The Ninth Man by Dorien Grey Page B

movie playing locally that we’d talked about and both wanted to see.
    The crackle of lightning and a blast of thunder that sounded like it originated next to my bed jolted me awake at three a.m. The rain came down in buckets, and I thought about my open office window. Then I figured, Fuck it—at least it’ll be cooler tomorrow , and went back to sleep.
    *
    The rain had ended by morning, and with it the heat wave. I got to my office around nine, halfway expecting to open my door to a tidal wave of water from the open window. But somebody up there must like me, because there was only a small puddle under the sill; the wind must have been blowing in the right direction, or the rain had fallen straight down.
    There was, however, a new dark, wet spot on my ceiling directly overhead, indicating the office over mine had shared the same experience.
    At nine-thirty, the phone rang.
    “Hardesty Investigations,” I answered in my best professional voice.
    “Hi, there, sailor, new in town?” It was Tim.
    “As a matter of fact, I am,” I said. “Know where a guy can go for a little action?”
    “Well, I’m not home right now, but…”
    “Okay, Charlie Tuna, what’s on your mind?”
    “Not much. I’m on my coffee break and thought I’d see how things were going with you.”
    I leaned back in my chair and gazed out the window at nothing in particular.
    “Kind of slow. But I’m more sure than ever there’s a link between all six guys, that it isn’t just some sicko wandering around with a cyanide-filled amyl bottle picking up casual tricks. Mind you, I haven’t got a single thing to go on other than my hunches and a few very weak leads, but I’m willing to bet a bundle I’m right. Anything new on your end?”
    Tim laughed. “You want to rephrase that?”
    “Bright little rascal, aren’t you? You know what I mean.”
    “Yes, I know. And no, nothing’s new here. Just your usual garden-variety corpses—car accidents, stabbings, shootings—the everyday stuff. It’s been nearly two weeks since our unknown friend pulled a number. Maybe he ran out of cyanide.”
    “Let’s hope so. But even if he has, it won’t be much help for the six guys he’s already knocked over.”
    “True,” Tim agreed. “You manage to talk to everyone on that list I gave you—excluding the corpses, of course?”
    “Just about. I’m debating whether or not to even try with Klein’s parents. I will talk to the roommates, though.”
    “Good luck,” he said. “So, what did you think of Gary Miller?”
    “You were, as always, right. He’s quite a guy.”
    “The voice of experience?”
    I ignored him.
    “I haven’t gotten in touch with Bill Elers, but I’ll try to drop by his place today and leave a note for him to call me.”
    “I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you,” Tim said sincerely. “Well, look, I’d best get back to work. Keep me posted, huh?”
    “You bet—you’re still my Number-one Son, don’t forget. Bye. And thanks.”
    “ Ciao ,” he said, and hung up.
    No sooner had I replaced the receiver in its cradle when the phone rang again, startling me. I waited until the second ring, then picked it up again.
    “Hardesty Investigations.”
    “Mr. Hardesty!” It took only five syllables for me to recognize Rholfing’s twitter.
    “Yes, Mr. Rholfing,” I said, again using my all-business voice. “What can I do for you?” Shit! I did it again!
    But Rholfing apparently wasn’t into cute this morning. Instead, his voice was breathless with excitement.
    “I know, Mr. Hardesty! I know!” He sounded like a ten-year-old with a secret he was just dying to share.
    “I’m glad, Mr. Rholfing. What is it you know?”
    He was nearly panting.
    “I know those people you were asking me about! I remember them all!”
    I felt the adrenaline pumping through me but tried to keep my voice—and myself—calm.
    “Are you sure?” I asked, hoping this wasn’t just another of his ploys to get me into the bedroom.
    The