Free Who Murdered Garson Talmadge by David Bishop Page A

Matt?”
    There was no need to answer her.

Chapter 7
    Charaxus Talmadge, known as Charles, lived on the eighth floor of a more modern and taller building than the one in which his sister lived. I walked past the elevator and took the stairs.
    Before I pressed the bell, the door opened with Charles Talmadge holding the inside knob. We stood like two boxers center ring, without a referee to warn us about low blows. He was wearing silver-rimmed dark glasses with reflective lenses. I don’t often trust people who totally hide their eyes.
    His swarthy complexion and attitude gave him just the right look to attract the ladies who favored bad boys. He was wearing a beige linen sport coat, black-pleated lightweight slacks, a black and tan tie, and a white silk shirt. The belt loops in his pants were wider than common to men’s pants. He stepped forward; his tan silk socks peaking out over tasseled black-patent loafers, a fashion plate outfit. It only took a first glance to know that Charles Talmadge had not grown up Mr. Roger’s neighborhood. He took off his shades and stuck them in the breast pocket of his jacket. His eyes were dark enough to go with his black-wavy hair, yet somehow his two didn’t exactly match, like holes in a working man’s boot.
    “You didn’t need to dress up on my account,” I said, scoring the first low blow.
    “I don’t like your manners, Mr. Kile.”
    “They could likely use some improvement. I keep working on them, but so far they haven’t gotten much better, maybe even a little worse.”
    “I was on my way out when Susan called to say you’d be here in five minutes. I told her I’d wait, although I see nothing to be gained by our talking.”
    Free weights and a pressing bench filled the area the developer had designed to be the dining room. The left cut of his sport coat lumped slightly. He was carrying a gun and was right-handed.
    His answers, laboring under a self-imposed gag order, were short and gift-wrapped in surliness. Despite the tough act designed to intimidate, my read was that, except when watching Sponge Bob reruns, most encounters intimidated him. The act was all he had.
    Our first few minutes together had gone nowhere and had gotten there fast. “You know who I am and why I’m here,” I said, trying to pick up the pace. “I work for the attorney representing your stepmother.”
    “That bitch. She made a great piece of ass. I don’t fault Papa for taking up with her, but a wife? Not on her best day. Papa had a great wife, but he left her in France. This bitch was the new, younger version, but Papa wised up. He told both Susan and me that he planned to axe her ass. Kick her down to their prenup. She found out and knocked him off.”
    “That’s not true. Garson only told you. You told Susan.”
    “Same thing.”
    Far from it, pal. Generally he was saying the same things that Susan had said in her more stylish and respectable manner. I figured they had rehearsed.
    He had still not invited me in, but he had retreated far enough to reach around me and push his door shut.
    “Listen, Charaxus—”
    “Charles to you, Charlie to my friends, and you aren’t one of them.”
    “Okay, Charles it is. Your stepmother didn’t kill your father. I’m trying to find out who did. You oughta want that. Okay if I sit down?”
    “The cops have his killer. In lockup she’ll sell her ass for much smaller rewards.” He pressed his right palm against my chest. Using his right hand was a mistake. He couldn’t reach his weapon. Then he said, “Time for you to go,” and pushed.
    I grasped his hand and twisted hard, levering his thumb toward his wrist. “I didn’t say you could touch me. You need to ask your sister for some lessons on how to treat visitors.” He winced, bending at the knees to slacken the pressure. I twisted harder. “Drop the tough guy act. You look silly and it won’t work.” I let go of his thumb.
    He flexed his right hand then slid it inside his jacket. I put