Free The Ninth Man by Dorien Grey Page B

less than three months. Not a long time, but long enough.”
    Something was going on in the back of my mind again, but I’d be damned if I knew what it was, or what it meant. I had the feeling Sibalitch had told me something, just as with Martin Bell—but what?
    There were just too many pieces, like a jigsaw puzzle without the photo on the box to go by. I also had the strong feeling Sibalitch could tell me a lot more if only I knew the right questions to ask.
    But I didn’t, and the whole thing was getting me more frustrated by the minute. Maybe, when I knew some of the questions, I could come back and talk to Sibalitch again.
    I glanced at my watch.
    “I’ve taken up enough of your time, Mr. Sibalitch,” I said, getting up from my chair, my motion reflected by his own. “I really appreciate your cooperation, and I hope you won’t mind if I call on you again if I have more specific questions.”
    “Not at all. I’m just sorry Gene isn’t here to help you. He probably could have done a much better job than I.”
    We’d reached the front door and shook hands again.
    “I’m really very sorry about Gene’s death,” I said, and meant it. “I hope you’ll accept my condolences, belated as they are.”
    Sibalitch opened the door on the still-hot twilight.
    “Thanks,” he said. “Feel free to call if there’s anything more I can tell you. Goodnight.”
    “Goodnight,” I said as he closed the door.
    It was only a little after seven-thirty, so I stopped at a hotdog stand for a chili cheese dog with sauerkraut (light on the onions—you never know) and a chocolate shake.
    *
    Nothing is harder to kill than time, and it was only eight- forty-five when I arrived at 27 Partridge Place, a two-story stucco faux-American Indian Pueblo affair complete with roughhewn beams protruding at regular intervals from just below the flat roof. Lots of arches, indirect lighting, and a courtyard that went on forever—a fact the builders tried to hide with lots of plants and splashing fountains.
    I viewed all this though the wrought-iron security gate but hesitated to ring the buzzer to Apartment D just yet. Instead, I took a walk around the block, mentally smoking a cigarette, and tried to sort out a few of the more promising-looking pieces of this increasingly frustrating case.
    It was still only five-to-nine when I got back to Tucson Manor, or whatever it was called; but I was tired of waiting, so I pressed the buzzer and waited. And waited. Three more leanings on the buzzer produced no results. Maybe it was broken.
    I decided to go to a drugstore I’d seen about three blocks away to call and was just walking toward the sidewalk when a yellow Porsche purred up next to a fireplug directly in front of the building. The driver leaned over toward the open passenger’s side window and called out, “Dick Hardesty?”
    I’d only heard that voice once, on the phone, but Tim’s taste in men, as usual, turned out to be excellent.
    “Mr. Miller?” I asked, moving toward the car and the full impact of one of the most beautiful faces I’d ever seen on a man.
    The passenger door opened, and Miller said, “Get in, we’ll drive to the garage.”
    I fleetingly hoped the garage was somewhere in Yucatan.
    “Sorry I’m late,” he said, flashing me a smile that could have melted chocolate, “but the shoot ran later than I expected, and I had to stop at the store for a few things.”
    We shook hands as I climbed in. He shifted into gear; the Porsche glided smoothly away from the curb and almost immediately made a sharp right onto a down-ramp. A wrought-iron gate whooshed noiselessly open as the car purred through then closed with equal silence behind us. Miller whipped expertly into a narrow stall between two concrete pillars and turned off the engine.
    “Need help with the groceries?” I asked, indicating the four full bags on the narrow ledge behind us.
    “That’d be great,” he said as we got out of the car.
    In the cleaner light