Tightrope (Burning Cove #3)(12)

He came to a halt and contemplated the typewriter and the suitcase. He had to dump all of it and do so in a way that would make sure none of the items were ever found.

And while he was cleaning up, he needed to get rid of the one person who could tie him to the murder, the person he had let into the theater through the back door. The killer.

Who was due to arrive at any minute.

The old, abandoned auto court was only a couple of miles from the ocean. It dawned on him that the simplest way to make the evidence and a body disappear was to toss everything off a cliff into the sea.

The muffled rumble of a car engine interrupted his thoughts. He went to the table, picked up the gun, and moved to the window. He twitched the edge of the faded curtain out of the way and watched the vehicle pull off the road. It came to a halt in front of the cabin.

Charlie tightened his grip on the gun. Might as well start getting rid of problems now. He had never shot anyone but how hard could it be?

He went to the door and opened it, careful to keep his right hand, the one clenched around the grip of the pistol, out of sight behind the wooden panels.

Pickwell’s killer got out of the car and walked toward the door, a coat draped casually over one arm.

“Something has come up,” Charlie said, trying to appear cool and calm.

He was concentrating so hard on his acting that he failed to realize he had miscalculated until too late.

The killer pulled the trigger of the gun hidden under the coat.

The first shot struck Charlie in the chest and sent him staggering backward. He dropped his own gun and went down hard on his knees. He clutched at his chest.

The killer moved to stand over him, taking aim again.

Charlie managed a hoarse, blood-choked laugh.

“It’s just a busted typewriter,” he whispered. “Two murders for nothing. Enjoy that new gas chamber in San Quentin.”

The killer pulled the trigger a second time.





Chapter 6


The phone on the hotel room desk rang just as Matthias was halfway through his morning shave. He put down the razor, used a towel to wipe off most of the lather, and went out into the other room to pick up the receiver.

“I have a long-distance call for you from Seattle,” the front-desk operator said. “A Mrs. Henrietta Jones.”

Matthias stifled a groan.

“Put her through,” he said.

His mother came on the line.

“Your father and I got your telegram this morning,” Henrietta said. “What in the world are you doing in Burning Cove? That’s where Hollywood people go to vacation. You are not a movie star. You’re an engineer. At least you’re supposed to be an engineer.”

“I’m working a case for Luther Pell,” Matthias said.

“I was afraid of that. How much longer are you going to drift around the country doing odd jobs for that nightclub owner?”

“It’s a living, Mom.”

“Working as an engineer is a living. The longer you associate with Luther Pell, the harder it’s going to be for you to get a respectable job. We both know that he has a certain reputation. I’m afraid that when you finally do join the family business, your own reputation will be such that your father won’t be able to let you deal with our clients. Some of our best customers are government officials. Others are respectable businesspeople. They won’t want to be seen meeting with someone who consorts with a nightclub owner who is reputed to have mob connections.”

“You know the truth, Mom.”

“What I know is that the longer you live a lie, the more it becomes real. Your uncle—”

“I’m not Uncle Jake and I’m not great-grandfather Cyrus. I’m not going to end up like them.”

“I’m worried about you. You’ve been . . . different since Margaret ended the engagement.”

“No, I’ve been busy. This has nothing to do with what happened a year ago. Mom, we both know that it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to work for Dad.”

For the first time there was a slight hesitation on the other end of the line.

“I do realize that there would be problems,” Henrietta admitted. “The two of you are too much alike. Independent and stubborn. But I’m sure something can be worked out. You’ve had enough of adventuring. It’s time to come home, son.”





Chapter 7


Detective Brandon used one hand to tilt his fedora back on his head. He eyed Futuro with a mix of frustration and dismay.

“How the hell am I supposed to arrest a robot?” he said. “Dope that out for me, will ya?”

“I don’t think there’s much point in arresting Futuro,” Chester Ward said. “It’s got a bunch of motors and an impressive amount of electrical wiring stuffed inside, but when you get right down to it, Futuro is just a modern version of a clockwork toy, not Frankenstein’s monster. I know machines and I’m telling you, there’s no way this thing could have suddenly gone crazy and turned on Pickwell.”

“Try telling that to a jury,” Matthias said.

It was seven forty-five in the morning. After a few hours of sleep, the phone call from his mother, and a lot of coffee, he was once again backstage at the Palace. He was not alone. The small crowd gathered around Futuro included Luther, Oliver Ward, and Detective Brandon. They had watched as Oliver’s uncle, Chester Ward—an inventor with several patents to his name—had gingerly removed the robot’s aluminum back panel.