Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 43, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1998
- Автор: Alexander Gary, Crawford Dan
- Год: 1998
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines/Crosstown Publications
- ISBN: ISSN: 0002-5224
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 43, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1998». Краткое содержание книги:
Something was wrong with what Clark had seen and heard, but McGraw couldn’t put his finger on it. His mouth was dry. “We have a deal, your honor,” he said. From the corner of his eye he thought he saw Morrison’s mouth twitch, but he couldn’t be sure and, when he looked, there was nothing. Had Morrison gotten fifteen years more out McGraw than he should have?
Hayes had been brought over from the jail, and McGraw went through the deal with him and advised him to take it. Hayes was reluctant, but he hadn’t hired McGraw to ignore his advice while facing a possible death penalty and McGraw reminded Hayes of that.
McGraw knew some of what bothered him about the way it played out. Morrison had made one offer and then another one too fast. If he’d really wanted to get a plea to the forty years, he wouldn’t have offered it that fast, he’d have drawn it out more. Was he going to offer twenty-five years if McGraw turned down forty? Or did Morrison want McGraw to reject the offer so he could proceed to indict for first degree murder with a death penalty?
Then there was the conversation that Clark had overheard. Huh. Why had he ignored it? Something had told him to. So he’d handled the plea as if he didn’t know about that conversation. He had reverted to form, gone with the original plan.
Had he been a lone wolf for so long that he didn’t want Clark’s help? If he hadn’t had an associate, he wouldn’t have known about the overheard conversation. He wouldn’t have spent the afternoon agonizing.
In the end it was the something that had bumped into his subconscious mind when he first saw Morrison that finally came to the surface and provided the key to understanding the battle.
McGraw sat bolt upright when it hit him. He stopped himself and thought through what Clark had told him again. He wanted to feel relieved, but he needed to think about it very carefully to be sure.
McGraw knew Morrison’s office was on the fourth floor of the courthouse, at the west end. The judge’s chambers were on the third floor, also at the west end. Clark had been looking at the statue, which was at the east end of the courthouse. It was on the second floor. That’s where Clark had seen Morrison and the other man, had seen them go up the east stairs.
Yet when Morrison arrived at the judge’s chambers he stepped out of the elevator in the middle of the building. Why would he walk up two flights of stairs but take the elevator to come down one flight? And why would he be walking up the stairs at the opposite end of the building from his office? He must have known that Clark worked for McGraw because Clark was constantly filing motions and doing research for McGraw.
Morrison must have wanted to plant that conversation! Morrison had figured Clark would be sure to report to McGraw before the pretrial. Morrison wanted McGraw to reject any offer above twenty-five years. Then he could proceed with an indictment.
McGraw nodded slowly. So that was what had happened today. He chuckled. What a blessed relief.
Was it a rationalization or the truth? Either way, it would allow him to live with himself and his nightmares a little longer.
Noticing sunlight slanting through the window, he looked at the clock on his desk. It was six o’clock. He had arrived at the office twelve hours ago. It seemed like a lifetime; maybe it was. It was time to quit for the day.
Tomorrow or the next day maybe he would contact Clark and patch things up. If Clark wanted to. McGraw wondered if he cared enough about having an associate to tell Clark what he thought had happened. That was something to worry about later.
He pulled open the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk, took out the liter of amber liquid, and unscrewed the cap. He lifted it and drank two long, stinging swallows. He put the cap back on and slid the bottle to the very back of the drawer. It was still half full. This one had been in there three days. His goal was to make it last a week.
He closed the drawer.
After all, he thought, Darcy Hayes had killed someone.
The Dreamers
by D. A. McGuire
I’d never been here before. You might as well have set me down in an alien world. Heard about it, of course, because everybody has, but been here? Never. Not until today.
“You said what? What?” he shouted, one hand on the back of his balding head. He was sitting behind a desk cluttered with file folders, memo pads, candy wrappers. “You want to tell me again exactly what you said?”
So I told him. Again. I wondered how many times he wanted me to repeat what I’d said to get tossed out of Mr. Frakes’ chemistry class. Because this was his reaction, again. “You said what? You told him he could do what with his Bunsen burner?”
Maybe he was just a little bit hard of hearing. So I said, as politely as I could, “Yes, sir. Do you want me to tell you again?”
“What are you, boy, some kind of wiseguy?” He was squinting at me.
I’d heard about this side of Mr. Sharpe but never seen it up close. Still, I felt the best defense, if any, was to remain as obedient and polite as possible.
“No, sir, I don’t think I am.”
That’s when he got up from behind his desk, walked around in front of it, leaned back, and stared down at me, arms folded across his chest. He wasn’t a very big man, Mr. Sharpe, but he was imposing. He couldn’t have survived long in this job, assistant principal of Manamesset Junior High, grades seven through nine, if he hadn’t been.
“I think you are, Sawyer,” he said, still squinting. In fact, he was squinting so hard you could barely see his eyes. Some of the kids called him Hawk Eyes because according to them he never missed a trick — anywhere. In the halls, the locker rooms, the bathrooms, the lunchroom, if you were planning anything at all you shouldn’t be — chucking a piece of bread at a pretty girl, writing on a locker, taking a smoke in the boys’ room — he’d home right in on you like he smelled blood.
Actually that’s a pretty poor analogy. Hawks don’t smell blood, what they do is spot, then target, their prey. And that’s exactly what Mr. Sharpe was doing now: spotting me, looking for my weakness.
And although he might have thought he wasn’t trying hard enough to scare me, he was actually doing a pretty good job. My stomach was jumping around; my head was starting to hurt.
“Sawyer. Sawyer.” He tipped his head back, cupped his chin, all a big act. “Do I know your father, Mr. Yes Sir, No Sir?”
It was all I could do not to choke because the only way I could answer was, “No, sir.”
The hawk eyes opened wide and beamed down on me.
“My father’s dead... sir.” I cleared my throat. “But you might know my mother.”
“Your mother? I might know your mother.” He was mocking me, and then he smiled; the kids always said that was a bad sign. Mr. Sharpe had a perfect smile, perfect teeth, like a tiger’s. “Emily Sawyer, works in the superintendent’s office, doesn’t she? Oh, I think she’s going to be one upset and disappointed lady when she hears from me, don’t you?”
“I guess so, sir,” I murmured as he turned from me. Possibly as an added effect he grabbed his phone and slammed it down on his desk near me. It made me jump, which it was supposed to do, I guess, and then he started dialing.
“Thursday, Friday, suspended at home,” I muttered, staring down at the slip in my hands. “Next week, three days in-school suspension.” I put my head back, banging it against the outer wall. But I barely felt it. What I did feel was the utter humiliation. The walls of the main office were glass — so the principal and assistant principal could look out and see what was going on in the main lobby, I suppose. The bells had just rung, and kids were going by to class. I could hear their laughter, then my name ringing out in both surprise and derision.