Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man

“You haven’t been in town long enough to know if the cops are bullshit.”

“I’m a fast learner, and it wasn’t that hard, actually.”

“But they don’t know about the blackmail attempt on me.”

“There is no guarantee that will remain the case. And the fact that you hired us to look into it? You think us snooping around will go unnoticed? So why don’t you drop your alibi on me and see if it passes muster.”

“I don’t like your attitude, Archer. As a general rule, people do not talk to me in that manner.”

“Well, as a general rule, most guys I talk to aren’t accused of having an affair with a woman who ended up murdered.”

“I told you that I wasn’t having an affair.”

“And you’re sticking to that?”

“Yes!”

“Do you know what your wife thinks?”

He sipped his stinger before responding. “I know, generally .”

“Well, specifically , I don’t think she believes your side of the story. Now, she probably hopes you haven’t cheated on her, but that’s all it is, a hope. So if the cops come to question her and she spills what she really thinks, the cops will be headed your way and that brings us back to: Do you have an alibi?”

“Why would they go to her?”

“I’ll assume you’re not really playing me for a dope and you actually want an answer, so here goes and listen closely. Your wife also has a motive to kill Ruby, and it’s one of the oldest ones in the book: She thought you were sleeping with the woman. But she apparently has an alibi. She was at a dinner with friends from five to midnight.”

His face clouded. “I see. When was the girl killed?”

“Say around ten.”

Kemper’s eyes eased to slits. He finished the stinger faster than he should have and looked around for the cocktail waitress to place an order for an encore.

She rushed over, bent low to flash some cleavage, batted her baby blues, and said in response to his order, “Coming right up, Mr. Kemper.”

She swept away, apparently giddy with the prospect of serving the man cognac laced with crème de menthe.

Archer, who had watched this interaction closely, eyed the man and said, “All the gals come on to you like that?”

Kemper waved his Havana around like it was a wand that would make Archer and all of the man’s problems just vanish. “I’m young, I’m wealthy, I’m well connected.”

“And you’re easy on the eyes,” interjected Archer flatly. “Just in case you were too modest to say that.”

“You have a quicker tongue than I initially gave you credit for, Archer. I’m also married to the loveliest, richest woman in town. So naturally, some gals out there see me as a challenge. Can they get me to violate my marriage vows?”

“So, can they?”

“I’m a man, Archer. I’m not saying I’m any better than I am in that regard.”

“Okay, now hopefully for the last time, do you have an alibi for the time Fraser was murdered?”

“I was with Wilson Sheen. We had dinner at the office and then we had a meeting there to go over campaign issues. I didn’t leave there until well after eleven.”

“Anybody else vouch for that?”

“No, but isn’t he enough?”

“You better hope he is. And after that?”

“What does that matter? You said she died around ten.”

“Just to satisfy my own curiosity.”

“I went home.”

“Anyone see you there? The Chinaman butler? Adam Stover, the chauffeur?”

“No.”

“How about your wife?”

“You said she was at a dinner.”

“How about later, when you went to bed?”

“We maintain separate bedrooms.”

“Why is that?”

“None of your damn business.”

“Okay, so you didn’t see her at all? Or her car?”

“No. She might have stayed in town, for all I know.”

“Where might that be?”

“She keeps an apartment in the Occidental Building. It’s on Sawyer.” He smirked. “Of course. She just can’t get away from Daddy, can she? It’s near the intersection with Carrillo Avenue. She had it before we were married.”

Archer tapped out his smoke. “So not much of a marriage, then?”

“We’ve had a good run.”

“I guess you missed the ‘till death do us part’ section of the negotiation.”

“Don’t give up your day job, Archer. You’re not a satisfactory Abbott or Costello.”

“Come on, Mr. Kemper, the line wasn’t that bad. So you ever thought about kids? Sometimes that can make a difference.”

“Thank you for the marriage advice, Archer. In the future keep it to your goddamn self.”

The waitress brought Kemper’s drink and placed it in front of him — as though she were presenting him with the crown jewels, thought Archer. “I hope you like it, Mr. Kemper. And if there’s anything you need from me, all you have to do is say it and it’s done. And I mean anything.”

Yes you do , thought Archer. He half expected the woman to strip right there.

Kemper thanked her with a glance and she went on her way, smiling broadly.

Archer rose. “Well, I’ll leave you to your drink and the fawning cocktail waitresses.”

“I didn’t kill that woman, Archer. I really didn’t.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Are you?”

“You’re the client. It’s not my job to put you in prison.”

“Really? You strike me as more idealistic than that.”

“Maybe once. Now, not so much.”

Archer walked back inside, his work still not done. But then something happened to make him change course. Or, more specifically, she happened.

Bay Town was apparently a place where your intentions changed faster than the second hand on a clock.

Wilma Darling came out of the powder room and strode down the hall.

Archer ducked down another hall and then peered back around to follow her trek from powdering her nose. She pulled her gloves back on and drove her heels into the rug like American bayonets into Nazis as she marched to somewhere with a purpose that intrigued Archer. She was dressed all in crimson, and it was tight in all the places that counted. She had done something with her hair to make it even more luxurious, and it danced across her shoulders with every stride. The woman’s makeup was immaculate. And from her resolute expression, Archer figured she was on the hunt for something.

The target presented itself when Wilson Sheen came walking down the hall in the opposite direction. He was dressed in a white dinner jacket, black bow tie, and dark pants. To Archer he looked like a headwaiter in a ritzy hotel. The short jacket didn’t ride well on his wide, overweight frame, but Darling didn’t seem to mind. She rushed forward and planted her lips over his, wrapping her long arms around his wide waist, while his hands patted her long, elegant back like a mom attempting to burp an infant.

When she pulled back, Sheen’s face was coated with her attack, his face as crimson as her dress. He dabbed at the marks with his handkerchief, looking sheepish though pleased, as a few fellows passed by and gave him the universal male signs of success when hunting down the big game of females: the stupid schoolboy grins, the thumbs-up, and the tongues wagging like dogs in need of water... or something.

Arm in arm they ascended the stairs — Midnight Moods apparently did not have an elevator — and Archer followed at a discreet distance. They ventured all the way to the top floor and trekked in the direction of Fraser’s old room. Archer kept pace with them, careful to keep his face pointed down and ready at a moment’s notice to turn around if need be, though there were a few couples up here who looked to be heading toward the same Nirvana that Sheen and Darling were.