Free The Third Figure by Collin Wilcox

some children were buying candy. Dominic watched them. One boy bought five sticks of black licorice and left the store. Dominic went over to the candy counter and bought two whole boxes of black licorice. When I asked him why, he couldn’t explain it, except to say that he remembered, as a kid, the thing he’d wanted more than anything else in the whole world was enough money to buy all the black licorice he wanted.”
    “Did he eat it?”
    She smiled, her first expression of a genuine humor. “He ate a lot of it. And I helped him. I always liked licorice myself.”
    I answered her smile, then said, “If you had to guess, Mrs. Hanson, who would you say killed him?”
    “I have no idea, Mr. Drake. There was a lot in Dominic’s life that I didn’t know anything about. I’m sure the police think someone in organized crime killed him. Don’t you?”
    “I don’t know. And I don’t think anyone else does, either. Did it ever occur to you, though, that you might’ve been killed yourself, if you’d arrived at the beachhouse maybe a half hour earlier?”
    “Yes, I’ve thought about that. Often.”
    “Does the thought frighten you?”
    “No, Mr. Drake, it doesn’t. When I was a lot younger, and a lot happier, the thought of death used to terrify me. But now …” She smiled sadly and looked away.
    I rose to my feet and thanked her. Politely she showed me out, primly and properly. I was surprised to see the shadows dark and lengthening across the bright green lawn. We’d talked longer than I’d thought.
    I’d covered almost half the distance to the sidewalk before I noticed a dark green Mustang convertible parked just behind my own car. A blond teen-age boy sat motionless at the wheel, watching me as I approached.
    Could it be the son, Johnny? The mother had mentioned a Mustang. And the driver was watching me with a kind of languid attentiveness, as if more than casually interested, yet unwilling to surrender to open curiosity.
    But how could I begin a conversation? A newspaperman’s routine questioning might be the best pose, yet I’d given his mother another story.
    I stopped at the side of my car, hand on the door handle and allowed my eyes to rest fully on him. He was returning my gaze; he hadn’t stirred. I frowned, as if suddenly struck by a puzzling thought. Then, pretending to act on an almost breezy impulse, I walked back to the Mustang, smiling as I went.
    “Are you Johnny Hanson, by any chance?” I asked, still smiling.
    “Yes,” he answered in a soft, low voice. He didn’t return my smile, but only looked at me with steady, inscrutable blue eyes. He was a pale, handsome boy with a serious, compressed mouth. Had Faith Hanson said sixteen? His manner seemed much older.
    “Mind if I talk to you for a minute?” I waved my hand toward the house. “I’ve just been talking to your mother. You might be able to help me, too.”
    “Help you with what?”
    “Well, ah …” I cleared my throat. “The fact is that is that I’m investigating the, ah, murder of Dominic Vennezio, three weeks ago. Your mother knew him, I understand. And …” I hesitated. How much did the boy know of his mother’s affair with the gangster?
    “Get in if you want to,” he said, moving his head toward the Mustang’s passenger seat.
    “Thanks.” I circled the car, covertly glancing at the house. Almost without doubt, Faith Hanson was watching us.
    “Are you a detective?” he asked, turning in the seat to face me.
    “Private investigator,” I answered, swinging the door closed.
    “Were you questioning Mother about Vennezio’s murder, did you say?” Now he was frowning, as if trying to comprehend.
    I nodded. Then, in an effort to put him at ease, I took out my cigarettes, vainly offered him one and leisurely lit one for myself.
    “Is Mother a …” He blinked. “A suspect?”
    “No, it’s nothing like that. But, as I’m sure you know, she’s an important witness. She found the body. You …” I