his goons come after you again, don’t lose your temper. This meeting might turn out to be very informative for purposes of our investigation.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to handle it if they do come after me?”

“Hell, I know Tony and Hank. You’re younger and in a lot better shape than they are, Archer. Just outrun the sons of bitches.”

The drive up would have given liberty Callahan a heart attack, thought Archer, as he piloted the Delahaye around the twists and turns and switchbacks and rising elevations, all while following Dash’s directions. They were running on a road parallel to the one the Kemper estate was on, but Sawyer Armstrong had built his home on even higher ground.

When the land finally plateaued and they went around a curve, Archer glimpsed a house. “Is that it?”

“That’s Armstrong’s place, all right.”

“After seeing the home he built for his daughter, I thought his residence would look like the Taj Mahal.”

“Nope. It’s a farm. He grows olives here. Don’t know if he makes much money off it, not that he needs to, but apparently the man has a passion for it.”

The home was about half the size of his daughter’s, which made it very large indeed, and was constructed of red cedar siding and stone. The yard in front was a sculpted landscape of flower beds, large native trees and bushes, and a pea gravel path up to the front porch, which had a hundred-foot-long tin metal overhang and comfortable chairs, upholstered and wicker, spread along its length. Striped awnings hung over most of the windows on the western side of the house, and Archer could see how they might come in handy when the sun started to set. It would be quite hot and powerful at this elevation and angle.

As impressive as the casual house was in size, Archer could see about a dozen large outbuildings behind it, all constructed of red cedar with either shake shingles or tin metal roofs. Farm machinery was neatly parked across this stretch of land. There were horses in corrals and cows in other pens. He watched as men carried various tools, or else drove pieces of equipment designed to help grow or harvest things in the dirt. Stretching out behind all of this was a sea of what Archer surmised were the olive trees. The land seemed to go on and on right up to the foothills of the Santa Ynez Mountains. He could see lots of people with straw baskets and ladders swarming over the olive orchards.