One Good Deed

by David Baldacci

  “That’s because I do.” He paused and this line of conversation made him think of something else, something important. “Look here, Ernestine, Dickie Dill?”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s one dangerous man.”

  “I know that, Archer.”

  “I don’t like the fact that you have to meet with him.”

  “It’s only once a month now. I won’t have to see him for quite some time.”

  “I don’t like that you have to ever see him.”

  “It is my job.” She gave him a piercing look. “Why? Did something happen?”

  He started to tell her but then changed his mind. “Next time you have to meet with him, let me know and I’ll be there, too.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Archer.”

  “I’m not doing it because I have to, it’s because I want to, Ernestine.”

  “Thank you. That’s very…sweet of you.”

  They spent the rest of the evening listening to music on Crabtree’s Emerson radio.

  “I like that Sinatra fellow,” said Archer. “But give me old Bing Crosby any day.”

  “I still love listening to the Andrews Sisters,” replied Crabtree nostalgically. “After work, in the rooming house I stayed at during the war, we’d lie around, drinking coffee and smoking, and listen to them all night long.”

  “They came over with the USO while we were fighting in Italy. Them and Bob Hope and some others. ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ always got me stomping my feet. And that Patty Andrews, wow, she was some looker—” Archer caught himself. “And a damn fine singer.”

  Crabtree looked up at him and smiled. “It’s okay to compliment a person’s looks, Archer. You’re a handsome man, I freely admit that. So long as it’s not all we think about each other.”

  “Right.”

  Later, they each picked up their books and Ernestine headed off to bed. But about a half hour later Archer put his novel down, picked his hat up, clutched his new key, and left by the back door.

  About twenty minutes later, he was knocking on the portal at 27 Eldorado.

  Jackie answered his knock dressed in high-waisted jeans, pink slippers, and a checkered shirt tied up high enough to expose her taut midriff. Her hair was curled up in plump rollers.

  She did not seem happy to see him. “You think you can just show up any old time and I’ll let you in? I got things to do, too, Archer.”

  “I’m sorry, Jackie. I’ve been working at the slaughterhouse during the day.”

  “And staying somewhere you won’t tell me at night. I wonder why.”

  “I need to talk to you about Pittleman. Can I come in?” He glanced at her rolled-up hair. “Are you getting ready to go out somewhere?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s all that for?” he said, pointing at her hair.

  “I’m experimenting with a new hairstyle.”

  “Women do that?” he said, eyes wide.

  “Women do a lot of things to please men. But more so to please other women. At least we like to think so.”

  She stepped back to allow him to pass inside.

  Jackie poured a rum and Coca-Cola over ice for herself without asking him if he wanted one and sat down on the couch across from him.

  “What about Hank?” she said bluntly.

  Archer lifted his hat off and perched it on his knee, looking uncomfortable. “I came to tell you that Pittleman was a sick man,” he said quietly.

  “What?”

  “He had cancer, up here.” Archer tapped his head.

  Jackie set her drink down because her hand was shaky. “Is…is that why he had the headaches?”

  “I guess so.”

  “He never said anything to me about it.”

  “Well, I don’t think he told his wife, either. Doc said he didn’t have long.”

  “He was already dying when someone killed him? Is that what you’re saying?”

  He nodded. “And there’s something else.”

  She shot him a glance. “That’s not enough?”

  “Remember I said he had money problems?”

  “How could I forget? It’s hard to believe, though. I thought Hank was rolling in dough.”

  “Well, he was also a gambler. And he owed the casinos in Las Vegas two hundred thousand dollars.”

  She looked stunned by this information. “That is crazy talk, Archer.”

  “And at the slaughterhouse they could only make half the payroll this week.”

  “Let me get this all straight. Someone kills a dying man. And then you’re telling me that a rich man isn’t really rich?”

  He nodded again.

  Jackie finished off her drink in one gulp and held the cold glass against her cheek.

  “And you didn’t know about any of this?” said Archer.

  “How could I? He gave me a car and a house and spending money. And he told me his headaches were something he’d always suffered from, even as a child.”

  “Man kept his secrets, I suppose.”

  Jackie looked at him with a sobering expression. “I guess we all do.”

  “What were you expecting from Pittleman?”

  She set her drink down, crossed her arms, and scowled at him. “What do you mean by that?” she said coldly.

  “You couldn’t marry the man. He was already hitched to Marjorie. But was it just the use of the house and car and folding money?”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “Because the man is dead, Jackie, and we’re trying to figure out why. And some folks think I killed him, that’s why!”

  “You playing at being a shamus?” she said in a bemused fashion.

  “It’s not playing when you might be looking at a noose around your neck.”

  “They’re not going to hang you, Archer.”

  “You think the law’s never convicted an innocent man before? Because I’m living proof that they have.”

  She started to say something but then caught herself. “Hank was a hard man, Archer. There are plenty of people who might have wanted to kill him.”

  “Shaw thinks it might be the Las Vegas crowd because he stiffed them.”

  “I guess it could be,” she said doubtfully.

  He looked at her closely. “But you don’t think so?”

  “I don’t know what to think and that’s the honest-to-God truth.” She looked at him, really looked at him, maybe for the first time tonight. “Do you believe me?”

  Archer thought of Shaw’s warning about trusting people, especially pretty women. “As much as you believe me,” he said evenly.

  Her face fell. “Do you want to stay here tonight?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Yes, but…not like that.” She sat up. “I’m a little scared, Archer. I mean, I was with Hank a lot, and some people might think…I know things.”

  His defenses crumbled in the face of this plea. “Sure, I’ll sleep here on the couch.”

  After she went to her bedroom, Archer lay on her couch and stared up at the ceiling. He was now taking his slumber in two different women’s homes but not in their beds, and he wasn’t sure what to think about that. One thing he was fairly certain of: His life was going to get even more complicated before long.

  Chapter 30

  THE NEXT MORNING, Archer left a note for Jackie and returned to Ernestine’s before the woman got up, using his key to get in. He figured she’d be sleeping in, since she didn’t work on Saturdays, and he turned out to be right. He opened her bedroom door a crack and saw her still in bed, her novel lying open beside her.

  He made his own breakfast, left Ernestine a note, and headed over to the Derby. Shaw had mentioned that he was staying there but hadn’t told Archer which room. He wanted to tell the detective what had happened at the slaughterhouse. Archer was afraid that Dill was going to do something at some point. But there was something else bothering Archer about the change in Dill. The little man had become more focused in his aggression, and
Archer sensed some purpose behind the man’s normally mean-spirited disposition.

  Archer walked over to the front desk where the same man who had evicted him was parked behind the counter reading a newspaper. When he saw Archer coming, he dropped the paper and backed away.

  “What do you want with me?”

  “Hold on, pal. Just want to know if Mr. Shaw’s in his room.”

  “I don’t know. Haven’t seen him today.”

  “It was 201?”

  “No, 304.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Thanks.”

  The man picked up his newspaper but shot suspicious glances at Archer as he walked quickly away.

  He ran the three flights up and approached Number 304. He knocked on the door and received no answer.

  “Hey, Mr. Shaw,” he called out, his mouth close to the wood. “It’s me, Archer. We have to talk. Found some things out.”

  No sound. No nothing.

  He walked back down the stairs. Shaw had told him he was married and had kids. After this was over, he would presumably go back home to them.

  Who do I have to go home to?

  First, he didn’t have a home. And, second, even if he did, there would be no one in it other than him. He hadn’t accomplished much in his life so far. And maybe he was running out of opportunities to improve upon that dismal record.

  He checked his watch and left. It was about time for the truck to pick them up. The slaughterhouse worked every day but the Sabbath, he’d been told. Surprisingly, Dill wasn’t there. Archer asked around, but no one knew where the little man had gotten to. They just seemed collectively relieved that he was not among them.

  Archer worked all day and rode back on the truck with the other exhausted men. At least tomorrow there would be no work. When he got off and was heading down the street, Shaw’s big Buick pulled up alongside him.

  “Hey, been looking for you,” said Archer.

  “Been outta town. Get in.”

  Archer climbed in.

  “Why were you looking for me?” asked Shaw.

  Archer told him about Dill and the threats and his wanting to know what Archer was doing with Shaw.

  The detective took this all in with a few nods.

  “Now, where have you been?” asked Archer.

  “To see a doctor and an insurance man.”

  “You sick?”

  “Not for me. Hank Pittleman’s.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Let’s go get some grub. And I could use some coffee.”

  They again ate at the Checkered Past, this time opting for chicken over steak. And this time Archer paid for the meal with his slaughterhouse money.

  When Shaw put down his second cup of coffee and wiped his mouth with his red and white checkered napkin, he eyed Archer closely.

  “You been spending time with Miss Crabtree.” It wasn’t a question.

  Archer’s face fell. “How do you know that?”

  “My job is to know everything, Archer. Sometimes I get there, and sometimes I fall short. But I’m always trying.”

  “She’s letting me stay at her place till I can afford something else. Look, you don’t have to tell anybody about this. She’s just helping me out. There’s no funny business going on.”

  “I don’t doubt that. And from all accounts, Miss Crabtree can take care of herself.”

  “Now, I went over to Jackie’s last night. And slept there.” Before Shaw could say anything, he added, “On the couch, by myself.”

  “So why’d you go to Jackie’s?”

  “I told her about Pittleman’s cancer.”

  “And why did you do that?”

  “You think I messed up again?”

  “Not necessarily, I just want to hear your reasoning is all.”

  “I guess I wanted to see if she already knew about all that. See her reaction.”

  “And?”

  “And either she’s as good an actress as Katharine Hepburn, or the woman didn’t know anything about it.”

  Shaw took this in, rubbing at his jaw.

  “And Miss Crabtree?” he said, his tufty eyebrows hiking suggestively. “Despite what you just said, you like her, don’t you?”

  Archer nodded. “She’s a special gal.”

  “Nothing wrong with liking special gals.”

  “And the woman has had to deal with some bad stuff.”

  “Like what?”

  Archer was about to tell the lawman about what was in the scrapbook but decided not to. It had nothing to do with the case, and he didn’t feel he had the right to share such personal information that he had gained only by looking at something he had no business looking at.

  “Just boys being idiots. Catcalls and crummy notes passed under her door. Even a deputy sheriff who’s got the hots for her.”

  “She’s a fine-looking woman. Just the way it is. Like you said, boys are boys. Not saying it’s right. I got a daughter and two sons. Up to the parents to teach them right. Respect goes both ways, or it don’t count.”

  “That’s all I got. What about you?”

  “I tell you on the condition that you don’t go blabbing it around, you hear me?”

  “I hear you. I guess I’m kinda surprised you’re even letting me know anything. Or work with you on this thing.”

  “First time I ever let a suspect help me investigate, Archer, and that’s no lie.”

  “So why me?”

  “I got my reasons. And that should be good enough for now.”

  “Okay.”

  “Anyway, met with a medical specialist Pittleman was seeing on the south side of the state, good ways from here, I tell you. Put some miles on the Buick.”

  “What’d the man say?”

  “He confirmed that Pittleman was dying. Incurable. Even cutting him up woulda done no good. This was about six months ago. Told Pittleman he had about a year left to live at that time.”

  “Okay. But we already knew that.”

  Shaw held up a finger. “What we didn’t know was that the doc told me that Marjorie Pittleman was there with her husband on a couple of occasions.”

  “So she knew he was sick?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How’d you even figure to check on that?”

  “I don’t take nothing people tell me as the truth till I get someone or something else to absolutely confirm it. See, the thing is, people lie, all the time.” He gave Archer a hard stare. “We call it corroboration.”

  “Okay. But why is that important?”

  “Think about it, Archer. When someone lies, it means they’re trying to cover something else up, only reason to lie. Hell, son, you should know that, as much as you lied to me! Now, when a husband kills a wife or a wife kills a husband, there are normally only two motivations, least in my experience. First, they have somebody on the side.”

  “Well, Pittleman had Jackie, but Marjorie knew about that.”

  “Doesn’t mean she was happy about it.”

  Archer thought back to what Jackie had told him about it and nodded his head in agreement. “And the second motivation?”

  “Hell, Archer, ain’t it obvious? Money!”

  “But we found out that he might not be as rich as some think.”

  “Which is why I checked with the insurance company that wrote a policy on Hank Pittleman.”

  “Insurance policy? How’d you hunt that down?”

  “It’s my dang job, Archer. I got good relations with all the insurance folks. See, they don’t want to pay out money any more than you and me would on debts we owe. We find a way to save them the dough, they like that. And they cooperate.”

  “So what’d they tell you?”

  “That a half-million-dollar life insurance policy was taken out on Hank Pittleman about four months ago. His wife’s the sole beneficiary.”

  “Hold on, why would they give a policy to a sick man who’s dying?”

  “You struck the nail on the damn head there, Archer. I like that. Y
ou could be a detective yourself with some training. You got the right nose for it.” He motioned over the waitress and ordered another cup of coffee and a piece of the cobbler.

  “Here’s the thing. They had Pittleman undergo a physical, see. I mean, they all do that. Nurse or a doc comes and does what they do. But they ain’t gonna find a tumor in your head by sticking a thermometer under your tongue or putting a stethoscope against your chest.” Shaw grinned. “But there’s a but. You figure out what it is?”

  Archer took only a moment to think about this. “If he was told six months before that he was dying, and they took out the policy four months ago and didn’t tell the insurance folks?”

  Shaw’s grin deepened, and he pointed at Archer. “Bingo. That’s insurance fraud. See, on the form they got a little clause that says the applicant knows of no medical or other health condition that would materially alter the risk of the policy being written, or some such legal language like that. Companies do that to cover their ass, and keep the customers honest, and, more important, build in a way not to pay out the money.”

  “And since they knew he was dying when they got the policy, the Pittlemans committed fraud?”

  “Damn right. And it wasn’t just the wife’s doing. I mean, Hank Pittleman had to know about the policy, otherwise why would they be sending somebody to check out his health? Now Pittleman’s beyond the law, but his wife’s not.”

  “You think she had him killed? I mean, I can’t imagine her doing it herself.”

  “Naw, if she did kill him, she got someone to do it. Now we just have to prove it.”

  “But you have the motive right here. A half-million bucks.”

  “Yeah, I can prove insurance fraud all right, and that’ll get her a year in prison maybe. But that’s not why I’m here, Archer. I’m here to catch a murderer. Whoever killed that man needs to hang. And if his wife paid someone to do it, she needs to go to prison for a long time, maybe the rest of her life. Hell, they might hang her, too.”

  Archer shook his head.

  “What?” said Shaw.

  “She just looked like a lost old lady, not a killer.”

  Shaw wagged a finger at him. “Remember this, son, if you remember nothing else: Sometimes it’s the ones that look and act like angels you got to watch out for. People are funny. And sometimes a nice outside covers up a real nasty dark side. Dealt with a lot of folks like that in my time. Smile at you while they’re readying the knife to cut your throat.”