A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(120)

“Okay, let’s say that’s all true. How does that tie into this blackmail plot against Douglas Kemper? Armstrong’s backing him for mayor.”

“Is he, Archer? Who really told us that? Douglas Kemper never did, quite the opposite, in fact. And Armstrong hedged his bets talking about it. But look at it this way: If Armstrong wants his son-in-law out of his daughter’s life, here’s what he could do: He sends a blackmail letter to Kemper saying they know he’s sleeping around with Fraser. Then Kemper hires us to look into it because Armstrong’s lawyer recommended me to him. Fraser denied the affair, since it was all a load of baloney, but that still gives Kemper every motive to kill her. Then, she is killed.”

“And the only guy who can give Kemper an alibi for Fraser’s murder is Sheen.”

“So he dies too, and they frame Kemper for that. Then they got the medical records and the doc is dead and that loose end goes away. And Kemper goes to the gas chamber, and Armstrong is left to pick up the pieces with a woman who is not his daughter.”

“Do you think . . . ” began Archer, his face growing pale as a number of sickening thoughts invaded his mind.

Dash looked at him knowingly. “I don’t know, Archer. But I do know that Armstrong is one dangerous man.”

“And what about Benjamin Smalls?”

“Smalls found out Armstrong was planning to build a casino and had a confrontation with him about it. The law may allow gambling out on that rock, but as mayor, Smalls could have made Armstrong’s life miserable and put his scheme in real jeopardy.”

“But we have no proof of any of this.”

Dash stroked his chin. “And Pickett is so far up Armstrong’s ass you can’t even see the man’s wingtips.”

“So what do we do?” asked Archer.

“We go see the dentist.”





THE SUN WAS BREAKING THROUGH the remnants of the passing storm. Both men stared out the windscreen of the Delahaye as they drove to Alfred Drake’s home.

“What’s your angle on him?”

“He has a backer, all right. But it’s not the Vegas mob. It’s Sawyer Armstrong.”

Archer jerked the wheel of the car. “Armstrong?”

“We’ve been played for dopes, Archer. Like everybody else in this business.”

“You’re going to have to explain that to me.”

“Drake is a grown-up version of the kid I saw hanging in that room. Armstrong knows it, and I’m betting he has hard proof and he’s blackmailing Drake with it. He’ll have to approve whatever the man wants in connection with that casino. And remember what Drake said when we were leaving his house? You asked him if he really believed he had no chance against Kemper? And he said something like ‘I have no chance. But we’ll have to see.’ ”

Archer added, “And then he said, ‘Stranger things have happened.’ ”

“Right. But the point is, Drake was being literal. He doesn’t have a chance against Kemper.”

“But if Kemper isn’t running against him?”

“Then he’s going to win.”

“But Drake doesn’t strike me as a guy to just meekly take it on the chin, Willie. Like you pointed out before, the guy fights back.”

Dash suddenly got a disturbed look on his face. “You’re right, Archer, so step on it!”

They roared up to the front of the residence, and Dash had his door open before Archer even stopped the car. He ran up and pounded on the front door. It took a while but the same woman as before answered. She was cinching her robe around her waist, and her hair was disheveled from sleep.

“Do you know what time it is?” she began angrily.

“We need to see Drake now,” said Dash. “It’s an emergency.”

“He’s asleep. And so was I.”

“Then we’ll wake him up.” He pushed past her. “Which way?”

“You can’t just—”

He grabbed her arm. “Which way, lady? This is life and death.”

The woman quickly led them down a long hall to a set of double doors situated at the end of the corridor.

Dash tried the door but it was locked.

“Drake, it’s Willie Dash. Alfred, open up.” He pounded the wood again. There was no reply from within.

“Do you have a key to open it?” he asked the woman. She shook her head.

“Archer!” Dash motioned to the door.

Archer took a few steps and exploded forward, his shoulder smashing into the wood. It buckled but did not give. Archer retreated and then charged forward once more; this time the door flew open, and he was in the room. Dash and the woman followed him.

She screamed, and Archer just stared.

Drake was in a chair. The gun he’d used to kill himself was still in his right hand, his index finger wedged in the trigger guard. He was dressed in a dark blue silk robe with white pajamas underneath. There was a single hole in his right temple. It was blackened and burned in the center and crimsoned with blood on the rim. It looked angry and foul and wrong.

Dash walked over, felt his wrist, and leaned in close to check the wound. Finally, he felt the gun muzzle. He glanced up at Archer. “Doesn’t seem like he’s been dead long.” He looked at the woman, who had finally stopped screaming and was swaying like a pine tree in a windstorm.