A Gambling Man

by David Baldacci

  It didn’t take Archer long to spot Kemper. He was lounging in a chair behind five cards and a pile of chips with four other men who looked like clones of his, but without the indifference that oozed from Kemper. None of the men were Sheen.

  He crossed the room, taking a last sip of his drink, and stopped next to Kemper, who put down a full house, kings over tens, and scooped up the chips in the pot to the chagrin of the rest of the elite herd.

  Kemper looked up at him and set his Havana in an ashtray. “Archer, right?” He looked around. “Where’s Willie?”

  “He called it a day, but I’m more of a night owl.” He knelt down and said in a low voice, “I’d like to ask you a few questions and give you an update, if you’re interested.”

  Kemper glanced at the other players and smiled. “Okay, boys, I feel sorry for you, so I’m taking my toys and going home. You can duke it out for the few dollars you have left. And you can thank me later.”

  He glanced at the dealer and pointed to his chips. The man nodded. “Yes sir, Mr. Kemper. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Scrape off fifty for your trouble, Harry.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Kemper rose and Archer followed him out of the room and over to one of the bars lining the grand hall that bisected the first floor. Archer refreshed his martini and Kemper opted for a stinger.

  “Let’s take a walk,” said Kemper. “I don’t really care for crowds while I’m answering questions and getting updated.”

  He led Archer out to the rear terrace and over to a covered area that had been sheltered from the earlier rain. They sat at a wrought iron table with orange-and-white-striped upholstered chairs set around it. The babbling waterfall Archer had seen earlier continued its walk down the terrace, ending in the spitting fire pit. The effect was nifty, thought Archer, if you were into all show and no substance.

  “Give me the update first, Archer,” commanded Kemper.

  Archer took a swallow of his martini before answering, just because he felt like it.

  He went through what had happened thus far, including the interviews done, steps taken, and information discovered. It was all perfunctory and necessary, and yet Archer just wanted to get beyond it and on to something meaningful.

  Kemper listened to all of this and then took about a minute to clip and light up another Havana, puffing thoughtfully to get it primed. He sat back, took a sip of his stinger, and said, “Wilson filled me in on some of this. Now, I don’t like it that you talked to Beth. I told you I didn’t want her learning about this garbage.”

  “She was going to learn it whether you wanted her to or not. Better she heard it from us and not some rag.”

  Kemper looked him over but gave no opinion on this. He said, “Now, about this Fraser girl.”

  “What about her?”

  “Any thoughts on who might have killed her?”

  “Not yet. Have the cops talked to you?”

  “Me? Why would they talk to me?”

  Archer had had enough. He put his drink down and took his time lighting a cigarette from his new pack of Luckys. He waved out the match and put it in the ashtray.

  “Look, I might have just started working with Willie, but I haven’t fallen off a turnip truck since I was five. And to my knowledge, no one’s removed my brain. So why don’t we just jump over the horseshit and get straight on to one essential fact. Namely, that you had a strong motive to kill the lady, and that means the cops, even the bullshit ones in this town, will want to talk to you at some point.”

  “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.

  Chapter 48

  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.

  To his surprise, they entered the room right next to Fraser’s, and Darling closed the door behind them. As Archer hustled to the spot, he heard the door being locked.

  He glanced at Fraser’s old room and decided it was worth a shot. The door was fortunately unlocked, and he entered, shutting the door quickly behind him. The body was thankfully gone. Archer found a water glass from the kitchen cabinet and made a beeline to the bedroom, which he figured would back up against the bedroom in the adjacent room. He placed the glass against the wall and his ear against the bottom of the glass.

  He heard mumbles and heavy breathing and snatches of conversation that he couldn’t understand. Something hard tapped against something else. Then laughter. Then moans. Then what sounded like two people disrobing as quickly as they could. Then a radio came on and he could hear loud music. Then he heard the sounds of bedsprings being bounced and then the movement settled into a rhythmic beat that, while he could appreciate it, helped him not one iota in his investigation.

  He glanced around, wondering what to do, when he saw the small door in the ceiling with a short pull cord hovering right at the top. He grabbed a chair, stood on it, gripped the cord, and jerked, pulling down the hinged door. There were no dropdown stairs, but he got a handhold on either side of the opening, did a pull-up, and hoisted himself through. There was flooring up here over the ceiling joists and a chain with a light bulb at one end. He pulled it and the light came on, turning darkness reasonably bright.

  He crawled quietly in the direction of the other apartment until he figured he was over it. Along the way he found some things that might actually be bona fide clues. But they would keep for now.

  He found an identical door in the ceiling of the next apartment. With the loud music hopefully covering any sound he made, Archer decided to chance it and very slowly pushed down on the hatch.

  He got it open about three or four inches, which gave him a sight line into the room.

  Darling was on the bed, on her hands and knees. She was wearing nothing except her garter belt and the sheer nylons.

  Sheen was completely naked, and Archer could see that the man looked just as fat unclothed, maybe more so. His skin was pasty; his chest, shoulders, and back were as hairy as a caveman’s without an ounce of visible muscle. He was standing behind Darling and had a tight grip on her firm buttocks.

  Archer felt embarrassed watching them, and he looked away. Part of him wanted to close the hatch, go back to Fraser’s old room and run like hell. But then he asked himself: What would Willie Dash do? And it wasn’t like he was watching out of purely prurient interest, he told himself. He was investigating. And what he was seeing didn’t make a lot of sense. And that made him suspicious.

  He looked back in time to see Sheen’s efforts slow and he began to pant harder. Darling rose up enough for Archer to see her face. And now he was even more intrigued, and puzzled.

  Her expression was a delicate mixture of boredom and disgust. The lady was clearly not there because she was in love with Sheen or found him attractive. Now the question was: Why was the lady there?

  Archer once more averted his gaze, but he kept the hatch open so he could hear.

  When Sheen again appeared to be fatiguing, she commenced pushing back hard against him and moaning louder, telling him he was bigger, harder, stronger, more virile than any man alive. It was like a coxswain calling out encouragement to the rowers to get them to accelerate their strokes. Sheen, thus puffed up, obliged her, but he was so unsteady on his feet he bumped into the nightstand and knocked both a half-filled glass and a Bible onto the floor.

  In short order, the flabby man, thus inspired, finished his business and slumped over her, his massive weight forcing the woman down flat on the bed. Her expression was now one of irritation coupled with relief. Archer watched as she wriggled out from under him. Then she turned, smiled, and patted his cheek.

  “Oh my God, Wilson. I’m gonna be walking funny for a week.” He rubbed her cheek, smiled, and then promptly fell asleep.

  She quickly rose, dressed fast, and headed for the door without even bothering to cover him with a sheet. Her glance back at the sleeping man was full of disgust.

  Archer closed the ceiling door and retraced his steps to Fraser’s door.

  He looked out in time to see Darling’s backside as she headed down the hall. Her stockings’ seams were all off-center, but everything else seemed to be in place.

  Archer fell in behind the woman and trailed her back to the first floor. She went to the check girl to get her hat, a little
pillbox number the color of her dress with a little black veil tacked up. While she was doing that Archer spotted the cocktail waitress who had served him and Kemper earlier and asked her a couple of questions. She answered them, and he passed her a buck in thanks. She stuck it down her blouse, eyed him, and said, “Well, I get off at one if you’re interested.”

  “Thanks, but I got other plans.”

  “Jeez, I can’t buy a man tonight.”

  She flounced off, and Archer hustled over to claim his hat while Darling was adjusting hers.

  “Well, funny meeting you here,” he said to Darling.

  She quickly turned. “Mr. Archer?”

  “I thought this place was built mainly for the guys.”

  Her gaze inadvertently ventured upward, all the way, Archer thought, to the room where Sheen was now peacefully sleeping off probably the best sex of his life.

  She blushed beautifully and looked back at him. “I was meeting a friend. And I come here for a drink now and then.”

  “Oh, well, then I’ll leave you to it.”

  “No. I mean, I’ve met my friend and we’re all…done now.”

  “Well, then how about that drink we talked about?”

  “What? Oh, um, all right. What the hell.”

  “That’s what I like to hear from a gal: ‘What the hell.’”

  He was rewarded with a crimsoning of her cheeks.

  They got their drinks, he a beer and she a gin and tonic. He led her out to the rear terrace, and they occupied the same chairs he and Kemper had used earlier.

  “So, was your friend one of the gals in the office?” he said.

  “Um, yes, Sally. We had a drink.”

  “You like working for Mr. Kemper?”

  “It’s a job. I like the conditions.”

  “I guess you spend more time with Wilson Sheen, though.”

  She glanced sharply at him, searching his features for some telltale sign that his words meant something more. But Archer had prepared himself and gave nothing away.

  “I mean, that’s why he has Sheen, right? To handle stuff for him.”