The Killing Edge

by Forrest, Richard;

  “That 710 needs a new voltage meter.”

  “Jesus!” He stood and spilled coffee over his fingers. “Are you telling me that you’re thinking of voltage meters when I thought you had decided that if I hadn’t fallen asleep …”

  “I’ll need a ride to the shop.”

  “Sure. Can we leave by eight? I want to make a quick stop on the way to Headquarters.”

  “I’ll leap out of bed as soon as you’re back in the living room.”

  “I can rustle up some breakfast.”

  “You’re handy around the house.”

  “Sure,” Will said sullenly as he went out and slammed the door.

  After dressing, she went to the dining area to find that he had set the table, perked real coffee and had set two places of bacon and eggs. “Still mad?” she asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Tell me about the Bridger thing. Any leads?”

  Will poked at his egg in a desultory manner. “I’m afraid so, and they point toward Raleigh.” In succinct, almost official form, he ran through the details of Raleigh’s deceptions, lies and backtracking. The affair with Sandra Devonshire coupled with the possibility of relief from financial problems through Mauve’s large insurance policy gave Raleigh an excellent motive for the crime. “I’ll have to verify a lot of stuff first, but at this point it looks lousy. Maybe forensic or medical will turn up something new.”

  The snow was a foot deep and still coming down. Will shook his head when he found the car. Sometime during the night the snowplows had passed, and in their inimical way had piled a bank over four feet high immediately behind his car.

  “Christ, it’ll take me an hour to dig out.”

  “You had better call someone.”

  He glanced at her. “Great, just great.”

  Patrolman Mike D’Agostinio hummed under his breath and smiled as L.C. and Will climbed into the back of the patrol car.

  “Where to, Chief?”

  “22 Seaway Avenue first, and then we’ll take Mrs. Converse to the car agency.”

  “Yes, sir.” He threw the car into gear.

  L.C. could see the patrolman leering at her in the rear view mirror. They both knew that there was already gossip about their relationship, and now the station locker room would be filled with D’Agostinio’s tale of how he picked up the chief at eight in the morning, at the Converse apartment. Under the law it was assumed that … and everyone would.

  “Who’s at 22 Seaway?”

  “Harry Epstein who owns the Silo Liquor Store on Forum Street.”

  “Do you know where everyone in town lives?”

  “Almost.”

  He was in the Epstein house a scant five minutes before returning and slamming into the seat next to the driver. “Get going,” he snapped.

  “What did he say?”

  “One of the regulars was in the store just before closing last night. Went out and came back in a few minutes to buy another bottle. It fits with Raleigh’s original story.”

  “Do you know the name of the customer?”

  “Wally McNulty. Been trying to drink the town dry for years. Has a room over Hubbard’s Grill. I’ll have him picked up this morning and find out what he knows about Raleigh Bridger.

  L.C. sat back lost in thought. God, he was a good man, a stable, fair man. She wondered if she were ready to love him, to help with his children, fulfill his needs—and her own.

  The cruiser swerved past the service station and stopped in front of the showroom. She saw that the plowing had been inadequate, and that would be the first item on today’s agenda. She leaned in the car’s front window and gave Will a buss on the cheek as Mike D’Agostinio smiled knowingly.

  It was 8:30 when L.C. opened the showroom door and went inside. It was the first morning in months that she’d been so late, and she hurried to the service area expecting to find the mechanics engaged in an extended coffee break.

  The garage was filled with a din of tools wielded by silent mechanics who seemed to be working faster than usual. The bays were filled with cars. The Datsun she’d checked out the previous evening had been repaired and moved outside. The whole interior seemed cleaner and more orderly than it had been the day before.

  She felt a small surge of disappointment, but reconciled herself with the thought that a full time service manager could obviously manage far better than she could with her other duties. Through the open parts room door she saw Eddie Bennett, clipboard in hand, taking inventory. She stopped before the service blackboard mounted over the air compressor and examined the listed repair orders.

  At the far right of the board a new column in a strange handwriting had been added. It was entitled “F Day” in large letters written with red chalk, with a descending column of numbers with names next to each number.

  She examined the column with puzzlement and then called to Eddie, “What’s the pool?”

  He poked his head out the parts room door. “F Day. The day I get the boot. I put up five hundred that say I make it a month. The buys are covering me. Lots of action down after the first week.”

  “I suppose it’s better than basketball. Get somebody to replow the front apron.”

  “Yes, sir. By the way, I’ve checked out the parts room and I’d like to order some items.”

  “Bring a purchase order to my office when you know what you need.”

  He must have gotten here by dawn to have accomplished so much, she thought as she returned to her office and slipped out of her slacks and pulled on white coveralls. As she opened the bathroom door she saw him at the chair in front of the desk, his leg over the arm, looking at her through the rolled up parts requisition.

  “Do you approve?” she asked as she sat at her desk.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then let’s see the purchase order.” He handed the paper across the desk. She frowned as she spread out the curled edges and tried to concentrate on the list of parts. Last night’s events nagged the rim of her concentration, and she forced them away with the thought of the wrecked Sunbeam, its engine pushed off the mounts, waiting on rack one. It was something she could really get into later in the day.

  “I’ll have the engine mounts fixed on that Sunbeam today,” he said.

  “O.K.”

  He came around the corner of the desk and bent over the purchase order with one hand resting casually on her shoulder. “I think we ought to reorganize the parts you carry in inventory. It will save money in the long run.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” Her hands began to tremble as she felt his presence and the pressure of his hand on her shoulder. “Let me check your list against the inventory control cards. I’ll get back to you later in the day.”

  He smiled and offered a stick of gum. “You’re the boss.”

  He sauntered from the office. She twitched her shoulder to drive away the lingering imprint of his hand, and noticed that her palms were slightly damp and still clutching the requisition form. “This is ridiculous,” she said aloud to the silent trophies.

  Thoughts like that were disloyal to Will. She tried to dismiss them by thinking of him. He would be at headquarters by now, would have a cup of coffee on the corner of his desk, and would be going through last night’s patrol reports before getting on with the Bridger investigation.

  With a brusque movement she reached for the phone and dialed police headquarters.

  “Lantern City Police, Officer Wilkie,” the curt voice answered.

  “Chief Barnes, please.”

  “The chief is in conference. Can anyone else help you?”

  “This is L.C. Converse, and I’d like the chief to …” The connection was put through to Will before she finished her message. The gossip must have already made the rounds.

  There were four reporters in the building and a television remote unit in the parking lot when Will got to headquarters. He strode past the desk, waved at the reporters, and told them he’d make a statement in fifteen minutes.

  In his offi
ce at the corner of the building, coffee was waiting on the desk next to the prior shift’s patrol reports. He began to leaf through the reports and sip the coffee when the phone rang.

  “Barnes.”

  “Two favors, Will?” L.C. asked. “One—can you come to my place for dinner at eight?”

  “Done.”

  “And, Will, tonight, don’t fall asleep.”

  The line clicked dead and Will hung up with a broad smile.

  By 9:20 Will Barnes had been through the routine matters on his desk, put out a pickup order for Wally McNulty, made a noncommittal statement to the reporters and was on his way to the Lantern City Savings Bank.

  The bank’s founder, Wadsworth Strickland, had decided against following modern dictates, and maintained the building’s decor in the same manner as when it had been built, forty years earlier. It was a monolithic building with a Grecian motif. A high vaulted ceiling, complete with murals, domed the banking floor. The tellers lined up behind a marble counter topped with filigreed iron work, while the executive offices were spoked off to the side.

  The president’s office was a darkly paneled affair with a large working fireplace. An oil portrait of Wadsworth Strickland hung over the mantel. The painting of the tall, stern man dominated the room.

  As Will entered, Herb Strickland rose from the heavy oaken deck placed to the side of the fireplace and extended his hand. “It hasn’t been so long, Chief Barnes.”

  “I want to thank you for letting us use your place last night.”

  “I was glad to be even a small aid. If there’s anything else I can do, please say so. I can still hardly believe the whole thing happened.”

  Will sat in a high backed chair in front of the desk. “Perhaps you can help. That is if you aren’t too busy?”

  Herb waved his hand across the empty desk and laughed. “Dad used to say that running a savings bank was the easiest job in the world. All you needed was a good operations officer and a good loan officer with a low handicap on the golf course. I’ve got Poston in operations and Raleigh in loans. At least I think I have Raleigh in loans.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He called me a few minutes ago and said he’d like a leave of absence until this whole matter was cleared up. Surely, you don’t suspect …”

  “We don’t suspect anyone at present, Mr. Strickland. However, I could use your help in two areas.”

  “What can I do?” Herb asked as he leaned forward.

  “I’d like to talk to Sandra Devonshire in one of your conference rooms, and I’d appreciate detailed background on Raleigh’s financial position.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t suspect …”

  “Purely routine.”

  “I can certainly help you with your first request.” He mumbled a few words into his intercom. “Miss Devonshire will be with you in a few minutes. However, Raleigh’s financial situation is of course confidential.”

  “I can get a court order.”

  “Yes, I suppose you can.” He tented his fingers and turned to look up at his father’s portrait. “Raleigh does have a large loan with the bank. It’s ticklish since we aren’t supposed to make loans to officers. It was a temporary thing, and as long as he clears it from the books by June, the matter is closed.”

  “Can he do that?”

  “He’s taken everything he has and put it in that shopping center. He’ll have to sell the center, at a loss, and make good on his obligations. It will destroy his equity position, but of course he’ll still have his salary.”

  “I think I’d like a statement to that effect.”

  “Of course. It’s unfortunate, and Dad always warned me about these things.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A banker is a warden for others, beware of the man who indulges himself. Dad was good at sayings like that. Miss Devonshire should be in the conference room by now.”

  She sat at the long mahogany table with her legs outstretched. Will was surprised at her appearance. He thought that banks didn’t allow their employees to dress like that. Although in her case there weren’t many places to put all she had. As he shut the door she turned toward him with a sulky and defiant sexuality.

  “You wanted to see me?” It was a little girl voice.

  “I’m Chief Barnes. I have a few questions.”

  “I heard about Mrs. Bridger. Raleigh called me.” She seemed to slither deeper into the chair.

  The aura of sexuality about the young woman across the table brought L.C.’s image to his mind. It also explained how Raleigh might have gotten involved. Daily contact with Miss Devonshire, with a marriage that was the least bit rocky, and many men would be tempted.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “You’re having an affair with Mr. Bridger.”

  Her eyes didn’t change. “I am his secretary. We work closely together and that makes people talk.”

  “Mr. Bridger says he was with you at your apartment last night. Is that true?”

  She looked down at her nails before replying. “I could get in trouble if I don’t tell the truth.” It was more of a statement than question.

  “We have ways of checking.”

  “We had a drink after work.”

  “And then went to your apartment?”

  “No.”

  “Oh?”

  “We went to the Seaside Motel. That’s where we go every Friday. They keep a room for us.”

  “I see. And how long have these little office parties been going on?”

  “About six months.”

  “Has he ever said he was in love with you?”

  Her look was a combination of shock that changed to defiant pride. She tossed her hair. “Yes.”

  “How long were you together last night?”

  “He left about 7:30 or after.”

  That tied in with Raleigh’s initial story of the near accident outside the liquor store, and fit into what the store owner had said. “Did he say anything about his wife, Mauve Bridger?”

  “Last night?”

  “Anytime?”

  “That they were going to get a divorce, that he was sick and tired of her, and she wasn’t anything like I was, if you know what I mean?”

  That opened an area that Will had no intention of exploring. “Did he say when he was getting a divorce?”

  “Well, not exactly. He used to tell me that when he was with me he couldn’t think of anyone else.”

  “That’s very complimentary,” Will replied and wondered if she realized she was putting Raleigh’s neck under the guillotine, or was it some perverse pride that made her want the tawdry affair out in the open. “Did Mrs. Bridger know about your relationship with Raleigh?”

  Her eyes turned opaque. “Know?”

  “Did Raleigh ever mention that he’d discussed you with his wife, or had she found out about the affair some way?”

  “Did she keep a diary or something?”

  Will wondered why God so often put limited minds in beautiful bodies. “There are ways to find out, Sandra. It’s usually best, in cases such as this, to be completely truthful. That way, nothing can happen to you.”

  He sensed that he had made some sort of impression on her. The blankness faded from her eyes and was replaced with a feigned innocence. “She called me at work the day before yesterday and said she’d had us followed.”

  “I see.” Verifiable, Will thought. There would be records of bills, payments of some sort to a private detective. On the other hand, if the accusation followed the usual pattern, it was merely an astute guess on Mauve’s part. “What else did she say?”

  “The bitch. She said that I had better look for another job, out of town, and if I ever saw her husband again she’d … she’d …”

  “What?”

  “Cut my guts out. That’s what she said in that finishing school accent of hers. She said she’d cut my guts out and never even raised her voice like the last one that called me.”

  “Last wh
o?”

  “Mr. Detwilder’s wife out at the branch. When I was his secretary she got the same idea and made me leave. But they transferred me to the main office. They always do that. They all think I’m screwing their husbands. If they were any good at all in the sack their husbands wouldn’t be interested.”

  “You have a point there, Sandra. Now, I’d like you to come to the station on your lunch hour and make a formal statement of exactly what you’ve told me. Ask for Sergeant Wilcox. Will you do that for me?”

  “If I have to.”

  “You do.”

  “Mr. Barnes, what about Raleigh? He’s not in any kind of trouble, is he?”

  “I don’t know, Sandra. I really don’t know.”

  At 10:15 Raleigh and Noah Washington were sitting uneasily on the ancient leather couch along the wall in Will’s office. The stenographer sat primly before the desk with her transcription machine on a small portable table.

  “Before any statement is taken, Will, I want it read into the record that my client is under a doctor’s care and is suffering extreme anxiety and other nervous disorders due to his recent experience.”

  “We’ll note that, Noah. I also think we ought to clear the air of a few other items. Now, Raleigh, you state that you returned home about 8:45 and called your attorney almost immediately and then the police at 9:05.”

  “That sounds about right.”

  “And you didn’t pass by the Silo Liquor Store a few minutes before its closing at eight?”

  “I couldn’t have and arrived home at 8:45. The store’s only a five or eight minute drive from my house.”

  “Even in the snow?”

  “Even in the snow.”

  Will flipped the intercom. “Send in Mr. McNulty.”

  As if he had been poised by the office door, Wally McNulty immediately entered. He wore soiled work pants, an old army overcoat of indeterminate age, and a week’s stubble of beard. He stopped in the center of the room and looked slowly around until his gaze focused on the couch where Raleigh sat.

  “That’s him,” he said as his bony finger pointed toward Raleigh. “That’s the guy who almost knocked me off outside the liquor store last night. I took a swing at him, a real good haymaker that connected.”