A Gambling Man

by David Baldacci

  “Who exactly are we talking about here, Willie?” Archer said this although he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

  “All three of them—Beth, Eleanor, and Sawyer—were treated by O’Donnell. All three involved surgery, potential blood loss. So all three would have had to have their blood types checked in case they needed a transfusion. Now, Eleanor’s and Sawyer’s operations were a long time ago.”

  “But Beth’s was recent,” interjected Archer.

  “Right, the last piece of the puzzle. I think it occurred to Armstrong how he was exposed on that and he decided to nip it in the bud, even if O’Donnell hadn’t made the connection. But he couldn’t take a chance, which is why the doc had to die and the records had to be taken.”

  “So you’re saying…?”

  “I’m saying that Armstrong is not Beth’s biological father.”

  “That means Eleanor had an affair?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any idea who it was?”

  Dash took out his pipe and chewed on the end without lighting it. “I know that Beth Kemper just turned thirty-one. It was in the papers. Well, thirty-one years ago I wasn’t in this town. But somebody else was.”

  “Who?”

  “Andrew Smalls.”

  Archer looked startled. “Armstrong’s partner who killed himself.”

  “Well, maybe he did and maybe he didn’t.”

  “Are you saying he was having an affair with Eleanor?”

  “More than that, Archer. I think he’s Beth’s father.”

  “But…but that would make her and Benjamin Smalls—”

  “—half siblings, yeah.”

  Archer scratched his head. “Then this is all about what?”

  “Revenge. Cruelty. And maybe something else that’s sicker than both those put together. The point is, anyone gets close to Beth Kemper gets taken away, somehow, some way. Andrew Smalls, Benjamin Smalls.”

  “And her husband,” said Archer.

  “And her mother,” added Dash.

  “Her mother. But she died in—”

  “Yeah, a plane crash. A Stearman plane crash, which is the name of the company that bought that island out there. And everyone in town knows Beth was supposed to go up with her mother that day, but she went to a luncheon with her husband instead. And Kemper told us it was Armstrong who made that happen.”

  “But why kill Eleanor? Because she cheated on him? He sure as hell waited a long time, unless he just found out two years ago.”

  “I think it’s more complicated than that, Archer. Beth loved her mother far more than she loved Armstrong. And maybe he just couldn’t take that anymore. And then, in his warped mind, Eleanor had to pay the ultimate price for cheating on him. But everything was just fine until Beth had her surgery. Now O’Donnell had all of their blood types. And I think it was then that he could see for himself that Armstrong couldn’t be the father. I can envision Armstrong sitting up there surrounded by his olive trees brooding about it. And once he figured the man had that leverage over him, the doc was as good as dead.”

  “Why would Armstrong think O’Donnell would even put the three together? And why would Armstrong believe that O’Donnell would use it against him?”

  “A good question, and here’s my answer. A man like Armstrong believes that everybody else thinks like him. Meaning if Armstrong had that information on someone he would sure as hell use it against them. So he just assumed that O’Donnell would put the screws to him. He sees the world and everyone in it through his own warped perspective. All of his actions are dictated by what is best for him, nobody else.”

  “Okay, let’s say that’s all true. How does that tie into this blackmail plot against Douglas Kemper? Armstrong’s backing him for mayor.”

  “Is he, Archer? Who really told us that? Douglas Kemper never did, quite the opposite, in fact. And Armstrong hedged his bets talking about it. But look at it this way: If Armstrong wants his son-in-law out of his daughter’s life, here’s what he could do: He sends a blackmail letter to Kemper saying they know he’s sleeping around with Fraser. Then Kemper hires us to look into it because Armstrong’s lawyer recommended me to him. Fraser denied the affair, since it was all a load of baloney, but that still gives Kemper every motive to kill her. Then, she is killed.”

  “And the only guy who can give Kemper an alibi for Fraser’s murder is Sheen.”

  “So he dies too, and they frame Kemper for that. Then they got the medical records and the doc is dead and that loose end goes away. And Kemper goes to the gas chamber, and Armstrong is left to pick up the pieces with a woman who is not his daughter.”

  “Do you think…” began Archer, his face growing pale as a number of sickening thoughts invaded his mind.

  Dash looked at him knowingly. “I don’t know, Archer. But I do know that Armstrong is one dangerous man.”

  “And what about Benjamin Smalls?”

  “Smalls found out Armstrong was planning to build a casino and had a confrontation with him about it. The law may allow gambling out on that rock, but as mayor, Smalls could have made Armstrong’s life miserable and put his scheme in real jeopardy.”

  “But we have no proof of any of this.”

  Dash stroked his chin. “And Pickett is so far up Armstrong’s ass you can’t even see the man’s wingtips.”

  “So what do we do?” asked Archer.

  “We go see the dentist.”

  Chapter 65

  THE SUN WAS BREAKING THROUGH the remnants of the passing storm. Both men stared out the windscreen of the Delahaye as they drove to Alfred Drake’s home.

  “What’s your angle on him?”

  “He has a backer, all right. But it’s not the Vegas mob. It’s Sawyer Armstrong.”

  Archer jerked the wheel of the car. “Armstrong?”

  “We’ve been played for dopes, Archer. Like everybody else in this business.”

  “You’re going to have to explain that to me.”

  “Drake is a grown-up version of the kid I saw hanging in that room. Armstrong knows it, and I’m betting he has hard proof and he’s blackmailing Drake with it. He’ll have to approve whatever the man wants in connection with that casino. And remember what Drake said when we were leaving his house? You asked him if he really believed he had no chance against Kemper? And he said something like ‘I have no chance. But we’ll have to see.’”

  Archer added, “And then he said, ‘Stranger things have happened.’”

  “Right. But the point is, Drake was being literal. He doesn’t have a chance against Kemper.”

  “But if Kemper isn’t running against him?”

  “Then he’s going to win.”

  “But Drake doesn’t strike me as a guy to just meekly take it on the chin, Willie. Like you pointed out before, the guy fights back.”

  Dash suddenly got a disturbed look on his face. “You’re right, Archer, so step on it!”

  They roared up to the front of the residence, and Dash had his door open before Archer even stopped the car. He ran up and pounded on the front door. It took a while but the same woman as before answered. She was cinching her robe around her waist, and her hair was disheveled from sleep.

  “Do you know what time it is?” she began angrily.

  “We need to see Drake now,” said Dash. “It’s an emergency.”

  “He’s asleep. And so was I.”

  “Then we’ll wake him up.” He pushed past her. “Which way?”

  “You can’t just—”

  He grabbed her arm. “Which way, lady? This is life and death.”

  The woman quickly led them down a long hall to a set of double doors situated at the end of the corridor.

  Dash tried the door but it was locked.

  “Drake, it’s Willie Dash. Alfred, open up.” He pounded the wood again. There was no reply from within.

  “Do you have a key to open it?” he asked the woman. She shook her head.

  “Archer!” Dash motioned to the door.

&n
bsp; Archer took a few steps and exploded forward, his shoulder smashing into the wood. It buckled but did not give. Archer retreated and then charged forward once more; this time the door flew open, and he was in the room. Dash and the woman followed him.

  She screamed, and Archer just stared.

  Drake was in a chair. The gun he’d used to kill himself was still in his right hand, his index finger wedged in the trigger guard. He was dressed in a dark blue silk robe with white pajamas underneath. There was a single hole in his right temple. It was blackened and burned in the center and crimsoned with blood on the rim. It looked angry and foul and wrong.

  Dash walked over, felt his wrist, and leaned in close to check the wound. Finally, he felt the gun muzzle. He glanced up at Archer. “Doesn’t seem like he’s been dead long.” He looked at the woman, who had finally stopped screaming and was swaying like a pine tree in a windstorm.

  “When did you see him last?” he asked.

  “I…I…”

  He guided her to a chair as far away from Drake as possible and pointed away from the man’s corpse. “Just take a deep breath and collect yourself. I know this must be a shock. Archer, your flask?”

  Archer drew it from his pocket and passed it over. Dash unscrewed the cap and encouraged the woman to take a sip, which she did. She handed it back and looked up at him.

  “What’s your name, hon?” asked Dash.

  “Ruthie.”

  “Okay Ruthie, just take your time and tell us what you can about last night.”

  She took another replenishing breath and began. “Mr. Drake had an early dinner and then sat up reading in the library. Around nine or so I saw him go to his room. That’s the last time I saw him.”

  “He seem okay?”

  “He seemed…normal. He’s never one for small talk, but he…he didn’t seem like a man ready to shoot himself, either.”

  “Did you hear any noises? Like a gunshot?”

  She shook her head. “Me and the cook sleep at the other end of the house. This is Mr. Drake’s private wing. I didn’t hear anything. Not until you knocked on the door.”

  “Okay. Did he have any visitors last night? Phone calls? Get any messages delivered?”

  “No, nothing like that. It…it was a typical evening.” She glanced at Drake’s body and shuddered.

  Dash eyed the phone on the nightstand. He picked it up and dialed.

  “Yeah, I want to talk to Ernie Prettyman, tell him it’s Willie Dash.” He paused and then stiffened. “When? Shit. Okay.”

  He slammed down the phone and looked at Archer. “Ern’s in the hospital unconscious. Some goons jumped him and the two guys guarding Kemper.”

  “And Kemper?”

  “Looks like they took him. Son of a bitch!”

  He picked up the phone again and stared at it like he’d never seen one before. Turning to Ruthie he said, “But you wouldn’t know if Drake called someone, would you?”

  “No sir. I would have no way of knowing that.”

  “Willie!” exclaimed Archer.

  Archer was kneeling and looking down at the carpet near a set of French doors opening to the outside.

  Dash hurried over to him.

  “It was raining up until about an hour ago,” said Archer.

  Dash examined the wet footprints on the carpet. “Those weren’t made by Drake; they’re too short.”

  Archer opened one of the French doors. “Not locked.”

  Dash walked over to the woman. “Ruthie, that young fellow we saw planting a bush when we were here before? Who is he?”

  “You mean, Bobby?”

  “Yeah, Bobby.”

  “He’s the gardener. Takes care of everything outside.”

  “He live here?”

  Ruthie nodded. “In a room over the garage.”

  “Thanks.”

  Chapter 66

  THEY HEARD THE SOBS AS THEY APPROACHED the garage. They cut through the still morning air like a machete through bamboo. The garage was a three-bay setup with a full floor above, where, presumably, Bobby lived.

  The exterior door was locked, but Archer managed to push up one of the garage doors and they went inside, passing a Buick and a trim little green Hunter convertible with the canvas top down on their way to the set of interior stairs. The sobs were now even louder, and in them Archer thought he could hear an anguish associated with only the deepest of personal losses.

  They reached a doorway at the top of the stairs. The cries continued, with the person inside seemingly oblivious to their presence.

  Dash whispered, “Pull your heater, Archer, just in case.”

  The gun came out. Archer stepped in front of Dash, put his hand on the doorknob, and slowly rotated it. The next moment he eased the door open and peered into the room.

  The space was small, with bead-boarded, whitewashed walls and plenty of windows to let the emerging dawn peek through; one of the windows was open. That was no doubt how they could hear the crying all the way outside. On the wall were framed publicity stills of Cary Grant, Montgomery Clift, and other male actors. A two-drawer dresser painted a pale blue, some built-in cabinetry, a banjo leaning in one corner, and a mahogany four-poster bed were the only things to be seen—other than the young man lying in the bed and sobbing his heart out.

  Archer and Dash stepped into the room and Archer closed the door behind him hard enough to make the man sit up and stare in fear and confusion at them.

  “Who…who are you?”

  Dash came forward. “You’re Bobby, right?”

  “Yes sir.” He sat up and pulled the covers up over his bare chest.

  Seeing him up close, Archer figured he was no more than twenty years old, with fine, delicate facial features and large blue eyes.

  “I’m Willie Dash and this here is Archer. We’re private eyes. You know about your…employer, I take it?”

  Bobby wiped his eyes and nodded. “He shot himself. Did…did you see him, too?”

  “Yeah. Hey, Bobby, let me see your hands for a sec.”

  Bobby held out his hands, and Dash wiped them with his pocket handkerchief. He looked at the cloth and then sniffed it.

  “Well, you didn’t fire that gun.”

  “I would never hurt anyone, especially Mr. Drake.”

  “Okay, calm down and tell us all about it.”

  Bobby glanced at Archer, who put his gun away, leaned against the wall, and said, “Must’ve been pretty upsetting to see him like that.”

  Bobby nodded and wiped his face on the sheet, looking anxious. “Yeah, it was.”

  “You went to see Drake sometime really early this morning, right?” asked Dash.

  “I, uh…”

  “Look, Bobby, I don’t give a damn what you had going on with Drake. I just want to hear any information you might have so we can find out why Drake did what he did.”

  “You’re in no trouble, Bobby,” Archer added. “And what you tell us goes no further.”

  Bobby glanced at Dash, who nodded. “That’s right, son.”

  Bobby grew calmer and sat up against the headboard. “I usually go to…see Mr. Drake around three in the morning, unless he tells me not to the night before.”

  “Why at that hour?”

  “Well, the ladies are sure to be asleep by then and…”

  “Okay. So you went there around three?”

  Bobby nodded. “His bedroom door, see, I can walk right in off the rear verandah. Don’t have to go into the house.”

  “We saw your footprints,” noted Dash. “And saw that the door was unlocked.”

  “Well, I opened the door and walked in, like usual…and there he was.” Bobby’s eyes filled with fresh tears. “It was like he was staring at me, but he was…he was all dead and everything.”

  “Did you touch the body?” asked Dash.

  “No sir,” he said quickly. “I…I just turned and ran back here. And I been here crying the whole time. I mean, Mr. Drake was real good to me. I…I can’t believe he’s gon
e.”

  Dash glanced at Archer. “Now, Bobby, this is real important, okay?” He paused and drew closer to the bed. “When did the men come out here? You saw them, right?”

  Bobby looked at him in surprise. “H-how’d you know about that, mister?”

  “I didn’t, at least not for sure, until now. Tell me about it.”

  “About twenty minutes after I got back here, I heard a car pull up real quiet like. I looked out the window. They had stopped right near the garage. Two men got out and went over to Mr. Drake’s bedroom door. They opened it, but didn’t go inside. But I saw a light flashing around.”

  Archer said, “That’s why we only saw one set of footprints—Bobby’s.”

  Bobby said, “Then they closed the door and got in their car and drove off.”

  “Two big lugs with stupid faces?” said Dash.

  “Yeah, that’s right. I saw ’em clear enough in the light next to the garage door.”

  “Hank and Tony,” said Archer. “They were here.”

  Dash edged over to him and spoke in a low voice, “That’s why they took Kemper, Archer. With Drake dead, Kemper is the mayor. Armstrong can’t have that.”

  “So Drake must have called Armstrong and told him what he was going to do? That’s why you mentioned back there about him maybe calling somebody?”

  “And the two goons came here to make sure Drake wasn’t bluffing. See, that was the ace in the hole Drake always had. Armstrong just figured he’d never play it, because it meant Drake would end up six feet under. But old Drake had his principles and he was apparently sticking to them. He wasn’t going to be Armstrong’s rubber stamp, no sir. Gotta admire the guy for that. I would like to think he died with that thought in mind and a smile on his lips.”