A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(118)

“We seem to be wasting a lot of time tonight, Archer. But one thing I wanted you to know.”

“What’s that?”

“I wasn’t surprised to see you here. I was just faking. How’d I do?”

“I’d rate you right up there with Bette Davis. But why weren’t you surprised?”

“I was at that dance club tonight. And the bouncer’s my friend. And he told me all about you.”

She did move well, very well. The Derringer came out from a pocket on her jacket and she got off two quick shots.

Both missed.

Archer’s did not.

Darling lowered her gun and then looked down at her front. The dark green cloth was sprouting another color.

The crimson patch kept growing as she looked up at him, her facial muscles as tensed as a person surprised that she is suddenly dying can make them. A bit of blood emerged at the corner of her mouth as the internal hemorrhaging expanded upward.

She fell to her knees and glanced up at him. Her mouth moved but no words came out. Her head hit the table on the way down. It didn’t matter. She didn’t feel the impact. The dead felt nothing.

Archer looked behind him where the twin Derringer bullets had slammed into the back of his chair right on either side of him.

Part of him thought it would turn out this way. He’d only hoped that part of him would be wrong.

He rose and looked down at her. Fleeting images of their first meeting and their lovemaking raced through his thoughts. Part of him felt lucky, part felt depressed, and part of him, maybe the largest part, just felt sick to his stomach.

He left the way he had come, after wiping his prints off everything he had touched. If he could have dug the bullet out of her he would have. Now he had to be worried about getting fingered for her death.

He drove fast back to Bay Town because he knew there was more to be done.





ARCHER RODE THE STORM ALL THE WAY BACK. It looked like the entire coast of southern California was getting the same treatment. On reaching the town limits he drove straight to his office building. There were no prowlers out front, nor did he see Pickett’s big Chrysler. They must have come and gone, thought Archer.

Dawn was still over an hour away as the storm continued to rage overhead. He hadn’t slept in nearly twenty-four hours, but he had never felt less tired in his life. Killing a person, particularly a beautiful woman with whom you’d previously slept, just did that to you, he supposed. It didn’t make him feel good or bad. He didn’t feel anything, really, and he couldn’t really handle that so he stopped thinking about it.

He entered the office building through a back entrance and crept along the first-floor corridor until he neared the elevator. He got a sight line that showed Earl’s body was no longer where it had been before. He moved forward and saw that the car was empty. He passed by it and drew closer to O’Donnell’s office. He waited, crouching in the darkened hallway, listening and watching. Satisfied that an army of cops wasn’t lurking to bash him in the head, he eased the office door open and peered inside.

Empty and dark.

He hurried through the reception area and thought to pull his gun, just in case. He had five shots left in the barrel. He hoped he didn’t need any of them. He didn’t like the exposed position he was in, but he had to find Dash, and fast.

He nearly jumped out of his shoes when he heard the voice.

“Archer, is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

Dash appeared in the doorway leading into the interior hall of the office space.

Archer put the gun away.

“Where did you go?” asked Dash.

In sixty seconds, Archer told him what had happened and why.

“Okay, Wilma Darling bit the dust. She was in on it. And she was selling drugs on top of it. What a piece of work. Nice catch on the flask. But you got some exposure there when they find the body.”

“I know.”

“We’ll have to focus on that later.”

“What did you find?”

“Come on. I’ll show you.”

He led Archer into another room that was filled with metal file cabinets.

Dash turned on the light and took a file off the table in there.

“What’s that?”

“My medical file, Archer. O’Donnell wasn’t just a friend, he was my doctor, too.”

“Okay,” said Archer, looking confused. “How does that help us?”

“Lots of good stuff in here. My age, height, weight. Medical history. Blood type. Blood pressure.” He blanched. “Not a number I want to really dwell on. But before you go under the knife, they have to know this stuff.”

“What’d you have done?”

“Ulcer surgery.”

“Yeah, Connie mentioned that.”

“O’Donnell cut out some of my gut, so most nights I eat Cream of Wheat and buttermilk.”

“Should you be drinking, then?”

“Hell, Archer, I can only get the goddamn Cream of Wheat down if I do drink.”

“So did you find anything helpful?”

“It’s what I didn’t find that was helpful.”

“Come again?”

“What I didn’t find were the medical files for Sawyer and Eleanor Armstrong, and Beth Kemper. They’re missing.”