Free Lady Yesterday by Loren D. Estleman

was standing there holding the door open for his visitor. One thrust in and up by somebody who knew what he was doing. There were no heel marks on the carpet. The door had a button lock. It was just a matter of setting it on your way out.
    Mr. Charm. He had twitched his moustache at me twice and called me a cut-rate gumshoe.
    I went behind the desk. Light filtered down through frosted panels in the ceiling, but there was a gooseneck lamp on the desk as well, switched off. The bulb was cold. I switched it on, using my handkerchief now. His calendar was full to the end of the month, appointments inked in in a neat block hand like architects use. His last appointment for that day had been with the initials A. G. at noon, shortly before I’d met him. There were no cross-outs, no pages missing. No one had ever left this world more neatly. I asked Lester about A. G.
    “That’d be Mr. Gordenier, the owner.” He still sounded out of breath.
    There were scratches around the lock of the safe. They could have been brand-new or years old. You just can’t tell unless they’ve been exposed to the elements. I tugged at the handle. Locked.
    “He’s the only one had the combination,” said Lester.
    “Maybe he forgot it sometime. When did you see him last?”
    “Just after you left. I give him today’s license numbers. That’s them there on the board.”
    The top sheet on the clipboard attached to the wall contained a double row of letters and numbers written in a slashing hand, with the day’s date and 1 P.M . scrawled at the top. There were other lists for 11 A.M . and noon. I paged back further. There were two sets of three for each day. Both sets were seldom in the same hand; two sets, two shifts. At length I wrapped my hand and lifted the board off its hook. Setting it on the desk I pried up the clip and took them all out and shuffled through the cheap drugstore typing stock. A torn corner drifted out. I asked Lester if he had worked the night of February tenth.
    He stroked his crescent of dark beard. “Night before last, yeah. Pulled two shifts.”
    “You turned in three lists that night?”
    “Every night I’m on.”
    I handed him the triangle of paper. “Eight o’clock’s missing.”
    “No shit?”
    “It doesn’t take that long to unclip it. Somebody was in a hurry.”
    I was looking at him. He stood there holding the torn corner, which was blank on both sides. “Ain’t that the night you axed about before?”
    “Yeah. I don’t guess you make copies.”
    “Job don’t pay that much.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Hey, I didn’t take it.”
    “The ante just got upped.”
    His face went wooden. “Fuck you, Jack.”
    I didn’t say anything. He took my two five-dollar bills out of his pocket and threw them on the floor at my feet and reached for the door.
    “Take it easy,” I said. “It isn’t like you called me ahead of the cops to discuss ethics.”
    He hung there with his hand on the knob. I picked up the bills and held them out. After a moment he took them.
    I put the lists back in order and clipped them and rehung the board. Then I switched off the lamp. “Call the police. Don’t tell them about the missing list. They’ll find out about it in their own time. Leave me clear of it. You never saw me.”
    He was contemplating the bills, stroking his beard. It didn’t mean anything; they were just something to look at. I held out a fifty. He contemplated that.
    “I didn’t take nothing.”
    “I believe you. You’re too smart to monkey with a murder scene just for a couple of dollars. I had to throw it at you and see if you ducked.”
    “They lean, I talk,” he said. “I got a record.”
    “For what?”
    “They said I stole a car.”
    “They won’t lean that hard. No car thief did this. The fifty’s for making them work.”
    He took it and reached for the telephone. I caught his wrist. “Call from the lobby. All they did was arrest you for a felony. You don’t want to be around when they get