Free Coward's Kiss by Lawrence Block

Ed.”
    “She was honest enough,” I said. “She could have lied to you, could have invented a background for herself. Instead she left the past blank. That’s honest, isn’t it?”
    “I suppose you’re right. It’s . . . hard to accept the whole mess, Ed. I still don’t know what’s happening. You know how I felt when I saw the story this morning? First I read the headline and thought the police would be breaking down my door any minute. Then I read the first paragraph and I thought: God, the girl was somebody else and Sheila is still alive. It took me a few minutes to come to my senses again.”
    I didn’t say anything. Things were starting to take form in my mind and I wanted to get rid of Jack so that I could think straight. My human equation was setting itself up.
    “You mentioned something about her being in over her head, Ed. Were you kidding?”
    “No,” I said.
    “What’s it all about?”
    “I don’t know. Did she ever mention anything to you about a briefcase?”
    “A briefcase?”
    “Yeah.”
    “No,” he said. “Never.”
    “Ever see one around the apartment?”
    “No. Why?”
    “Just wondered,” I said. “Look, you’re free as green stamps now. If the police have her under one name they won’t look for another. If they’ve nailed her to one address they won’t worry about a missing girl on Fifty-first Street. You can stop worrying and start living. Like the books say.”
    For a moment or two he said nothing. Then: “I see. What do I do now?”
    I frowned at the phone. “You pretend you’re a family man,” I said. “You take good care of your wife and your kids. You remove a lot of appendixes and split a lot of fees and have a ball.”
    “Ed—”
    “Give my best to my sister,” I told him. “So long.”
    I hung up on him before he could thank me or tell me anymore of his problems or do whatever he was going to do. He was out of it now and I was bored with him. He had his small fling, got into a mess, and I helped him get out of it smelling of roses—which was more than he deserved. And in return for that I was getting warned, shot at and generally annoyed.
    I decided to send the bastard a bill.
    I went down the street for breakfast because it was too damned early to try stomaching instant coffee. I read the rest of the Times with breakfast but couldn’t keep my mind on what I was reading. I had the names of all the characters now and things were setting themselves up.
    The human equation—X and Y and Z. X killed Sheila, Y cleaned up her apartment and Z had the briefcase.
    And I had the names to fit the letters.
    Peter Armin. I couldn’t figure him for X, the killer. He just didn’t fit there at all. And I knew that he didn’t have the briefcase because he wouldn’t go to such a hell of a lot of trouble to get it from me if he did. That put him in the Y position—the joker who straightened things up, stripped Sheila and otherwise tampered with the scenery. I couldn’t figure out why—that would come later, with luck—but it was in character. He’d given my apartment a thorough search the night before without disturbing a thing. It stood to reason that he’d be equally considerate of Sheila’s apartment.
    That left X and Z. Now—
    “Nice morning,” the waitress said.
    I looked up at her. “Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”
    She started to laugh. I must have said something funny as hell because she was laughing hysterically. I tucked X and Z away for future reference, paid her, tipped her and went home.
    I got there in time to answer the phone.
    It was the man with the raspy voice again.
    “You had time to think. Now you can go or get off the pot, London. How much?”
    “How much for what?”
    “The briefcase. Come on, quit stalling. What’s the price?”
    “I haven’t got it,” I said.
    There was a pregnant pause. “That’s your story? You haven’t got it?”
    “That’s my story.”
    “One last chance,” he said. His voice was supposed to sound