Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 52, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2007
- Автор: Baldwin Barry, Campbell Melodie
- Год: 2007
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: ISSN:0002-5224
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 52, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2007». Краткое содержание книги:
“Wasn’t just smack in there.”
Sam didn’t say anything.
“It was insulin,” said Rodriguez.
Sam rubbed his prosthetic leg slowly, digging his fingers into the knee where the metal clasps wrapped around the plastic. “You think the killer would use his own needles?”
“He might have improvised at the scene,” replied Rodriguez. “I would.”
“Maybe Shortball was diabetic.”
Rodriguez shrugged. “It’s a possibility.” He nodded at one of the photos on the mantel, the gangly girl beaming as she stood between two smiling policeman. “That picture right there of Sally — she’s a couple years older now, but she still looks the same.”
Sam worked his jaw. “I guess she does.”
“Absolutely,” said Rodriguez. “Anyone would recognize her.”
Sam looked at the picture but remained silent.
“You gave me a copy,” said Rodriguez. “I still have it.”
“Did I?”
Rodriguez moved his right hand to his hip, wrapping his fingers around the contours of his gun.
Sam looked up at him. “You always were a good cop, Danny.”
Rodriguez moved his thumb across the safety strap and snapped it home, securing the gun. His hand came away from his waist and dangled loosely at his side.
“Still am,” he said simply, bending to pick up his empty bottle. “Thanks again for the beer.”
Sam looked up at his ex-partner with a curious expression. “You didn’t finish your story.”
“Didn’t I?” Rodriguez frowned.
“This guy you think killed Shortball,” said Sam. “What did you say to him?”
Rodriguez leaned down and put a hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“Be more careful next time, partner.”
Rodriguez turned and set his empty bottle on the kitchen counter. Without turning back he crossed the small foyer to the front door and silently let himself out.
After a few minutes Sam leaned forward and eased the snub-nosed revolver from the small of his back. He stood awkwardly and crossed the room slowly, pausing to set the gun on the kitchen counter. Checking his watch, he pulled open a drawer, dropped in the gun, and pulled out a set of car keys. School was over at three, and he hated being late.
Country Manners
by Brendan DuBois
Being the only woman private investigator within a fifty-mile radius in a rural county in upstate New Hampshire, one would think that business would be sparse. Maybe so, and maybe I was lucky, but I always had enough work to pay the bills, sock some cash away every year in my IRA, and still have enough free time to canoe the local streams, do some stargazing, and pretty much stay out of trouble.
And staying out of trouble was something I always try to do. So no deranged boyfriends looking to find their girlfriends, no young ladies looking for creative ways to eliminate their parents, and nothing else equally shady ever made my client list. Which is why I should have cuffed my visitor that late morning, tossed him out onto the sole sidewalk of Purmort, New Hampshire, and then taken the rest of the day off.
But maybe I’m getting older, or bolder, or something, for I didn’t sense trouble when he first came in.
My office is small, with a desk, phone, three chairs, computer, and two three-drawer filing cabinets with good solid locks. The walls have a framed print of Mount Washington, my framed license from the N.H. Department of Safety, and an award I received in a previous life from the New England Press Association. The window behind me overlooks a set of abandoned B&M railroad tracks and some marshland, and the front glass door gives a nice view of the Purmot grass common, once you get past the gold leaf lettering that announced K.C. Dunbar, Investigations. Next door, in the same building, is an Italian restaurant, the Colosseum, which is run by a second-generation Greek family, which is typical for New Hampshire. But don’t ask me why.
So the door opened up that morning and a man came in, slim, late thirties, short, dark blond hair. He was wearing a nice black suit, light blue shirt, and red necktie, and carried a slim, black leather briefcase. I looked at him and he looked at me, and I thought, lawyer, out of town, looking for something or another from the local talent. Said local talent being me. Still, I opened the center drawer of my desk and waited. Yeah, probably just a lawyer.
And in a way, I was correct, but only correct in the manner of stating that if you loved ice, the maiden voyage of the Titanic was a brilliant success.
“Miss Dunbar?” he asked.
“The same,” I said.
He put his briefcase on one of the two polished wooden chairs in front of my desk, held out his hand, which I promptly shook. “Stewart Carr.” And then he put his hand inside his coat, pulled out a thin leather wallet, and popped it open in front of my face. “Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
I looked at the photo and the accompanying detailed information card, and then looked up at him.
Perfect match, of course.
“Gee,” I said, knowing I sounded awestruck but hoping my expression said something else.
“May I sit down?” Carr asked.
“Of course,” I said, my first mistake of the day.
He sat down with a smile and looked over at me and said, “Just to clear the air, Karen Christine Dunbar, I’m not here about any of your clients or past cases. So we can get past the whole client confidentiality issue.”
I leaned back in my chair, conscious of his nice suit and my own faded jeans and T-shirt advertising last year’s Purmort Old Home Days. “All right. Consider it passed.”
He looked around and said, “Nice office. Cozy.”
“Thanks. It works.”
“I would think that an investigator in your position... might be more comfortable working out of your home.”
I smiled and decided I really didn’t like Agent Carr. Tried to one-up me by knowing my whole name, and now telling me that he knew how much I made and no doubt how much I had in the bank. “Thought about that at first, but I decided that some clients, well, I didn’t want some clients being in my private space where I live. Besides, the landowner gives me a break on the rent: He owns the restaurant next door, and I help keep an eye on the place during off hours now and then.”
He grinned. “Really? Didn’t think there’d be much crime in a place like Purmort.”
“Not enough to reach the FBI statistics desk, but there’s more than enough vandalism, break-ins, and the general stupid people doing stupid things to keep some of us busy.”
“I see.”
“And speaking of stupid... What can I do for the Department of Justice today?”
Ouch. That left a mark. While his grin remained, his face colored a bit as he reached over, picked up his briefcase, put it on his lap. He snapped the lid open and said, “We want to hire you.”
I tried not to laugh and admired myself for succeeding. He waited for my reply, I suppose, and I said, “Go on. You’ve got my interest.”
“Good. Glad I’ve succeeded, Karen.”
A snippy tone but I let it pass. “For how long? And where? And why?”
“This weekend. Day after tomorrow. Friday evening to Sunday morning. The where is a farmhouse near the end of a dirt road called Dutton Hill Road. Number eighteen. Familiar with the road?”
“Road, yes. Farmhouse, no. What’s the deal with the farmhouse?”
“We’d like you to conduct a surveillance on the house for that period of time, Friday evening to Sunday morning.”
He pulled out a sheet of paper, examined it for a moment, and said, “Your normal rate of pay is eighty dollars an hour. The period of time we require your services is thirty-six hours, for a total of two thousand eight hundred eighty dollars. We’ll offer you three thousand for that work.”