A Gambling Man

by David Baldacci

  “Hello, Ern,” Dash said to the small man in his late thirties standing in front of Fraser with his fingers tucked into his vest. The man’s suit was blue serge, the tie partially undone, the hair, grizzled and unkempt, sticking out from under his brown fedora. But the green eyes were intense and searching.

  Ern looked over, poked a cigarette into his mouth, and lit it.

  With a grin he said, “Willie, how’d you get past the chief? Don’t tell me he had a stroke when he saw your puss.”

  “Archer, this here is Ernie Prettyman, the best homicide detective north of San Luis Obispo. Ernie, this is Archer.”

  Prettyman came over to them and they all shook hands. Prettyman said, “That’s a mixed compliment on any day. What are you doing here?”

  “We were talking to this poor woman yesterday in connection with a case.”

  “Who’s the client?”

  “Someone prominent and with some problems.”

  “No more than that you can tell me?”

  “I could, and then I’d lose my ticket, and what would be the point of that?”

  “Still,” said Prettyman. “Whatever you can dish out.”

  “It was a confidential client matter,” said Dash, “that we’re following up. But if we find something that will help lead to her killer, I’ll make the call to you.”

  “I guess that’s the best I can do, then.”

  “Of course, Pickett would just send in Big Steve and club it out of me.”

  Prettyman frowned. “We don’t do that anymore, Willie. At least on my watch.”

  “You’re not always on watch, Ern. But to answer your question, Pickett told me to come up here and look around.”

  “Must be growing soft in his old age.”

  Dash said, “I knew just how to ask. What can you tell us?”

  “As you can see, somebody nearly cut her head off. No blood here. She was killed somewhere else. How the hell she got in here, who knows?”

  Dash looked skeptical. “Nobody saw anything? Place is pretty big, with lots of people coming and going.” He glanced at the window. “And I doubt someone carried her in through the window over their shoulder.”

  “Right, but there’s this. She was last seen around eight having dinner. Body was discovered after midnight. But whoever called it in did so at about nine or ten minutes before twelve. So the window is narrowed. Only at that time of night all the girls are out of their rooms and doing their things downstairs. And this is the top floor and Mabel Dawson told me there are only six gals up here, and those gals were all working last night from six o’clock on. They hand out the smokes and the whiskey and help run the card club and let the guys grab their asses as they go by for tips later. Fraser was the only song-and-dance performer up here. So her being alone on this floor before her act started wasn’t unusual.”

  “I understand they have ‘friends’ visiting the gals here in the afternoon,” said Dash. “When we came by yesterday the parking lot had quite a few cars. Even saw some prowlers in the mix.” He gave Prettyman a look.

  The man eyed him in understanding. “Que será, será.”

  “Murder weapon?”

  “No. But whatever was used was as sharp as my wife’s insults.”

  “How long did Mortimer think she’d been dead when he examined her?”

  “He thinks she was killed between ten and midnight.”

  “Understand he didn’t get here until this afternoon, though.”

  “That’s right. He was out of town, and we don’t like to move the body until he makes the call. But he was pretty sure of the timing based on the body’s condition. And he did a pretty thorough exam.”

  “Not a job for the squeamish,” noted Archer.

  Prettyman nodded and said, “When’d you start working with Willie?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Nothing like hitting the ground running.”

  “Witnesses?” asked Dash.

  “I’ve spoken to nearly all the staff. No one saw a body being moved into this room, I can tell you that. And I can’t find anyone who saw Fraser after she left dinner. She could have come back up here or gone out. But if she went out, you’d think one of the valet boys would have seen her, and none did. And she didn’t have a car, so somebody would have had to pick her up.”

  “How about out the back?” said Archer.

  “That’s certainly possible,” conceded Prettyman. “But why go out the back?”

  “If she was meeting someone she didn’t want anyone to know about?” said Dash. “And just so you know, Sawyer Armstrong was here last night. With two of his ‘associates.’”

  “They weren’t here when the first cops showed up, at least no one reported that they were.”

  “Funny thing about reports,” said Dash. “They sometimes leave out more than they put in. Anything strike you looking around?”

  “Yeah, she was a slob. And the fridge was empty. And the cooktop doesn’t look like it’s ever been used.”

  “Mind if we look around?”

  “Go ahead, Willie. I need to go check in with Pickett.”

  “And why is he here when you’re here?”

  “Ask him, only I advise you don’t.”

  “Advice I’ll take.”

  After Prettyman left, Dash pushed his hat back and squatted down in front of Fraser. “She’s in rigor mortis now,” he said as he tried to bend one of her arms. “That dovetails with Mortimer’s calculation.” He gazed more closely at the wound. “Damn, that is a helluva way to kill someone. One stab to the heart would have done it. Why do it like that?”

  “And how do you cut someone’s throat like that and no one hears her scream?”

  “Take a look at her right arm, Archer. In the crook of the elbow.”

  Archer drew closer and saw the small bump of red with a pinprick in the middle. “Someone shot her up with something to knock her out.” He glanced sharply at Dash. “But you said she was a drug user. She could have done that herself.”

  Dash shook his head. “I see her as a pill popper. Needle folks have tracks long as my arm. That’s the only one on her. Somebody else did it. Depending on what it was, Mortimer may find it when he checks her stomach.”

  “You think Prettyman saw the red bump?”

  “I would be surprised if he didn’t, considering I trained him.”

  Archer’s jaw eased down in surprise. “He was a shamus before a cop?”

  “Three years. I brought him on a couple years after I got here. He left and joined the police force when I had to take a leave of absence. That’s why he’s so nice to me.”

  “Why did you take a leave of absence?”

  “None of your business.” Dash walked around the space, taking in both small and large details.

  “Got a question,” said Archer.

  “Shoot.”

  “How come I don’t see any fingerprint powder anywhere?”

  “That’s right, you mentioned Irving Shaw told you about fingerprints.”

  “There’s none on the doorknobs coming in or out. None in here, even though you’d think the killer might have touched the table, the chair, or something else. Prettyman seemed like a stickler for procedure but he didn’t mention it.”

  “Ern’s a good man who wants to keep his job.”

  “Is that supposed to be an answer?”

  “I’ll leave it up to you to muddle. Anything else you need to tell me?”

  “Yeah, last night Dawson told me that Ruby liked men. Rich men. She thought she might have gone off with one of them.”

  “Well, why don’t we go ask her about it?”

  Chapter 43

  DAWSON WAS NOT IN THE FRONT ROOM when they walked back in there. They headed down the stairs. Fortunately, Pickett was no longer in the reception area as they made their way to Dawson’s office. She was seated at her desk, a bottle of gin sitting in front of her. She was staring at it like it was the second coming of Jesus. She looked up when they appeared.

&
nbsp; “Dammit, can’t you leave me in peace?” she moaned.

  Dash sat in the chair across from her. “So Ruby liked rich men, huh?”

  Dawson poured out three fingers of the gin and slowly spun the cap back while glaring at Archer. She poured in a smidgen of tonic, drank down a finger, tongued her lips, and said, “What young woman doesn’t?”

  “Don’t play that game with me, Mabel. I’m trying to find a killer.”

  “What do I know about anything?”

  “I think a lot more than you let on.”

  She let out a sigh so long it seemed to Archer like her dying breath. She lit up a Camel and blew smoke all over Dash, who just sat there and absorbed it, like a sponge.

  “You private dicks are all alike, nag, nag, nag. Mark my words, in another life you’re coming back as some poor schmuck’s mother-in-law.”

  “That’s a good description, actually. So, rich men?”

  She tapped ash and polished off a second finger, holding the glass to her forehead after, as though she might get the final liquid dollop inside her via absorption.

  “Tell me who your client is.”

  Dash didn’t hesitate. “You already know.”

  “How?”

  “We came here yesterday and pretty much told Ruby who it was. And there is no way you didn’t get that out of the girl, because as soon as we left, you had a little talk with her, didn’t you? I mean, you said that was your job: the girls?”

  She took another puff of her smoke and eyed the man warily. “I know what you’re thinking and maybe what you want me to say, but I never saw Douglas Kemper with Ruby, not once. She wasn’t in his class. She was a kid from Kansas or Missouri or one of those places with more cows than people.”

  “So she did tell you we were asking about Kemper?”

  “She…I mean…yeah, she did.”

  “Thanks for clearing that up. And she told us she was from Illinois, but they got cows there, too, so go ahead. What else?”

  “She was pretty, she had a decent voice, and she was okay playing the dumb broad in the comedy skits. And that was it. She was not the second coming of Carole Lombard, trust me. She didn’t have the brains or ambition for moving high up the social ladder.”

  “We heard different, at least about her and Kemper.”

  “Then you heard wrong, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “What if his wife thinks he might have been cheating with Ruby?” said Dash.

  “Then maybe she knows something I don’t. But if she can’t keep her man happy it’s her problem not mine.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt Ruby?” asked Archer.

  “We get all kinds in here, drunks, powder puffs, big men, small men, weak men, and mostly men who think way too much of themselves. But as far as I know, we don’t have gents who like chopping a girl’s head off, and I hope we never do.”

  “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.”

  Chapter 44

  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.