Free Deadly Weapon by Wade Miller

shipment of marijuana be like?” Kevin asked. “I don’t know a thing about it.”
    “About a shoebox full of the straight stuff,” said Walter James. “That’s big enough to show plenty of profit but not so big as to attract attention. And it could be packed in a million different disguises.”
    “Such as?”
    “Oh, flea powder, brown sugar, cosmetics. The odds are a thousand to one against the postal authorities breaking that far into a well-known trade name. You could use anybody’s containers.” He laughed suddenly. “Do I sound like an authority?”
    “I guess in the private detective business you learn about a lot of unusual things.”
    “They’re not unusual for the business. But remember, the cops, and consequently private detectives, deal with the odd one per cent of the population. I hope you’re ready for another glass of this dynamite. I am.”
    She smiled. “I’m always ready.”
    He waved his glass in another signal. The waiter darted toward them.
    “But you haven’t figured out the Filipino’s job yet,” Kevin reminded him. “Why wasn’t he carrying the shoebox with him?”
    “I think he was a go-between,” Walter James said thoughtfully, “but I don’t think he was stabbed during a delivery. The stabbing was risky enough even in a darkened theater. But to stick a knife in a man, in the short period of grace the murderer had, and to highjack a box, too — well, that’s pushing your luck a little far. No, I think what he had in his pocket was part of a main shipment he was holding out for private purposes. Either to use himself or to sell or give to a friend. If he was a go-between, I doubt if he smoked himself — you don’t use addicts for bigtime go-betweens.”
    Kevin said, “Who was the little box for?”
    “I wish I could be sure,” Walter James said softly. Kevin watched a frown carve his smooth face. He looked up to catch her watching him. She said quickly, “Do you think he was killed because you were in the theater?”
    “I hope so,” he said. “If that’s the reason, then I’m on the right track. I haven’t particularly tried to keep undercover since I hit town. I was hoping to be recognized; more things happen that way.” He paused. “You look a little tired. If you want to go home — ”
    Kevin protested. “No. Really, I’m not tired — just a little worried, maybe. Maybe this liquor’s making my face droop. I’m really having a lot of — well, I guess with your friend and that Filipino dead I shouldn’t call it fun — but I am enjoying myself. Your voice is very soft and reassuring, Walter. So are your eyes.”
    “That’s good,” he said smiling. “I’m trying to build an appearance of trustworthiness to hide my serpent’s heart. Then when I’ve got you good and plastered, you’ll fall all over my shoulder.”
    She smiled provocatively at him. “Or vice versa. You don’t know my capacity. I’m ready for another if you are.”
    Her hand was palm down on the table top. He toyed with the back of it idly, running his fingertips over her knuckles and between her fingers. She watched the proximity of their hands gravely.
    “Well, you warned me — you told me we’d get along. If Bob could only see me now.”
    “Is he a jealous boy?”
    “You hit the right term — jealous
boy.
He’s twenty.”
    Walter James gave a flat laugh. “Which puts that neat gap of nineteen years between you and me again.” He stopped moving his hand. Kevin caught at it.
    She said softly, “Walter, I can’t help being born a little late. I’m trying not to show it.”
    Walter James sucked in his breath. “Time for another cigarette.” He took the last one from a battered crumple of paper and cut into a fresh pack for her. After a long puff of smoke, he held up the unlighted end of his cigarette. “Generally, marijuana looks pretty much like tobacco — a little dirtier in color, maybe. But it’s possible to refine it down and get something more powdery. Of