A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(90)
“Okay, so you didn’t see her at all? Or her car?”
“No. She might have stayed in town, for all I know.”
“Where might that be?”
“She keeps an apartment in the Occidental Building. It’s on Sawyer.” He smirked. “Of course. She just can’t get away from Daddy, can she? It’s near the intersection with Carrillo Avenue. She had it before we were married.”
Archer tapped out his smoke. “So not much of a marriage, then?”
“We’ve had a good run.”
“I guess you missed the ‘till death do us part’ section of the negotiation.”
“Don’t give up your day job, Archer. You’re not a satisfactory Abbott or Costello.”
“Come on, Mr. Kemper, the line wasn’t that bad. So you ever thought about kids? Sometimes that can make a difference.”
“Thank you for the marriage advice, Archer. In the future keep it to your goddamn self.”
The waitress brought Kemper’s drink and placed it in front of him—as though she were presenting him with the crown jewels, thought Archer. “I hope you like it, Mr. Kemper. And if there’s anything you need from me, all you have to do is say it and it’s done. And I mean anything.”
Yes you do, thought Archer. He half expected the woman to strip right there.
Kemper thanked her with a glance and she went on her way, smiling broadly.
Archer rose. “Well, I’ll leave you to your drink and the fawning cocktail waitresses.”
“I didn’t kill that woman, Archer. I really didn’t.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Are you?”
“You’re the client. It’s not my job to put you in prison.”
“Really? You strike me as more idealistic than that.”
“Maybe once. Now, not so much.”
Archer walked back inside, his work still not done. But then something happened to make him change course. Or, more specifically, she happened.
Bay Town was apparently a place where your intentions changed faster than the second hand on a clock.
WILMA DARLING CAME OUT of the powder room and strode down the hall.
Archer ducked down another hall and then peered back around to follow her trek from powdering her nose. She pulled her gloves back on and drove her heels into the rug like American bayonets into Nazis as she marched to somewhere with a purpose that intrigued Archer. She was dressed all in crimson, and it was tight in all the places that counted. She had done something with her hair to make it even more luxurious, and it danced across her shoulders with every stride. The woman’s makeup was immaculate. And from her resolute expression, Archer figured she was on the hunt for something.
The target presented itself when Wilson Sheen came walking down the hall in the opposite direction. He was dressed in a white dinner jacket, black bow tie, and dark pants. To Archer he looked like a headwaiter in a ritzy hotel. The short jacket didn’t ride well on his wide, overweight frame, but Darling didn’t seem to mind. She rushed forward and planted her lips over his, wrapping her long arms around his wide waist, while his hands patted her long, elegant back like a mom attempting to burp an infant.
When she pulled back, Sheen’s face was coated with her attack, his face as crimson as her dress. He dabbed at the marks with his handkerchief, looking sheepish though pleased, as a few fellows passed by and gave him the universal male signs of success when hunting down the big game of females: the stupid schoolboy grins, the thumbs-up, and the tongues wagging like dogs in need of water . . . or something.
Arm in arm they ascended the stairs—Midnight Moods apparently did not have an elevator—and Archer followed at a discreet distance. They ventured all the way to the top floor and trekked in the direction of Fraser’s old room. Archer kept pace with them, careful to keep his face pointed down and ready at a moment’s notice to turn around if need be, though there were a few couples up here who looked to be heading toward the same Nirvana that Sheen and Darling were.
To his surprise, they entered the room right next to Fraser’s, and Darling closed the door behind them. As Archer hustled to the spot, he heard the door being locked.
He glanced at Fraser’s old room and decided it was worth a shot. The door was fortunately unlocked, and he entered, shutting the door quickly behind him. The body was thankfully gone. Archer found a water glass from the kitchen cabinet and made a beeline to the bedroom, which he figured would back up against the bedroom in the adjacent room. He placed the glass against the wall and his ear against the bottom of the glass.
He heard mumbles and heavy breathing and snatches of conversation that he couldn’t understand. Something hard tapped against something else. Then laughter. Then moans. Then what sounded like two people disrobing as quickly as they could. Then a radio came on and he could hear loud music. Then he heard the sounds of bedsprings being bounced and then the movement settled into a rhythmic beat that, while he could appreciate it, helped him not one iota in his investigation.
He glanced around, wondering what to do, when he saw the small door in the ceiling with a short pull cord hovering right at the top. He grabbed a chair, stood on it, gripped the cord, and jerked, pulling down the hinged door. There were no dropdown stairs, but he got a handhold on either side of the opening, did a pull-up, and hoisted himself through. There was flooring up here over the ceiling joists and a chain with a light bulb at one end. He pulled it and the light came on, turning darkness reasonably bright.