She called around lunchtime. When I heard her voice, the receiver seemed to glow. All kinds of sappy lines came to mind when I started to talk, but I was afraid to say them, afraid to make myself vulnerable in case she'd been using me the way she'd been using Denny and decided to drop me.
"I'm still thinking about last night," Cindy Traynor told me. "You're really sweet."
"Gee," I said, "a guy likes to be told he's handsome or strong or bright, but I'm not sure he likes to be told he's sweet."
She laughed. "If he really understands women, then he knows how much of a compliment that is."
Now I laughed. "OK, I'll take your word for it."
"Detective Bonnell, the one you told me about, he was here this morning."
"Here?"
"My home. Questioning Clay. From the little I could hear, I think he thinks Clay did it."
"He didn't arrest Clay, did he?"
"No, but from what Clay said, he came pretty close." She paused. "Clay's not holding up very well. He started drinking bourbon straight after Bonnell left, then he went out. I'm not sure where. I'm worried about him and-and I think he may actually have done it."
"What makes you think so?"
"Remember I told you about the night Gettig and Merle Wickes and Clay were here and Denny was trying to get the bag from Merle?"
"Yes?"
"Guess what I found?"
"What?"
"The bag."
"Yeah?"
"Yes, tossed in among some stuff to be carried out that for some reason never got carried out."
"Anything special about the bag?"
"Yes. There's only half of an identification tag on the handle-as if it got torn off."
"Maybe I'd better take a look at the bag." She laughed. "What's so funny?"
"You," she said. "Sometimes you sound so earnest. 'Maybe I'd better take a look at the bag.' Sherlock Holmes."
"This is my day to sound earnest and pious," I said, thinking of Stokes's crack. "Can you get away for a drink around five or so?"
"Sure," she said. "I don't expect Clay back. When he starts drinking like this, he usually winds up at his honey's. Whoever she happens to be at the moment."
There was faded anger and regret in her voice. For a second I was jealous. I didn't want her to feel anything for Clay, even if the emotion was faded.
"Around five, then?" she said.
I named a place.
Three hours later I was sitting in my office going through storyboards when the phone buzzed.
Sarah said, "Mr. Hauser from Hauser Accountants is on the line."
"Fine," I said. I punched him in immediately. "Hello," I said.
"How about this weather?" he said. "I think I'm heading for Florida."
Great, just what I wanted. He was charging me two hundred dollars an hour to audit my profit-and-loss sheets and he was spending his time on the most banal of amenities.
I realized, of course, that I was overreacting-I was too eager to find out what was going on.
"Well," I said, "did you find out anything?"
"Maybe I have," he said.
Then again, I thought, maybe you haven't.
I said, after he said nothing, "Care to tell me about it?"
"Are you familiar with Eagle Productions?"
"Eagle? No, I don't think so."
"Apparently they produce TV commercials. They're located in Kansas City."
I thought hard. We used a variety of production houses for our commercials and product songs, including production houses in Kansas City. But I'd never heard of Eagle Productions and, as creative director, I was the logical one to know the name.
"Why are you asking me about them?" I said.
"Well," he said, "I'd rather finish running some things down before I say."
"Wonderful," I said, "just what I need. A clifrhanger."
"Beg pardon?" he said.
"Nothing. Call me back when you're ready to talk."
"You bet I will," he said, all enthusiasm. "Thanks for your time."
As I hung up, there was a timid knock on my door. I called out for whoever to come in. Tommy Byrnes entered.
"I talk to you a minute?" he said.
"Sure," I said.
He nodded to the door behind him. "All right if I close the door?"
"Sure."
He came over to a chair and set himself down. In the fading light of the gray day he did not look so young, and certainly not so happy.
For the first time since I'd known him, I saw him fidget with his long, slender fingers.
"That guy in the black overcoat who came in," he began.
"Yes?" I said. Then I remembered his particularly violent reaction to Stokes-the way he'd gone pale and seemed to lose his composure.
"I saw him one night with Ron Gettig-one night in the Cove. There was something about him…" Tommy shook his head. "I mean, I'm not saying he had something to do with all this but-"
"Kind of a creep, isn't he?" I said.
"Yeah. He scares me. He-I wouldn't put nothin' past him. Nothin'."
I leaned forward on my desk. "Is there something you want to tell me, Tommy?"
"Yeah. Kinda. You remember when Denny broke his leg and I kinda had to chauffeur him around?"
I nodded.
"Well, one day he asked me to drive him out to this place-this mansion, actually-and I saw the guy in the black overcoat there, too."
The word mansion reminded me of the clipping Stokes had handed me. Though it was from a different newspaper than the clipping I had, it detailed the same robbery at Mrs. Bradford Amis's.
He stood up. "I was kind of scared to tell you. The way that guy looked at me this afternoon-"
"You should have told me before, Tommy."
"I didn't think it was important, I guess." He nodded to the door. "Well, I've got a class in a couple hours. Copywriting. I've gotta get ready for it." He stared at me. "You, uh, you aren't mad, are you?"
"No," I said. "No, I'm not, Tommy."
He smiled. Up in heaven, Norman Rockwell would be very pleased. "Good," he said, and pulled his stocking cap on his head.
"Well," he said, "guess I'll take off, then."
"Fine," I said, scarcely aware of him. He went out.