Free 3 Strange Bedfellows by Matt Witten

he acted so positively mean and un-ducklike.
    "What, are you stalking me?" he snapped as I walked up. "I'm calling the police."
    "I doubt it," I replied. "I doubt you want anyone to know you're staying here."
    That stopped him. "Who the hell are you?"
    "Jacob Burns. I'm a friend of Will Shmuckler."
    "Yeah, so what?"
    I couldn't think of any nifty P.I. moves to pull on him, so I cut right to the chase. "Did you kill Jack Tamarack?"
    He barked out a laugh. "What nonsense. Why would I do that?"
    "Because he was blackmailing you."
    His hand went involuntarily to his throat, but his voice stayed aggressive. "Where'd you hear that?"
    "Never mind where I heard it. Where were you Monday night?"
    "Jack Tamarack was not blackmailing me. Don't be preposterous."
    "Give me one other reason why you'd endorse a lifelong hack, a guy who never even got elected to dogcatcher, to run for the United States Congress."
    Before, I had believed that Ducky endorsed the Hack to reward him for twenty years of brownnosing; but upon reflection, that now seemed naive to me. You can't brownnose your way to the top, only to the middle.
    "Jack Tamarack was a very capable man," Ducky said huffily.
    "Yeah, right. The Hack never had an original idea in his life."
    Ducky stared at me incredulously. "And you think that's a negative? What are you, an idiot? Listen, Burnside, or whatever your name is, the last thing I want is an independent-minded congressman. I want a guy who does exactly what I tell him, whether it's getting tax breaks for some local company or easing pollution regulations or whatever . I wanted a hack, Burnside, and that's why I got the county chairmen to pick Tamarack."
    I almost believed him . But Hack Sr. had been so absolutely certain that his son was blackmailing this man.
    "Now if you'll excus e me," Ducky continued sarcastically, "I was enjoying a little peace and quiet before you came along—"
    "You still didn' t answer me. Where were you Monday night?"
    "None of your damn business."
    "Are you separated from your wife?"
    He glared at me but didn't answer. Instead he lifted his drink to his lips. It was time to aim a wild haymaker at him.
    "Senator, was your wife having an affair with Jack Tamarack?"
    Ducky stopped in mid-sip. Then he threw the glass at me. It slammed into my nose but luckily didn't break, just spilled scotch all over my face. Then Ducky stood up abruptly and left the bar.
    I took that to mean yes.

6
     
    When I got home, it was almost midnight —but Derek Jeter wasn't in bed. For a crazed moment, I was afraid some vicious murderer had kidnapped him. But then I found him at the computer, his tired, drawn face looking ghastly in the screen's cold glow. The kid would be a wreck tomorrow. Not good. The first week of school was no time to relax bedtime schedules.
    "Derek, what are you doing up?" I began, preparing to yell at him for sneaking out of bed. But then he turned toward me and I saw a familiar unfocused look in his eyes. He was asleep.
    "How you doing, kid?" I asked gently.
    He nodded vaguely, then turned back to the computer screen. I noticed he had a bunch of newspaper articles about Jack Tamarack listed on there.
    "Honey, it's time to go to bed." I signed off of AOL—I may be technologically challenged, but at least I know how to do that —and lifted the kid up. He protested weakly, then slumped against my body as I carried him upstairs.
    Once I lay him down in his own bed, he woke up. "Hi, Daddy," he said. "Was I sleepwalking?"
    "Yup."
    "What was I doing?"
    "I don't know. You were at the computer."
    "Oh, yeah. I was helping you solve the murder."
    I sighed. "Sweetheart, it's okay, I really don't need help."
    "But I don't want you to almost get killed, like last time."
    I started to give some reassuring reply, but then I smelled something. Bernie Williams had peed in his bed.
    Yes, it's hard to be hard-boiled when you've got two young sprats at home. I put some dry pants on the still-sleeping Bernie, and lay