Robert B. Parker’s The Devil Wins

38

He had decided on a spot he thought would make sense, a place where someone walking along the Bluffs might eventually stumble onto Maxie’s handbag. It wasn’t too far from where they used to meet when he thought all he wanted was her. Even now, having murdered her and coldly tossed her body off the Bluffs, he flushed at the memories of their stolen moments in his car, of the times they could sneak off to a Boston hotel for a night. Then there were the times they had pushed their luck beyond all reason, like when they’d run into each other outside the restrooms at the Gray Gull. He remembered getting weak at the sight of her, then his fury at the thought of her being at the bar with another man. How Maxie fanned the flames by rubbing up against him and taunting him.

“Do you want me, Loverboy?” she’d say, her lips brushing his ear, her warm cigarette breath against his neck. “Get rid of that stuck-up fiancée of yours and meet me here in an hour.”

He exploded, pushing her into the men’s room, locking the door behind them, taking her in the stall. It was all over in an instant, but was so much more exciting than anything he had done with any other woman before or since. His heart raced at the thought that he had ever been so stupid or so impulsive. Thinking back on it, he wondered if Maxie hadn’t set him up. Was she really there with another man or did she follow me to the restaurant? He’d been so blind back then that he had never considered the possibility she was lying to him. That was all so long ago, but it felt alive in him.

Before leaving the spot and going back to his office to retrieve Maxie’s bag, he smiled at the cleverness of his plan. How he would fashion a kind of suicide shrine out of Maxie’s bag, a file photo of Ginny, and a couple candles. The cops, even Jesse Stone, would eat it up. He knew the press would. He was sure of that. He envisioned the headlines:

He was still feeling the rush of pride as he pulled up in front of his office. All he had to do was get the stuff, head back up to the Bluffs, and it would be over. He’d worry about the missing letter when the time came. If it came. For now, it was one thing at a time. The street was quiet when he stepped out of his car and put the key in the office door lock.

“Hey!” a man’s gravelly voice cut through the quiet and the dark.

He startled, fumbling his keys.

“Relax,” said the voice, and a man stepped out of the shadows of a nearby storefront. He was a rough-looking guy with a face full of dark stubble and a dangling cigarette. “I’m here to do you a favor.”

“Really?” he said. Removing the keys from the lock, he worked them between the fingers of his right glove. He didn’t want a fight. Hadn’t studied or sparred in years, but he hadn’t forgotten his training and one blow with a fist full of keys was better than just a fist if it came to that. “You’re here to do me a favor. And do I get to know the name of my benefactor?”

“Cut the crap, mister. We need to talk.”

The keys were in place. He forced his body to relax, preparing to strike with his right arm if the guy got too close. “About what?”

“About how I seen you drive up to the Bluffs the other night to snuff the blonde.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cell phones are great things, you know, especially ’cause they come with cameras. I got a nice shot of your car, plate and all, with you behind the wheel. I thought it was real weird, her having me drop her off up there alone like that in the freezing cold. I figured I might snag me some married guy going up there to meet her for a little backseat bingo.”

“Look, whatever your name is, I’m sure—”

“Forget my name and forget the stalling. See, here’s the thing, I was going to leave it alone. I figured, how much could I hit some poor working stiff up for ’cause I caught him meeting some old broad up in the Bluffs? It didn’t seem worth the trouble. Why am I going to screw up some guy’s marriage for a few hundred bucks? But when the police chief shows up at my door and starts busting my chops about the blonde, I got kind of curious, you know? Then when I find out the blonde offed herself, going over Caine’s Bluff, I’m thinking maybe she had a little help with the takeoff. Funny thing is, I got a way of tracking down plate numbers and when I traced yours... man, I really got interested.”

“Damn it!”

“You got that right. See, like I said, I’m here to do you a favor.”

He put on a brave act. “Even if you do have a photo of my car going up to the Bluffs, so what? It’s evidence of nothing. I could have gone up there two weeks ago, last year, last evening. In any case, electronics are easily tampered with. There’s nothing tying me to that unfortunate woman or to her suicide. Sorry, you’ll have to go squeeze some other orange to get your juice.”

Rod Wiethop pulled something out of his pocket and held it in the yellowish beam of the streetlight. “You know, I don’t think so, mister. I think I’m gonna be able to squeeze all the juice I need outta you for as long as I’m thirsty. See, after the chief come talk to me, I went down to the garage and went over my cab. People are dropping all kinds of stuff in the cab all the time: drugs, groceries, gifts, underwear... all sorts of things. And the blonde, she dropped this.”

“An envelope. Why should I care—”

“You know, I’m losing my patience with you now,” Wiethop said. “I ain’t your wife. Deny, deny, deny might work with her, but not with me. See, I got this letter here from you to the blonde that would pretty much blow your life up. Man, what were you thinking to put that stuff down in writing?”

“I wasn’t thinking at all. That was the problem. Perhaps you’re right, let’s discuss your terms over a drink. Come in.”

Wiethop smiled. “That’s more like it. I guess I could use a friend.”

“Yes,” he said, “friends.”