Free Dead Heat by Linda Barnes Page B

Channel 4 thinks I’m up to my neck in Donagher’s troubles.”
    â€œChannel 4. That’s the new weekend boy, the one who—”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat you just heard over the phone was my mind clicking into gear. And it is past due, Michael. Past due. I told you I’d never sleep from thinking about it—”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt was something in the conjunction of the phone call and the news. But I couldn’t come up with it.”
    â€œMary, tell me the important part first and then fill in the blanks.”
    â€œEdward Heineman was the man who telephoned and asked if you were ‘on the case.’”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œOf that voice? Of course.”
    â€œThanks.”
    That answered one question.
    Spraggue ordered another glass of wine at the bar, mulled over the other questions as he drank. Like who tipped Heineman off? Was Heineman really working a story? If he was, why didn’t he have a camera crew along?
    And most important: Why did Heineman carry in his card case the dog-eared photo of a woman who was a dead ringer for the blonde who’d left Donagher’s by the back door?

TEN
    Sunday evening’s As You Like It passed like a dream, all disconnected sequences, interminable waits, and sudden urgencies. Tired, Spraggue found himself settling into the predictable rhythm of a show performed too often; he had to struggle against frozen pat responses, find new actions, new activities.
    Two curtain calls, each with a modest swell of applause when he bowed. Home. The silence pressed the walls of his apartment inward until he took refuge in the radio and half a bottle of Beaulieu Cabernet. It took time, hours sometimes, for his body to come down from the high of performance, descend to the calm of sleep.
    The phone jangled. At first it was part of his dream, instantly, senselessly incorporated. But its shrill insistence stilled the dream and he sat up in bed.
    He cursed the moment when he’d deliberately arranged the furniture so that he’d have to leave the comfort of the bed in order to answer the phone. This had occurred while he was still a private investigator and apt to get calls of some importance in the middle of the night. The furniture-rearrangement binge had postdated a 2 A.M. phone call, a conversation during which, according to the other party, he’d agreed to some extremely illegal activities. The next morning, with no memory of the call, he’d gone out and almost gotten himself killed.
    He swung long legs out of their blanket cocoon. Tomorrow he’d move the end table and the telephone back. Get rid of the “scene of the crime” kit. Maybe then he’d be more convincing when he denied being a private eye. Maybe even Menlo would believe him. Even Aunt Mary.
    The phone rang on. Spraggue made it over to the table in the dark, fumbled with the receiver, picked it up fully expecting a wrong number, possibly a frat house ordering pizza. Or Aunt Mary forgetting that lesser mortals slept.
    â€œSpraggue?” The voice was sloppy drunk; if it hadn’t called out his name, he’d have hung up after roasting some punk’s ears with choice curses.
    â€œWho is this?”
    â€œIt’s me. Your old dumb buddy, Collatos. You expecting somebody else, pal?”
    The voice was slurred, unsteady.
    â€œWhat the hell do you want now? It’s late.”
    â€œHey, hey, that’s no way to talk to a guy. Listen. I gotta tidbit for you. But you gotta give me your word not to repeat this.”
    â€œWhat?” Spraggue closed his eyes, shook his head, and regretted responding to Collatos’ bait at the reservoir.
    â€œIt’s a little secret, jus’ a secret.”
    â€œIf you’ve got something to say, say it. This is no time for games, Collatos.”
    â€œSorry, sorry,” Collatos sing-songed. “Sorry I bothered you. It’s just that I figured it out.