one of those free-thinking rebels who preferred staying just within the bounds of convention for the
sake of comfort, the comfort of a steady paycheck. From
time to time, depending upon how the proposition struck
him, he pushed on the envelope, even on occasion kicking
a hole in it.
"No problem," he replied with an impish grin at my request. "It's about time to stir up things down there. We
haven't had any evidence stolen in two months."
"Hey, not steal. I just want to look."
"Like I say, no problem."
He was right. No problem.
I entered the side door of the police station, took the
basement stairs instead of the lobby and, two minutes later,
he stuck me at a table in a corner behind a dozen rows of
shelves. On the scarred table lay a plastic bag and a pair
of latex gloves. "Here's Patterson's belongings."
Even though I put on the gloves, I shuddered as I sorted
through the torn and bloody clothing. I checked the brand
of his chukka boot. Alden. Just like the report said. I looked
for the Rolex President, but surprise, surprise. The Rolex
had vanished along with the two diamond rings, probably
accidentally flushed down the toilet or swept out with the
trash. His wallet was hand-tooled leather, containing two
credit cards, four gasoline stamps from Shamrock, no cash,
naturally-which, just like the Rolex and diamonds, was
accidentally lost-and several folded pieces of paper.
The papers contained nothing much, a few women's
names and telephone numbers. One had a number which,
at first, I figured was probably some account number:
1210841084284212.
Suddenly, my brain took one of those giant leaps into
the realm of speculation. "I wonder," I muttered, considering the number. Why does anyone carry anything in a
wallet? Because it has value, which meant this number had value. Obviously this one wasn't a telephone number, nor
an address, nor a lottery number.
I chewed on my bottom lip. What could be so important
about this set of figures that he carried it in his wallet?
The floor safe in his cabin flashed into my mind. My
heart thudded in my chest. "Maybe it's the combination."
With shaking hands, I quickly copied the sixteen numerals
into my notebook, checking three times to make sure I had
them in proper order. I paused. Maybe that giant leap had
been too long. Whoever heard of a combination with sixteen numbers? I knew nothing about combination locks. I
did know that the safe had been added after the cabin was
built. That being the situation, he probably could have had
any combination he wanted put in.
Maybe.
My initial enthusiasm somewhat dampened by realistic
skepticism, I copied his social security number and, from
his checkbook, his bank account number. According to the
check register, which was only three weeks old, he had
made a five-hundred-dollar deposit two weeks earlier. The
register showed no balances. I tore out a blank check and
slipped it into my shirt pocket with my notebook.
At the nearest Southwestern Bell carrel, I dialed his
bank. Finding the balance was a snap. I had his most recent
deposit and social security number. I listened in disbelief
as the bookkeeper informed me Patterson's balance was six
thousand, two hundred, and thirty-one dollars. Oh, and a
few odd cents.
I whistled, staring at the receiver in shock. Six grand. I
thought of Claude and the six hundred Patterson had stiffed
him for. I grunted. "Emmett, you cheap little creep." Still,
where did he get the money? He had told Claude he
couldn't put his hands on any until the end of the month.
Either Patterson moonlighted, which he didn't, or he was
thrift personified, which he wasn't, or he provided a stud
service for rich, old ladies, which he wouldn't, or-or
what? What was another option? The lottery? Dream on. Inheritance? No way. Drugs? Other than alcohol, none
showed up in the autopsy. Of course, some dealers never
touched the stuff.
My brain took another great leap. Blackmail.
sake of comfort, the comfort of a steady paycheck. From
time to time, depending upon how the proposition struck
him, he pushed on the envelope, even on occasion kicking
a hole in it.
"No problem," he replied with an impish grin at my request. "It's about time to stir up things down there. We
haven't had any evidence stolen in two months."
"Hey, not steal. I just want to look."
"Like I say, no problem."
He was right. No problem.
I entered the side door of the police station, took the
basement stairs instead of the lobby and, two minutes later,
he stuck me at a table in a corner behind a dozen rows of
shelves. On the scarred table lay a plastic bag and a pair
of latex gloves. "Here's Patterson's belongings."
Even though I put on the gloves, I shuddered as I sorted
through the torn and bloody clothing. I checked the brand
of his chukka boot. Alden. Just like the report said. I looked
for the Rolex President, but surprise, surprise. The Rolex
had vanished along with the two diamond rings, probably
accidentally flushed down the toilet or swept out with the
trash. His wallet was hand-tooled leather, containing two
credit cards, four gasoline stamps from Shamrock, no cash,
naturally-which, just like the Rolex and diamonds, was
accidentally lost-and several folded pieces of paper.
The papers contained nothing much, a few women's
names and telephone numbers. One had a number which,
at first, I figured was probably some account number:
1210841084284212.
Suddenly, my brain took one of those giant leaps into
the realm of speculation. "I wonder," I muttered, considering the number. Why does anyone carry anything in a
wallet? Because it has value, which meant this number had value. Obviously this one wasn't a telephone number, nor
an address, nor a lottery number.
I chewed on my bottom lip. What could be so important
about this set of figures that he carried it in his wallet?
The floor safe in his cabin flashed into my mind. My
heart thudded in my chest. "Maybe it's the combination."
With shaking hands, I quickly copied the sixteen numerals
into my notebook, checking three times to make sure I had
them in proper order. I paused. Maybe that giant leap had
been too long. Whoever heard of a combination with sixteen numbers? I knew nothing about combination locks. I
did know that the safe had been added after the cabin was
built. That being the situation, he probably could have had
any combination he wanted put in.
Maybe.
My initial enthusiasm somewhat dampened by realistic
skepticism, I copied his social security number and, from
his checkbook, his bank account number. According to the
check register, which was only three weeks old, he had
made a five-hundred-dollar deposit two weeks earlier. The
register showed no balances. I tore out a blank check and
slipped it into my shirt pocket with my notebook.
At the nearest Southwestern Bell carrel, I dialed his
bank. Finding the balance was a snap. I had his most recent
deposit and social security number. I listened in disbelief
as the bookkeeper informed me Patterson's balance was six
thousand, two hundred, and thirty-one dollars. Oh, and a
few odd cents.
I whistled, staring at the receiver in shock. Six grand. I
thought of Claude and the six hundred Patterson had stiffed
him for. I grunted. "Emmett, you cheap little creep." Still,
where did he get the money? He had told Claude he
couldn't put his hands on any until the end of the month.
Either Patterson moonlighted, which he didn't, or he was
thrift personified, which he wasn't, or he provided a stud
service for rich, old ladies, which he wouldn't, or-or
what? What was another option? The lottery? Dream on. Inheritance? No way. Drugs? Other than alcohol, none
showed up in the autopsy. Of course, some dealers never
touched the stuff.
My brain took another great leap. Blackmail.
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