Rough Cut (13 page)

    The confusion was back on her face. "But why would they become thieves-Clay and Denny especially? They had very good salaries. I mean, thieves…"

    I turned out the light

    Any more speculation tonight would be useless. For now, there were other things to occupy our time. "I've got to go home in a while," Cindy said, as I leaned toward her in the darkness.

    "A while can be a long time," I said.

    

    

    Even though there was one more funeral to attend-Ron Gettig's-you could tell the shop was getting back to normal by the tone of the arguments I had with several copywriters, art directors, and media directors. Good, hard arguments about the craft of advertising, everything from the tone of copy to the style of illustrations, and whether country-western radio stations were worth the cost-per-thousand they were currently charging. My feeling was, they weren't. There are a lot of guys out there who drive pickup trucks with gun racks in the back, but how many of them do you really want to talk to unless you're selling chewing tobacco or beer?

    I even managed to get some writing done on the Traynor account, which, despite everything that had happened, still paid the majority of salaries and bills around here.

    Each time I typed the name Traynor I thought not of chain saws but of Cindy. I felt giddy in a way I hadn't in a long time. I'd picked a damned strange time to fall in love- but so be it. The taste of Cindy remained in my pores. It tasted great.

    I didn't even think any more about checking out the newspaper clipping with Mrs. Bradford, the one who'd been robbed. All I could think of was Cindy…

    That changed when Sarah Anders knocked on my door to tell me Detective Bonnell was in the reception area. Sarah saw the expression on my face and frowned. "It isn't over yet, is it?"

    "No," I said, not sure what she meant.

    She closed the door by leaning against it. This morning she looked the suburban matron. There was a mellowness in her mood I hadn't seen for a long time. "I had a long talk with my husband last night."

    "You told him about Ron?"

    "No. Not exactly. What I did tell him was how much I loved him, and how sorry I was that sometimes I acted so distant. I'm not sure he knew exactly what I was talking about but by the time we finished talking both of us felt better-I could tell."

    A measure of how paranoid the murders had made me was that I began picturing Sarah's husband as a suspect. It is not a good way to live…

    "I'm happy for you," I said.

    "I just wish you looked better."

    "Tired?"

    "More than tired, Michael. The strain…" Apparently my air of puppy love wasn't reflected on a face with dark rings under the eyes and the paleness that comes from too much alcohol and too little sleep.

    "I'll be all right," I said.

    The way she looked at me, I thought maybe she knew something terrible about my health that I didn't. "I hope so," she said.

    When she opened the door, Bonnell was standing there, still looking uncomfortable in a suit and tie. He came in with an earnest but enigmatic expression on his hard face. He put out his hand and I shook it. He sat down. Before my bottom reached my own chair, he said, "I wanted to tell you that I'm about to make an arrest in both murder cases."

    "What?" My surprise was genuine.

    He smiled. "Most murder cases aren't nearly as complicated as the press makes them out to be. Especially once you've established a motive."

    I asked him if he wanted any coffee. He said sure enthusiastically. I got up and got him some. I wished for a bourbon and water but knew better.

    I sat back down again.

    He thanked me for the coffee and went on. "You ever hear of a Mrs. Bradford Amis?" he said.

    "No," I lied. I was afraid my face was saying otherwise.

    "Five months ago, she had nearly a quarter of a million dollars in gems taken from a wall safe in her home. She was having a party for charity. A lot of fancy society types were there, including your good friend Clay Traynor." He said "good friend" with his usual irony. "Guess who was also with him? Denny Harris and Ron Gettig."

    "I'm not following you," I said. But my attempt at sounding stupid wasn't convincing to either of us.

    "What if Traynor and Harris and Gettig got themselves invited to that party so they could take the gems?" he asked.

    "Do you know who you're talking about? I mean, they're hardly the thief type."

    "What's the 'thief type,' Mr. Ketchum? I don't think there is such a thing-especially when somebody is desperate."

    "What did they have to be desperate about?" I was thinking of my conversation with Cindy. "Clay Traynor has a very good income-so did Denny and Gettig."

    "You think so, huh?"

    From his pocket he took a thick fold of papers. When he spread them out on the desk before me, I saw that they were bank and financial statements from a variety of sources.

    "Here we have the financial status of the three men we're talking about," Bonnell went on. "When you give these reports a superficial look, everything seems all right. But when you look closely, you see that all three of them were deeply in debt."

    He pushed the papers over to me.

    Five minutes later, after having looked through everything, I saw that what he said was true. Everything from failed business ventures to expensive cars had put each man deeply, and perhaps irrevocably, in debt. What was most interesting was that two or three of the business ventures-a marina and a parts-supply house for foreign cars-they'd been in together, Clay, Denny, Ron Gettig. I realized it was time I contacted my personal accountant again-he was going through the agency books at night.

    "Still think they didn't have motive enough to commit a robbery?"

    "All right," I said, "I'll grant you motive, but how about actually doing it. They liked to play hard, but I still say they weren't criminal types. Anyway, how would they know how to break open a safe?"

    He smiled. "I've been a busy man, Mr. Ketchum. I've got answers for every question."

    I found myself smiling with him. He seemed to take a real delight in his work. But I didn't know what I was smiling about. If he booked Clay Traynor, events would set in motion the eventual-and probably sooner than later-transfer of power from Clay to his cousin, and the transfer of the account from Harris-Ketchum to some other agency.

    No, I didn't have anything to smile about. My early morning mood of puppy love was fading fast.

    "They didn't know how to break open a safe," Bonnell said, "but a security guard named Kenneth Martin did."

    This time, I felt myself literally rise up from the chair. I was aware of Bonnell watching me closely. Instant sweat pasted my face and armpits.

    Bonnell had indeed been busy.

    "You all right?" he said.

    I shrugged. "Didn't sleep very well last night. Upset stomach."

    He held my eyes momentarily, enigmatically, then went on.

    "I have warrants out for the arrest of both Clay Traynor and this man Kenneth Martin. I think I can prove that Harris and Traynor met Martin a few months before the party, got him planted in the security job, and had him help them steal her gems. Kenneth Martin has been around-never quite in prison but busted enough times for minor things that he might very well be able to pick a safe if he was offered enough money."

    "Sounds like a bad movie."

    "You've never heard of Kenneth Martin?"

    I thought of the receipt in Stokes's blackmail envelope. I thought of Merle Wickes claiming the envelope. The receipt had been signed by one Kenneth Martin.

    "You say you can prove all this?"

    "I'm a careful man, Mr. Ketchum. I said I
think
I can prove all this. At the very least, I have enough circumstantial evidence to make an arrest of both Clay and Martin." He shook his head.

    "I wanted to warn you about the arrest," Bonnell was saying. "Give you a little time to prepare yourself for the publicity about a client of yours killing your partner and one of your producers." He smiled. This time it wasn't a pleasant smile. "I also wanted to give you a chance to do a little rewriting."

    "Rewriting?"

    He sipped his coffee, trying to be as casual as possible. "Yeah. A few days ago you gave me a story about being with Clay Traynor the night Denny Harris was murdered. I thought in light of everything that's happened, you might want to do a little revision on that story of yours."

    So there we were.

    This wasn't the courtesy call I'd almost believed it to be. On the contrary, Bonnell was going to recruit me to do the one thing absolutely necessary to hanging Clay Traynor and losing the Traynor account in the process-break Clay's alibi.

    "Well," he said, after a minute or two of my silence, "how about it, Mr. Ketchum? Was Clay with you the night of Denny Harris's murder?"

    Just then-proving incontrovertibly that God is in fact up there watching over me-the intercom buzzed.

    Sarah said, "Sorry to interrupt but there's a problem in production, Michael. Ab Levin just hit Tommy Byrnes and hit him pretty hard."

    I swore, wondering what the hell was going on back there. My world had become one of the insane terrains you walk across with a rifle slung across your back and your hands filled with grenades.

    "I'm sorry," I said to Bonnell, "would you mind if I find out what's happening back there? My agency seems to be disintegrating right before my eyes."

    He stood up, looking very understanding. "Sure, it's all right, Mr. Ketchum."

    I interrupted him before he could say anything else. "If you could just wait here-"

    "That isn't necessary," he said.

    I started around my desk.

    He grabbed my arm.

    "All I need is a simple yes or no answer," he said.

    I looked longingly at the door. I would be happy to go in the back and referee a match between Ab Levin and Tommy Byrnes. I would be happy to spend a month or two in a leper colony. Anything-but answer Bonnell's question.

    "How about it," he said, as if I had managed to forget what he'd asked me. "Was Clay Traynor with you the night that Denny Harris was murdered?"

    I stared at him. He stared at me.

    "They really need me in the back-" I said.

    He smiled. "Yes or no, Mr. Ketchum. Then you can go." He paused. "Yes or no. Mindful of perjury laws. Perjury can be a very nasty business."

    I knew what I had to say, knew that despite the evidence Bonnell seemed to have, I had to continue my risky poker hand.

    "He was with me right up until midnight," I said. "Right up until midnight."

    What surprised me was the look of disappointment on his face. He seemed to take my moral failings personally-as if I'd betrayed a real friendship we'd had.

    "Yeah," he said sadly. "Sure he was."

    He didn't wait for me to say goodbye.

    

    

    By the time I reached the production area, a small group of people stood between Ab and Tommy. The glares the two exchanged, however, spoke of an argument still smoldering.

    The general air was of melancholy. In the moments following a blowup, most men I know tend to fall into a kind of remorse. Maybe they're thinking of just how bad things could have gotten-that instead of some harsh words being exchanged, or even a few stray punches, there could have been real bloodshed.

    Given two murders in the past few days, I'm sure that thought was not uncommon.

    At Tommy's feet lay a piece of rope curled around like a snake in waiting. Everybody was careful not to get too close-as if it were radioactive.

    "You think we could break it up?" I said. I looked at the half-dozen production people standing around-dressed more like warehouse workers in jeans and work shirts and flannel shirts-and shook my head. "I know the past few days have been tough for all of us, but we've got to get the work out no matter what."

    There was no resentment on their faces as they started to disperse-only a kind of curiosity directed at Ab and Tommy.

    Bill Malley, one of Ab's assistants said, "What Ab says is true, Mr. Ketchum. Honest."

    Then Malley, with the rest of the men, went back to their area.

    "What's true?" I asked Ab.

    The man looked miserable, as if he were carrying around a secret so terrible it was literally destroying him. He said nothing, only stared at the rope, then glared up at Tommy. But there was more than anger in Ab's gaze-I saw the same expression that had been in Detective Bonnell's a few minutes earlier. There was disappointment in Ab's eyes.

    "What's true, Ab?" I repeated.

    "Aw, nothin'," Ab said. "I must've made a mistake is all." He turned and started away but I put out a hand and stopped him.

    "Ab, I want to know what's going on here. You and Tommy disrupted the whole department. I think I've got an explanation coming."

    Tommy, his Norman Rockwell face flushed, said, "I'll tell you what's going on."

    He motioned to the rope on the floor.

    "Ab decided to sneak some candy," Tommy said, "the way he usually does." A kind of fondness softened Tommy's voice momentarily-Ab and Tommy were father-son, Ab always sampling the candy Tommy kept in his desk. "Anyway, when he dug in my desk drawer he found the rope. I guess he thought…" The flush on Tommy's face grew deeper. Tormented. "He thought he'd found the rope that had been used to strangle Ron Gettig."