Clarence Swift.

Right now I’d bet it was that sleazy little weasel who had tipped off the cops that I’d been out of my apartment the night of the murder when in fact I’d been in all night. Who had tipped off Gregor from a pay phone that I was the one who knew where his money was hiding. Who had created that letter from Miles Cave and then put my address and a signature that seemingly matched mine onto it. That’s why he had closed his briefcase as soon as I came in my office door, he had pilfered a letter from my desk to get his specimen. And I knew just how the son of a bitch had slipped the bogus letter into the Inner Circle file.

He was setting me up, trying to deflect the blame from himself, trying to yoke a collar around my neck while he waltzed off with the prize.

There were enough permutations to give a mathematician a headache, but the whole thing made sense, sort of. I could believe I had figured it all out, sort of. Except for the part about Clarence doing the shooting. He was a small, twisted little man, but Clarence Swift, with his bow ties and dusty old office, with his diffident manner and false humility, didn’t seem like the type that would kill over money. I had seen the Dylan Klebold in him and so I believed he could kill, but money didn’t seem to power his engine. Then what did?

I found the answer sitting in plain sight on top of my desk.

Derek was up front, waiting as Ellie prepared the tax forms and receipt for him to sign. I was sitting behind my desk, still puzzling over it all, when I idly started paging through a file. It was the file I had gotten from Inner Circle, the file that contained all the letters of complaint. It was a sad file, full of sad letters from those who had suffered great losses, the kind of file that lawyers find great joy in, because it contains the possibility of great profit. And I was trying to find the joy in there when Derek showed up at my office door.

“I filled out them forms,” he said. “Signed them, too.”

I closed the file and looked up at him.

“I still don’t like the idea,” he said. “It doesn’t seem right somehow.”

“Hand them over.”

He handed them over, I gave them a quick scan. It was all official, and signed, just like he said. I took the forms and put them into my desk drawer. Then I pulled out my wallet and counted one hundred and ninety dollars. I held the bills out to him, he took hold, but I didn’t let go.

“You did a good job, Derek,” I said. “You earned this.”

“Fine, bo.”

“You can be proud of the work you did.”

“Thanks.”

Pause.

“You going to let it loose so I can be on my way,” he said, “or am I going to have to cut off your hand?”

“It’s just that I want you to know that you can do something real with your life. You don’t have to dance on the wrong side with your boys on the corner.”

“I told you I was just hanging.”

“Maybe, but hanging often turns into something else. And then you’re just being used by a bunch of creeps who don’t give a damn about anything but their business.”

“Is the lecture a necessary part of it? Is that another requirement along with the tax forms?”

“I’m just saying.”

“I know what you’re saying. But I don’t think there’s a great demand outside of this office for my detecting services, know what I mean?”

“You don’t know, Derek. Get some training, find an entry-level job with a PI firm. I could help you get started. You just don’t know.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I don’t know.”

He gave a yank. I let go. He loosed a bright smile as he stuffed the wad into a pocket. “Thanks, bo.”

Just as he turned to leave, I noticed it. On the outside of the file that was sitting on my desk. The printing. Made by hand. All capital letters. “COMPLAINT LETTERS.” Just two words, but they reminded me of something. And when I looked close, I could see it. The way the L looped. The way the S curved. It all came together like a thunderclap.

“Hey, Derek,” I said before he was out the door. “You busy tonight?”

He stopped, leaned back into the office. “Not really.”

“I might have another job for you.”

“My usual rates?”

“Sure.”

“Thirty an hour.”

“It was twenty-five.”

“But that was before I got all this detecting experience.”

“Okay.”

“Plus expenses.”

“Fine.”

“Beautiful. So what do you need from me?”

I opened a desk drawer, pulled out a small brick of electronics, tossed it to him.

“This is a mini tape recorder. I want you to go to the store and buy some mini tapes that fit. And then I want you to spend some time and figure out how the damn thing works.”

28

It was a neat little Cape Cod, white and freshly painted, in a neat little neighborhood in Haddonfield, New Jersey. The lawn was well cared for, the perennials beneath the dogwood were neatly weeded, there was a cat in the window. The cat was gray and fluffy, and it eyed me with evident suspicion. Smart cat.

I knocked on the door.

“Not a word until I give the go-ahead, all right?” I said as Derek and I stood side by side and waited.

“I got it, bo.”

“Just follow my instructions and do as we planned.”

“I heard you the first three times.”

“Good. This is tricky stuff. The timing is all.”

“Now, don’t go insulting my timing. My timing is impeccable.”

“Impeccable?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Let’s hope so.”

I knocked again. We could hear footsteps from inside the house, the cat jumped off the sill, the door opened. The wide face at the door peered at me blankly for a moment and then froze with surprise.

“Hello, Margaret,” I said to the secretary from the Inner Circle Investments offices, who had made the copies of the complaint letters for me. She was wearing a print dress and sturdy shoes and held a dish towel in one hand.

“Mr. Carl,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“This is my friend Derek. Do you have a moment to speak to us?”

“Not really.”

“We just have some questions.”

She glanced quickly at Derek and then back at me. “I’m sure Mr. Nettles can answer all your questions. He’ll be in the office tomorrow morning.”

“We don’t want to talk to Mr. Nettles,” I said. “We want to talk to you. Do you mind if we come in?”

She looked at me, then down to her cat, who was twisted within the twin pillars that were her legs and showing me its teeth. I showed mine back.

“Yes, I do mind,” she said. She leaned forward and glanced up and down the street. “You shouldn’t be here. How did you find my address?”

“Have you started planning your wedding yet, Margaret?” I said.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Does Mr. Nettles know who your fiancé is?”

“My private life is my own, Mr. Carl. Now, please leave, or I will have to call the police.”

“You won’t call the police, you’re too smart for that. You don’t want them sniffing around, asking questions. You do know that bankruptcy fraud is a federal crime, don’t you?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Does Mr. Nettles know that you’ve been engaged to Dr. Denniston’s personal lawyer all the while you’ve been working for him? Does Mr. Nettles know that your fiancé drafted a legal agreement for Miles Cave, the investor he has the FBI out searching for? Does Mr. Nettles know that you are slipping fraudulent letters from that selfsame Miles Cave into Inner Circle’s files?”

“What do you want?” she said, her face a stony mass of anger. I’d seen softer peaks in the Alps.

“We just want to come inside,” I said, “and maybe have some tea.”

The house was spotless, and her knuckles were raw to prove it. While she was in the kitchen making the tea, I checked out the living room. I would have thought it would be filled with knickknacks and sentimental doilies, but it was bright and clean and uncluttered. I stepped over to a shelf with a few photographs in frames. Margaret standing stiffly with Clarence. A young Margaret with a rather formal family. And then a few pictures of Margaret dancing, in all her finery, dipping low in the arms of some slick-haired lothario, the line of her stout body suddenly elegant and long. There was a harsh edge to Margaret, except in the pictures of her dancing, where her face was suffused with a soft joy.