Deadly Gamble

Chapter 20 (Part 1)

Chapter 20

I cruised past Stacy's house once more on my way out of the neighborhood. Brad's car was still in the driveway so I didn't stop. Three blocks away, I spotted a pizza place on the corner. I realized I was famished. It was still early enough that I found a parking place right by the door. Almost ordained, it seemed.

They sold pizza by the slice. I ordered one with mushrooms and black olives and a Greek salad. I found a table in a deserted corner and waited there, crunching on the salad. Out of curiosity I pulled the sheaf of papers from my purse again. I hadn't organized them, and it took a few minutes to locate Charles Tompkins' name among the scraps of scrawlings.

I heard my name being called so I got up to collect my pizza slice. Back at the table, one of the racing forms almost jumped out at me. Why hadn't I noticed this before? Tompkins hadn't lost money on Bet The Farm. The horse had won. I remembered Tompkins' comment about hidden assets.

The horse had won, and maybe Gary hadn't paid off. Gary had written dates beside some of his handwritten entries, including Tompkins' big bet on Bet The Farm. I pulled out my checkbook calendar to verify the date. He'd placed the bet two days before Stacy had hired me to locate her missing watch. Could it be pure coincidence, or did Gary have an urgent reason to get out of town? Like maybe a hundred thousand reasons that someone might be angry with him?

Tompkins wouldn't have pulled the trigger. How stupid could I be? The way he'd done it was perfect. Out of town at a week-long convention, hundreds of witnesses as to his whereabouts, a hired assassin to get rid of Detweiller. The sheet of paper suddenly felt hot in my hand. I laid it down, staring at Gary's long, slanted writing as I finished my pizza. I remembered Ron's caution to me about withholding evidence. The police needed to know about this. I still couldn't figure out the connection between Tompkins and Jean Detweiller. That puzzle would take some work. But I didn't see how Kent Taylor could ignore this new finding. Surely, he would have to admit that Stacy was no longer the only suspect. I stuffed the last bite of pizza into my mouth and walked out of the place, still chewing.

It was one minute to five when I pulled into the only parking spot I could find within three blocks of the downtown police station. I had a feeling Taylor worked from eight to five and might already be gone by now. I locked my car and pushed my way up the crowded sidewalk.

Taylor sat at his desk with stacks of file folders surrounding him. He was making notes in one, resting his forehead on the other hand. Gone was the freshly pressed look he usually wore in the mornings. The precisely knotted tie hung over his chair and his hair looked like it had been the victim of an eggbeater attack.

He seemed completely unaware of my presence. I ahummed a couple of times before he looked up.

"Charlie."

I ignored the unspoken, What do you want? He went back to his writing. Helping myself to an extra chair, I pulled it to the front of his desk and sat still with my hands in my lap like a nice, polite little girl. It almost killed me.

He made a few more notes in his file, then closed the cover.

"Now, I assume by the way you're twitching in your chair that you came here to tell me something urgent," he said.

"I've found another suspect in the Detweiller case that had as much reason to kill Detweiller as anyone. More reason than Stacy did." I outlined the basics for him.

"That's crazy, Charlie. A guy bets on a horse and wins, he doesn't kill the bookie."

"He might if the bookie left town with the guy's winnings. Picture this—Tompkins places a large bet on Friday. Gets the word Saturday that he'd won. He's ready to collect, but Gary's gone. Out of town, can't be located. Tompkins spends the next three days getting madder and madder, until finally he's ready to kill Gary. He's also had time to think about it and decides he shouldn't do it himself. So he hires help."

"Or maybe he just couldn't take time out of his busy schedule to sit for an evening in Detweiller's driveway," he replied sarcastically.

"Come on, Kent, you have to admit this is at least as strong a motive as Stacy's."

He cocked his head to one side, almost but not quite agreeing.

"At least look into it," I asked.

I could tell by the look on his face that he had really wanted to close this file with Stacy's name on the bottom line. I had managed to complicate his life once again in the last ten minutes and he wasn't crazy about it. I left the station without knowing what, if anything, he'd do with the information.

Traffic was heavy as I left the downtown area. I managed to catch every red light. There was nothing to do but fall in with the slow pace of all the other vehicles. It was nearly six when I reached the office, but Ron's light was still on.

Rusty greeted me at the door like I'd been gone for days. After quite a bit of hand licking and sniffing my pockets for misplaced cheeseburgers, he let me go upstairs.

Ron was at his desk still, phone in hand. I thought the wrinkles were a little more noticeable around his eyes, and his thin hair was stuck to the top of his bald spot.

"Rough day?" I asked.

"Just a long one," he replied. "The usual."

"How about an enchilada dinner? My treat."

He pulled himself out of his chair, groaning slightly as he stood. He's only six years older than I, making me wonder if this was the kind of shape I'd be in before long. He reached for his Stetson on the wall rack. We checked the doors and windows and boarded our respective cars for the drive to Pedro's. Somehow, tonight I was eager for that margarita.