Джеффри Дивер - Nothing Good Happens After Midnight - A Suspense Magazine Anthology

He put the box down on the coffee table, which is when I noticed the blurry blue tattoo on his forearm. I could still make out the eagle, globe, and anchor of the Marine insignia. That explained the military buzz cut of his white hair.

“Semper fi,” I said, and pushed my sleeve up to show him a smaller version of the EGA on the top of my arm near the shoulder.

“I’ll be damned,” he said. “Where’d you serve?”

“Up by the border mostly. You?”

“I spent a lot of time around Pleiku. Got a Purple Heart. What about you?”

I shook my head. “Only wounds I got were psychological. Worst one was when a village got shelled after I told everyone they were safe. Now I think real hard before I make a promise.”

A knowing smile came to his lips. “Sometimes you don’t see the forest for the trees.”

Murphy seemed more relaxed. He told me that after the Marines he had married and gone into the postal service like a lot of vets, retired early after his wife got a bad disease that eventually killed her, and started a small company keeping an eye on summer houses when their owners weren’t around. That’s how he met Orloff, and went to work for him as a full-time caretaker until the time his boss got arrested.

“Did he cheat you?” I asked.

“He owed me a month’s salary. They say he only went after big accounts. But he stiffed little guys like me. He even cheated a fund for handicapped kids that didn’t know he was handling its money. He was like somebody’s uncle, people trusted him right to the end.”

“Speaking of the end, this looks like a dead one,” I said. I gave him my business card. “Let me know if you remember anything else.”

“I’ll keep my eyes and ears open. Come by to see me anytime. I don’t go out much and stay up late. Maybe I’ll hear something from the bird carver crowd. You never know.”

“That’s right,” I said, getting up from the couch to shake hands. “You never do.”

The investigative report said the fake decoys had been mailed from Harwich. I stopped by the post office, went up to the desk and asked the postal clerk what the cheapest rate would be for sending out a box like the one in my hands.

“Depends on weight, of course. Parcel post is the cheapest, but it’s also the slowest,” she said.

“I was talking to a friend named Mike Murphy. He’s got a P.O. Box here and sends out a lot of packages, but I don’t remember what rate he used.”

“We’ve got a few Murphys. I don’t recall anyone doing a lot of shipping.”

“I’ll talk to him and get back to you.”

I remembered that there was more than one post office in town. I got back in my truck and drove a few miles to the pint-sized West Harwich post office. I went through the same routine with the postmistress, and this time I struck gold.

“Mike uses straight parcel post to send boxes that look just like that,” she said. “Haven’t seen him for a while, though. Not since he closed his box.”

“I’ll tell Mike you miss seeing him,” I said.

Twenty minutes later I drove down the pot-holed dirt driveway that leads to the converted boathouse I call home. Chez Socarides was part of an old estate when I bought it and rebuilt it into a year-round residence. The place is still just short of ramshackle, but it’s got a million dollar water view of a big bay and distant barrier beach.

My cat Kojak ambushed me as soon as I stepped inside. I poured him some dry food, grabbed the phone, went out on the deck, and tucked the box with the fake bird under a chair. Then I dialed the number for Ruskin. He answered right away.

I told him about my talk with Mike Murphy, his connection with Orloff, and the visit to the post office.

“Do you suspect Murphy knows more about my decoy than what he’s saying?”

“Yes, I do, which is why I want to go back to talk to him again.”

“When you do, tell him he’d better say where it is, or else.”

“Or else what, Mr. Ruskin?”

“I’ll leave that to your imagination.”

I didn’t like what I was imagining. Ruskin was suggesting that I threaten Murphy.

“I don’t work that way, Mr. Ruskin.”

“Well, I do,” he said. “And I have found my methods extremely persuasive.”

“I can tear up your check or send it back to you, Mr. Ruskin. Your call.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, then Ruskin laughed.

“No need to do either. You don’t think I’m serious. I’ve decided to offer a reward.”

I should have been suspicious at Ruskin’s fast turnaround. But I was put off by his conciliatory change of tone.

“It’s worth a try. How much of a reward?”

“Oh, I don’t know. How about ten thousand dollars?”

“That will definitely get his interest. I’ll go see Murphy tomorrow and make the offer.”

“Yes,” Ruskin said, after a pause. “That should work.”

He hung up. I went back into the house and came out onto the deck with a can of Cape Cod Red beer. I popped the top and took a slurp, thinking about my conversation with Ruskin. He said his rash suggestion to lean on Murphy was a joke, but I wasn’t so sure. I sipped my beer, letting my mind zone out as the late afternoon sun painted the bay and beach in autumn pastels.

After the beer can went dry, I went back into the house. I pulled together a Greek salad for dinner, then worked a few hours on some paperwork for the charter operation. The figures looked so good that I decided to call my family in the morning to tell them about my accounting.

My eyes were tired from looking at numbers. I had another beer, then I stretched out on the couch and fell asleep. The chirp of my phone woke me up. I groped for the phone, stuck it in my ear and came out with a groggy “hello.” I heard a wet gargle on the other end and a second later the phone went dead. The caller ID said Mike Murphy had called. I hit the redial button and got a busy signal.

The phone’s time display said it was after midnight.

I splashed cold water on my face and headed for the door.

Murphy’s house was in darkness. I parked in the driveway behind the Toyota Camry, went up to the front door and knocked. No answer. I knocked again, louder this time. No one came to the door. I rang the doorbell. No one answered the ring, but something brushed up against my leg.

I looked down at Murphy’s cat, Gus. Funny. Murphy said Gus stayed indoors because of the danger from coyotes.

I tried the knob. The door was unlocked. As I opened the door Gus scuttled past me into the darkness. I stepped inside and called Murphy’s name. No answer. I tried again. This time I heard a low moan. I felt for the wall switch and flicked on the lights.

Murphy was stretched out on the couch, one arm dangling limply toward the floor. The lower part of his face looked as if it had been smeared with ketchup.

I snatched a phone from the floor next to the couch and called 911. I said I was Mike’s neighbor and that he needed medical help. Then I knelt next to Murphy. I put my face close to his, and said, “You’re going to be okay, Mike. Rescue squad is on its way.”

He opened his mouth and I got a knot in the pit of my stomach when I saw that his beautiful Irish smile had been ruined. Something or someone had hit him in the jaw with a force powerful enough to knock out his front teeth. There were bruises on his left cheek. I guessed he’d been worked over with a blackjack.

Anger welled in my chest.

“Who did this to you, Mike?”

He tried to talk. The best he could manage was a wet gurgle similar to the one I had heard over the phone. I asked him again. This time he said what sounded like goats . I tried again. The same answer. His dazed eyes looked past my shoulder. I turned and saw he had fixed his gaze on the fireplace photo of the Crowell barn. Then, mercifully, he passed out.