Rough Cut

by Ed Gorman

  At that moment, I didn't understand the significance of what he said. I only nodded dumb agreement. I would have nodded similarly if he'd said that Richard Nixon was a great guy. I'd become a stunned, docile animal.

  Around the entrance of the screening room a small crowd had gathered, standing on tippy-toes to peer in, like scared children at a circus tent promising sinister doings inside.

  Ab Levin was close on my heels, joining me as I moved down the corridor toward my office.

  "You got any idea what's going on, Michael?"

  "None. Not a goddamned clue."

  He put a fatherly hand on my shoulder. "I shouldn't have bothered you earlier this morning."

  "Bothered me?" I said, not understanding what he was talking about.

  "You know, about the security-our jobs now that Denny is dead."

  "Hell," I said, "that's a natural human reaction."

  He shrugged, veered off for his own corridor. "Yeah, I suppose. Take care, Michael.”

  ***

  He must have been waiting around the corner for the call, because by the time I crossed my threshold and started for my desk, he was there.

  He wore his trench coat again-apparently not bothered by the slight melodramatic flourish it gave to his job as a detective-and exuded the same working-class energy that said he'd probably be happier unloading trucks than all gussied up in a suit and tie. He had his faults, Detective Bonnell did, but there was something straightforward about him that I liked. Or would have liked, if necessity hadn't made me see him as the enemy.

  "You're having a bad week, Mr. Ketchum," he said.

  "I'm not," I said. "But Denny Harris and Ron Gettig are."

  He shook his head. There was something believable about his moment of melancholy. Seeing the kind of human beings he did, and seeing the messes they got themselves in, his melancholy was probably a very civilized reaction.

  I went around and sat down and nodded for him to take a chair.

  He held up a halting hand. "I've got to join my people in the-screening room is it called?-give them a hand." His gaze held on me a long moment. He was assessing me.

  "I've got an alibi for sure this time," I said.

  "I know. I've checked. Otherwise things wouldn't look too good for you. From the little checking I've been able to do, I understand you and Gettig almost got into a fist fight the other day."

  "Almost is a long way from actually happening."

  His gaze hadn't lowered yet. "Sometimes it is, Mr. Ketchum." He waited just the right number of beats-he had good actorly instincts-and then he said, "What's going on up here, Mr. Ketchum?"

  "Going on?"

  "There's a good probability the murders are related. It would be damned weird if they weren't. So-what's going on?"

  "I don't know."

  "You're sure of that?"

  He almost seemed to be smiling.

  "Yeah, I'm sure." I glanced at my wristwatch. Remembered the manila envelope. The delivery. "I have an appointment. Across town. If you don't need me-"

  He shrugged. "I'm sure we can handle it, Mr. Ketchum." The pause again. "Do you have any idea who might have killed Gettig?"

  "Not really, no." I did, of course. Sarah Anders. Or Sarah's husband-if he'd somehow managed to find out.

  He started watching me again. I suppose I don't have the self-confidence needed to take that kind of thing. I could feel tiny beads of sweat start in my armpits.

  Then he laid the bomb on me, the one he'd been waiting to deliver, like a terrorist to the heart of an unsuspecting building.

  "You know Clay Traynor's wife, Cindy?" he asked. "A bit. I mean, I see her at agency parties."

  "Did she know Denny?"

  "Sure."

  "The same way she knows you? Seeing you at parties?" The mocking edge had returned to his voice. "Yeah, basically, I guess."

  "Then she wouldn't have known him any better than she knows you?"

  I sighed. "What is it you're trying to say?"

  "Cindy Traynor drives a green Mercedes coupe. I know that because Denny Harris's closest neighbor-maybe half a mile away-remembers seeing a green Mercedes coupe heading for Harris's at dusk. The neighbor was strolling."

  "There must be lots of green Mercedes coupes."

  "Yeah, but probably not many with the license prefix C-I-N."

  This was how it always happens in the movies. Apparently it happens that way in real life, too.

  Cindy Traynor was going to get nabbed for the murder of Denny Harris. Clay Traynor was going to find out that his wife had had an affair with Denny.

  I was going to lose Clay's account-Cindy might go to prison-and all the while Stokes, the private detective, knew who the real killer was.

  "You look nervous, Mr. Ketchum," Bonnell said.

  "I'm late," I said, grabbing my briefcase.

  And I was-late to do anybody any damned good, including myself.

  FOURTEEN

  On my way over to the park Ron Gettig's face stayed in my vision. I wasn't much good at this death business. Apparently I wasn't much good at hating, either. Now that Gettig was dead, our dislike of each other seemed petty and silly. For the first time in the five or so years I'd known him, I found myself wondering about his family. All I knew was that he had a wife and daughter downstate someplace. The poor bastard.

  I grew up on pop songs about lost summers and early autumns. The city park I looked at now could inspire a whole generation of songwriters-the last red-and-gold leaves tearing away from the otherwise naked trees, the river running through the park peaked with icy-looking waves, the zoo section of the park now just empty cages, the pavilions stacked high with tables and chairs. There was something lonely about all this, you could almost hear the lost laughter of lovers on the bitter wind-but, there, I was writing my own early autumn song.

  The duck pond, which I'd expected to be deserted on a snow-promising day like this one, was ringed with maybe half-a-dozen people, all of them looking to be over fifty, tossing bread bits to the ducks that swam by on the other side of the fence. They fed the animals despite a large sign instructing them not to under threat of fine or even imprisonment. The people seemed as imperturbable as the ducks, which, given my mood, buoyed me for a moment. I'm always happy to see people do the right thing despite idiotic laws.

  The metal feeder marked A, the one Stokes had instructed me to place the manila envelope in, was wired to the fencing surrounding the pond. It looked like a country mailbox. From inside my overcoat I took the envelope, then placed it inside.

  J knew I was being watched.

  I glanced around in classic paranoid style but the only people I saw were the well-bundled-up feeders standing around me. A few of them returned my glance, offering smiles and curious looks, but that wasn't what I sensed…

  I spent the next few minutes looking around. Up the hills that lay westward, the river bank that lay eastward, the forest on the other side of the pond. Somewhere somebody was watching me put the envelope in.

  The killer, of course.

  I hadn't been able to resist temptation. After Stokes had left last night, I'd carefully opened the envelope and looked inside. All it contained was a photostat of a receipt for a safety-deposit box in the suburb of Millburn. The receipt was signed by a man named Kenneth Martin and had been issued three-and-a-half months earlier.

  Stokes had been right. Whatever import the contents held for the person who'd pick them up, I had no idea what they meant or what relationship they had to Denny's murder.

  All I knew for sure was that the envelope was going to make Stokes wealthy.

  Quarter of a mile away, I found a stand of fir trees and pulled my car over to them. A slope of firs behind it led to the edge of the duck pond. I could stand behind the trees and watch the feeder where I'd put the envelope.

  Not an easy jaunt. Several times I slid on the floor of slick fir needles. Another time I caught my overcoat in brambles and had to surgically remove myself from their thorns. But o
verall there was something thrilling about it, the way I'd felt as a very young boy playing cops and robbers. By now my face was frozen to the point that it was becoming numb-the air was actually starting to become invigorating. If this weren't such a serious business, it would be fun.

  I reached the edge of the pond maybe five minutes later, then eased myself out from around the tree to take a look.

  I had the terrible feeling that in the seven or eight minutes it had taken me to reach this point, the killer had come and gone.

  I decided to wait here as long as I could stand the cold and see what happened.

  I didn't have to wait long.

  He appeared from behind a copse of trees to the west of the pond. Obviously, he had been watching me.

  He went directly to the feeder and took out the envelope.

  Then he disappeared.

  Quickly.

  FIFTEEN

  On my desk was a message to call Wilma at a certain number. No last name. Just Wilma. I had my suspicions who it was I would be calling.

  An hour after leaving the park, I was still cold. Sarah Anders brought me a large mug of steaming coffee and watched me curiously as I shivered.

  "You coming down with a cold?"

  "Had a hard time finding a parking place for lunch. I had to walk several blocks."

  She smiled. "Must've been very long blocks."

  I was staring at her. Obviously. Her lover was less than three hours dead. She seemed to be holding up remarkably well, especially given the fact that her first response on hearing the news had been to faint.

  "You're wondering why I'm not hysterical?"

  I could feel myself flush. She was a perceptive woman. "I suppose I am."

  "Very simple, really. I've decided that I should be more concerned about the living than the dead."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning that I'm going to stay here long enough to make sure I've collected myself, then I'm going to go home and fix my husband the best meal he's had in years." Tears shone in her eyes. "I've really been a bitch to him."

  I decided to help her forget about Gettig by changing the subject. "Did you send everybody home?"

  She nodded, pulling herself back from her grief. "Yes. And almost everybody took me up on my offer of the rest of the day off. Only the usual diehards-"

  She named several people who were still here.

  One of them happened to be the man who'd picked up the envelope at the duck pond.

  I could feel my pulse start to pound.

  "Why don't you go home now, Sarah?" I said.

  "I'm afraid he'll find out someday."

  "Even if he did find out," I said, "I'm sure he'd forgive you, if that's what you want."

  "Oh yes," she said, tearing up again, "that's what I want, Michael."

  I came around the desk and took her in my arms and held her and let her shudder and sob until it passed like a muscle spasm.

  "The terrible thing is that I don't feel anything for Ron now," she said. "Nothing at all. I look back on what we did and it just seems-silly. You know?"

  These were the words I'd wanted my own wife to speak after she'd told me about her various lovers, including Denny Harris. I'd wanted to patch things up despite my pain and distrust and sorrow, but she hadn't wanted that at all. She'd just wanted out…

  "Why don't you go home now, Sarah?"

  "You really think he'd forgive me if he ever found out?"

  I tried to give her an honest answer. I thought of the conversations I'd had with her husband over the years. He was one of those men whose blandness misled people into thinking he's slow. Actually, he had a quiet, wry sense of humor and what seemed to be a very healthy self-image. He was also obviously gaga over his wife of thirty years.

  "I think he'd forgive you, Sarah. I honestly do."

  This time her tears were punctuated with a kind of laughter. I held her until she pushed gently away and said, "Boy, am I going to fix him a dinner."

  The way she said it, I had an image of roast beef and mashed potatoes and peas, my own favorite meal. I half wished she would invite me along.

  Twenty minutes later I walked along the corridor leading to the back of the shop.

  I still couldn't quite believe that the man I'd seen at the duck pond could actually be the man Stokes planned to blackmail but…

  On the art department bulletin board I saw a yellowed pencil cartoon of Denny with his leg in a cast being helped into a waiting limousine by Tommy Byrnes. I stopped to examine the cartoon closer. I'd forgotten all about Denny's breaking his leg six months ago playing racquetball, and in fact that Tommy Byrnes had virtually become his valet during that period.

  Maybe Denny had said something to Tommy that would shed some light on things. I made a note to contact Tommy later in the afternoon.

  A typewriter sounded lonely in the drab afternoon light. As I got closer to the accounting office, the typewriter got louder.

  In the reception area, I saw her, sitting alone in an island of empty desks. Belinda Matson.

  She was typing so intensely she didn't notice me until I came up beside her.

  Then, startled, she jumped a bit off her seat.

  I put what I hoped was a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She wrenched it away as if the hand were poison. Does nice things for a guy's ego. "Sorry if I scared you," I said.

  Before she spoke, I glanced down at the paper in her typewriter.

  The salutation was-"My Dearest Darling Merle-"

  It was then that I noticed how tear-stained her eyes looked, and the terrible twitch that traveled through her slight body. This wasn't a goddamned ad agency, it was a broken-hearts club.

  In a gesture similar to shaking off my touch, Belinda put her body across the platen so I couldn't read the paper and said, "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't pry into my affairs."

  Yes, I could certainly read women all right. How had I ever entertained the notion that this woman had any interest in me?

  "Sorry," I said. I nodded to the back. "Is Merle in?"

  "I'm not sure."

  It was so obvious a lie it was almost amusing. She'd said it petulantly, like a displeased little girl. I wondered why she was writing Merle a letter. Maybe she knew something I should.

  I just kind of rolled my head in displeasure and walked toward the back, to Merle's office. It was wonderful being boss. You commanded so much respect.

  In the gloom I saw a table lamp such as you see in fancy living rooms. Merle's choice in decor was suburban through and through.

  I knocked on the curtained glass door. No response. I put my hand on the doorknob. Open. I went in.

  In the shadows I saw two things clearly. The body of Merle Wickes seated stiffly in his tall-back executive chair and a glistening.38 sitting in front of him on his desk.

  I did not need to be a mastermind to know what was happening. Or what was about to happen.

  Merle still seemed unaware of my presence. I stood there staring at him, his breathing loud in the gloomy silence, feeling sorry for him, seeing him as a little silly despite the situation and his obvious pain.

  It was his hair-that said everything about him. It was silly and I couldn't help it, like taking a Wally Cox type and putting a Wayne Newton hairdo on him and draping him in glitter.

  I knew what I had to do. I just wondered if I'd be quick enough to pull it off.

  I leaned forward and made a grab for the.38. Merle surprised me. Completely.

  He had the gun in his hand and pointed at me before I had time to lean back.

  "Get out of here, Michael," he said. "Or I'll kill you."

  "Merle," I said. "It isn't worth it-killing me or killing yourself."

  An ugly, self-deprecating laugh came up from him and he shook his head miserably. "You don't know what's going on," he said. "If you did, you'd be scared like I am."

  The oddness of his remark almost made me forget that he was holding a gun on me. Here I was assuming that we were talking about his gui
lt in the two murders, yet he seemed to be saying that he was somehow a victim-

  "I'm not following you, Merle."

  "Of course you're not. You don't understand a damned thing about what's going on here."

  "You mean Denny and Gettig?"

  He nodded. "And it isn't going to stop with them." He glanced at the gun. "I'm next. Then probably you."

  "Me? What the hell do I have to do with anything?" He fell back into his miserable silence.

  I repeated myself, "What the hell do I have to do with anything?"

  "Maybe it's guilt by association." He sounded almost amused.

  I wanted to hit him. Hard.

  "You went to the duck pond in the city park earlier today," I said. "And the other night I saw you at a private detective's named Stokes."

  Instead of shouting out his innocence, or grabbing his gun, Merle Wickes just sat back in his chair and let go with a distinctly asthmatic laugh, a keening little laugh that conveyed a surprising smugness.

  "You dumb bastard," he said. "Stokes has got you playing along, I see."

  He leaned forward, the laugh still in his voice. "You sure pick good private detectives, Michael. Two days after you hired Stokes, he came to Denny and said that he'd put you on a false trail if Denny paid him enough. To Denny it sounded like a great game. He let Stokes tell you about Cindy Traynor and him just because he knew how much it would scare you-" He laughed again. "You're fun to watch when you get uptight, Michael."

  Which was when I grabbed him. Yanked him from behind the desk and hit him so hard across the face that blood spurted from his nose immediately. Then I threw him back in his chair and came around the desk. Any self-confidence his hairdo gave him was gone. He started to whimper and to flutter his hands in front of his face for protection. I couldn't help myself. I grabbed him again and slapped him backhand across the face.

  "I want to know what the hell's going on," I said.

  "Stokes," he muttered.

  "What about Stokes?"

  "He's playing us off against each other."

  "What the hell does that mean?" I said.