A Reasonable Murder
There was a bar in Chicago a few blocks from Wrigley Field that did not welcome people stopping by after a game. Leo Posbolouski had originally named it the "Home Run", but once he saw the types of people that came in, out-of-towners, suburb dwellers, southsiders, he shortened the name to the "Run." This kept visitors away for some reason. Leo was not unfriendly in general, he just knew his local customers would eat and drink with only certain types of people. Max Rhodes, having long been a friend of Leo's, found this assuring.
Max often ate his lunch there when he was not out running down a case. Most of his clients were trying to track a wayward spouse, or an acquaintance who had not paid. Occasionally, he had people come to him with difficult problems the cops could not, or should not, be involved with. These were people who preferred to keep their inquisitiveness to themselves. However, on this particular afternoon, business was slow, he had a few hours to kill, and wanted to eat lunch in a familiar place.
"Leo, how are you," Max said. Leo was in the back of the room, wiping off a table.
"Max, what do you know? We have your table open, right here," Leo said pointing to a booth along the window. It was a seat where Max could watch people coming in or out, but still be secluded from view.
"Burger, fries and a root beer," Max said while sliding into the booth.
"Ah, same as Monday," Leo said. He disappeared into the kitchen and Max heard a brief conversation in Polish. Max knew Leo's brother would be cooking up his lunch.
On the table, he set out three newspapers. When he had free time, he usually scanned the stories that did not make the front page. There were often people in the police reports that he knew, and he could never predict when such information could lead to a new case or help an old one. When WWII ended ten years before, he was released from the Army and shortly thereafter hired into the Chicago Police Department. However, after a couple of years, he decided the life of a cop did not suit him, and he joined an investigation agency to learn the trade. Once he felt he had gained the skills he needed, he set out on his own, working the northern part of Chicago and the surrounding suburbs. He never was going to break the bank with his yearly income, but it was enough, and he was his own boss.
On the fifth page of the first section of the Tribune, he saw a small title that caught his attention. "Morgan Shot Dead." He read the article, and then found a similar one in the Sun-Times. Both said basically the same thing, that James Morgan had been shot once by an unknown assailant. "There are no leads" the police were quoted as saying. The investigator on the case was a man named Tony Palmer, who had been a friend of Max's for years. What concerned Max was that Morgan had hired him about three months before to track a person that kept threatening him. Max felt Morgan was over reacting, but decided to look into it for him. He had not been able to figure much out and told Morgan this two days before. Now, looking at what happened, Max thought he needed to give Tony a call to let him know what little he could.
Leo appeared by his side with the burger, well done on an open bun, and a suitable pile of fries on the side. He let out a low whistle. "Lady friend coming in the door. Nice."
Max looked up to see Camille pulling the heavy door open. He had not been expecting to see her this afternoon, but having her show up unexpectedly was not surprising. Even after all the weeks they had been together he could not figure out why she was with him. She was college educated, quiet, a devotee of classical music and fine clothes. Camille took Max to the first opera he had ever been to. In return, he drove up to Lake Noquebay in Wisconsin for her first fishing experience. Unlike his small world of working around Chicago tracking down questionable people, Camille owned an antique store and traveled all over the world in search of furniture she could trade or sell. A few of the other men in the bar looked when she came in, but unlike most women that turned heads, she always came across like a cool drink of water on a hot day.
"Hey lover," she said, taking the seat across from him. She took a french fry from his plate, dipped it in the ketchup and ate it.
Max snuffed out his cigarette, knowing she detested the habit. He first met Camille when she had called him to help her find a customer who had bought an armoire and failed to pay. At the time, Max did not even know what an armoire was, but the case was easy and they had developed a relationship from there. "What brings you here? Shouldn't you be buying a sofa?"
"I'm seeing a customer a few blocks away." Camille slid one of the newspapers around. "What are you reading?"
"This thug, Morgan got shot yesterday. I was doing a job for him."
"Know him well?"
"Only in a professional sense," Max said.
"What was he like?"
"Mean bastard. Stole from people on both sides."
"Sorry he's dead?"
"Doesn't matter to me one way or the other." Max moved a ketchup laden fry towards his mouth. He carefully ate the fry and looked at her while she read the article.
She finished reading it before scanning over the other one. "I think I remember you mentioning this. Was he the one who thought there was a person in Joliet that was after him?"
He generally did not disclose his cases to other people, unless he thought it would help. Since he had been stymied on this for a couple of months, they had discussed it at length, though he had not used Morgan's name. "That's him. Remember you thought it might have something to do with a half-assed business he had going."
"This was the man trying to start a dry cleaning place," she said, eating another french fry.
"Anyway, looks like I wasted about two months and came up empty handed."
"What're you going to do?" she asked, brushing her hair back from her shoulder.
"Well, guess I need to turn it over to the cops." Max went ahead and took a big bite out of the hamburger, and wondered what kind of mess Morgan had gotten into. He was a borderline lunatic, and this was probably the result of one last stupid trick he tried to pull. He took a deep drink of the root beer and looked at Camille over the top of the glass. She had a stony set to her face.
"Why do you need to talk to the cops?" she asked, her voice quiet and a little tight. He had not heard this tone from her before, as she always exuded a smooth confidence.
"It's fine honey. I'm not in any trouble," he said as he put his hand on hers. She did not return his affection. "Sometimes this happens with what I do, you know. Besides I know the cop on this one."
"Sure, but won't this cause you trouble. Once you tell them, they might think you were involved."
"Look," he said, caressing her hand. "Like I said, this happens. It's part of what I do. Tony's a good. The best cop I ever worked with. I either go to him first, or he finds me and wonders why I didn't say anything."
"No. I think you might want to stay out of this as much as you can. This man must have been a problem for many people. I'm sure the police won't be bothering you with this. No." She pulled her hand back.
"Dear, trust me. I've been through this. I know what to do. Besides, if I help out Tony, he owes me one. That's the kind of stuff that runs my business."
"What if whoever killed Morgan comes after you? He could do that couldn't he?"
She seemed genuinely worried. At first, he thought this was a quick reaction to what she did not understand, but from looking at how she crossed her arms and averted her gaze, he knew this deeply disturbed her. Other women in his life were scared away by similar incidences that he became involved in. Until now, he thought that Camille was too smart and logical to be this upset. "Camille, please. Don't be like this. I'll be fine. I know how to handle myself."
Camille started to get out of the seat. "No," she said. "Stay out of this."
"Just give me a minute to explain," he said, touching her shoulder.
She stayed where she was, but looked to be ready to leave at any second. "From what you said, this sounded like a dangerous man. I don't thi
nk you should be tempting the authorities, or any of his friends."
"I understand how you feel, but let me explain. First of all, Morgan had no friends. I doubt if there'll even be a crappy little funeral." Max was not even sure if Morgan had any family in town. He seemed to have just grown out of the street.
"But whoever did this doesn't want to be caught, right?" she said.
"Of course, but…"
"And I'm sure this is a dangerous person that could kill again." She turned back around in her seat. "I just don't want anything to happen to you."
He leaned closer to her across the table. "This is what I do. I can take care of myself."
"Don't," she said. She shook her head. "There's no reason to help them. If your friend Tony needs you I'm sure he knows how to find you."
"There is really little to tell. He knows Morgan almost as well as I do, so a few minutes of my time won't hurt."
She crossed her arms again. "Do whatever you have to do."
"Camille."
She stood up and quickly walked towards the door.
"Wait," he said getting out of his seat. She was already out of the bar before he had a chance to stop her. He sat back down. "Damn it." Not only was he not going to get paid on this job, now he had an upset woman to deal with. He was not sure which was going to be worse.
Leo came up to his side. "Problems?"
"Maybe," Max said. He put three dollars on the table. "Sorry Leo, I have to run."
Max needed to talk to Tony Palmer, and since it was still around lunchtime, he knew where he could find him. Tony had the habit of eating in Winnemac Park on nice days. Max wanted to talk to Tony alone, since what he said to him had to be held in strict confidence. Others down at the station knew Max from when he was a cop and he did not want people with curious ears hanging around. Max went to the park, and sat down at a bench to wait for him. It seemed rather quaint for a cop, but Max knew that Tony enjoyed this as a few moments of peace in an otherwise hectic day.
After only a few minutes, Max saw Tony come walking through the grass, holding a couple of bratwursts in one hand and a bottle of soda in the other. Tony made a line right for where Max was sitting, as if they had planned to meet there. He set his lunch on the picnic table and eased his large body onto the seat. The table groaned under his weight, and Max felt his side rise up a few inches. Tony seemingly ate half a bratwurst in one bite, moved the food around in his mouth and asked, "What's on your mind Max?"
"Wanted to see how you're doing? Haven't spoken in a few weeks," Max said.
"Aw," Tony said, swallowing, then taking a large gulp of the soda. "Cut the crap. Think I'm some housewife of something?"
"Sure Tony," Max said, using his best Chicago accent. "I think you're the biggest ugliest housewife in town. I'd hate to be your husband."
Tony laughed and took a much smaller bite out of the bratwurst, as if the initial engulfing had been enough to get him started.
Max smiled for a moment, but knew Tony had only a few minutes to talk. "Listen, I saw Morgan was shot last night."
"Some lucky bastard finally took him out. It's about time," Tony said. Having spent ten years seeing the worst a civilized society could produce, Tony no longer cared if this attitude made people uncomfortable.
"I got this for you," Max said. "He called me a few months back, saying there were some people that were getting on his nerves. Real vague threats from a bunch in Joliet. I dug around and found nothing. I talked to him a few days ago. He said he was still hearing things and wanted me to keep looking." Max knew Tony was aware he sometimes worked for people that were on the other side of the law. However, there was an understanding between them that they could help each other if they only went so far with the information they shared.
"What kind of stuff was he hearing?" Tony asked, having stopped eating for a moment.
"The usual. Moving in on Morgan's business and territory. Morgan was trying to start a dry cleaning place, probably as a front for something. They were saying nonsense like they were going to the Feds. Seemed to know enough about him to get him scared. I don't know what to make of it all to be honest." Everything Morgan had told him was so doubtful, Max was confused about who was really behind this. Most of the people like Morgan were not clever enough to lay out an involved plan. They would have just taken what they wanted and dealt with the consequences
"That's all?" Tony asked, going back to the bratwurst.
"That's about it."
"Tell you what," Tony said, "Morgan had so many people mad at him, you know, people that can cause trouble, there's no telling who got him. The man had no respect for anything."
Max studied his friend for a moment. "Let me look into it. Maybe I'll turn over a stone or two."
Tony finished one of the brats. He wadded up a paper napkin and wiped his face. The napkin made a scratching sound on his skin each time he dabbed around his mouth. "You know something, don't you Max."
"I really don't have much else. But I'd like to check into this. See what turns up."
"You going to tell me if it does?" Tony asked.
"I'll need to see what I find. Give me a day to look. Then I'll call you. I'll leave it up to you after that."
"Fair enough."
"Honestly, how hard are you going to look for the killer? He was a mean little wheel in their machine. Never did anything good for anybody. You got better things to do besides look for the killer of a dupe like that."
Tony ran his hand across the top of his head and pursed his lips. "Depends on who it was. I could get rid of Morgan and throw a greaseball in jail. If I could do that, I'd be happy.
"Think that'll really happen?"
"Hasn't yet, but I can keep hoping. I'm going over to the house. I got two of my men over there talking to neighbors. You know where Morgan lived. Meet me there at two. After that, we can go look at the body."
The house was nothing more than a one story ranch style in a middle class neighborhood. Certainly, the people in the area had no idea there was a member of organized crime living there. A policeman was waiting in a squad car when Max walked up the driveway. He introduced himself and showed the cop his private investigator license.
"How long have you known Detective Palmer?" the policeman, Donny, said, getting out of the car.
"Let's see, it's been almost ten years. We both the joined the force right after the war. We never knew each other in the Army, but turns out we were stationed at the same bases."
"Funny how that happens," Donny said. "Well this is the house." Donny opened the front door and let Max step in before him. Tony was standing in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips, looking at an outline on the floor.
"Shot the little creep right here," Tony said. Morgan was found laying on his left side, and it looked like the arm underneath was stretched out over his head. His legs were folded around like he was squatting down.
"Took him right out," Max said, kneeling down to look at the outline. "Find anything else in this room?"
"Nothing of importance. Usual household stuff, some personal papers, crap like that."
Max stood up and walked over where he thought the killer must have been standing. "What do you think happened?" he asked.
"Don't know. No sign of a struggle. No forced entry. He got shot straight on in the face. If anyone in the area saw or heard anything, they're keeping quiet about it." Tony turned to Donny. "Anything new from the people around here."
"Not a damn thing. Everyone here's in bed by quarter to ten."
Max looked around the room, taking in Morgan's life style. The furnishings were moderate, department store items. Possibly rentals. We went over to a cabinet and opened the door to see it was made out of some sort of pressed wood. Cheap stuff. "What do you think of this place?"
"He was just a street hustler who bought a house in the suburbs," Tony said. "I know he always thought more
of himself then he would ever be. They’re like that."
Max walked into the kitchen and opened a drawer to find it had the same cheap look. "Don't know what I can add." Max said, continuing through the kitchen. "Mind if I take a look at the back rooms.
"Go ahead," Tony said. "Don't touch anything without calling me."
Max walked back to the bedroom to find a messed up bed and clothes scattered about on the dresser and floor. He went into the bathroom. There was nothing of real interest that he could tell. He continued from there into another small bedroom that Morgan had turned into an office. Among the things on the desk was an ash tray, various pens and pencils, a few bills and a smooth rock serving as a paper weight.
He was walking out of the room when he saw a ceramic vase on the shelf in the back of the room. Sitting with a broken clock, a Sox baseball and a deck of cards, the long fluted vase looked out of place. Max went over, and despite Tony's warning, he picked it up and found it was actually quite delicate, to the point that when he held it up to the light in the window the sun would actually shine through. He turned it over to see if there was a mark on the base. Instead, there was a sticker with the name of the store the piece came from. When he read the name, Chicago Antiques and Furnishings, he was confused. That was Camille's business. For a split second, he was not sure where he was, but then his senses returned and an incredible thought passed through his mind. This vase was totally out of character from anything else in the house. Was there was a relationship between Morgan and Camille? Morgan was not the type to walk into a business like hers and buy a delicate, almost feminine piece of ceramic art. Max set the vase back and realized he had to keep this to himself until he found out more. This could or could not bring an entirely different meaning to his relationship to her and the murder as a whole. Maybe it was stolen, but that would be an almost unbelievable coincidence. He left the room just as Tony was coming down the hall.
"What do you think?" Tony asked.
"Well, nothing of interest," Max said, going past, hoping to lead him away from the office. He went back out to the living room where Donny was standing. Tony came up behind him a few moments later.
"What you got left to do?" Tony asked Donny.
"We interviewed most of the people in the five or six houses right around here. I was going to start knocking on doors on the places across the back alley. Joe's over there now talking to a neighbor."
"Be here the rest of the afternoon?" Tony said.
"Likely," Donny said.
"You two quit about four o'clock and stop by my office and we'll get together for a few minutes and see if any of this makes sense. Max, need to see anything else here?"
He was staring at the body outline trying to fit Camille into the equation and had barely heard what Tony had said. "Oh, sorry. No, can't think of anything."
Max followed Tony on the drive over to the morgue. While they were picking their way through the city streets, Max began to put a time line together in his mind. Camille arrived in his life only a few weeks after the first call from Morgan. When he first met her, she had not shown much interest in what he was doing, but then she starting asking questions around the same time he became stuck on the case. That was about two months ago. Then, after he visited Joliet again and came back with no leads, he told her more about the case. Morgan got another call about a week later. "No," Max said to himself, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. His conclusions were not based on solid facts. Then again, he had learned many times from being a soldier, a cop and now a detective, that he needed to trust his intuition. In a few cases, this had saved his life. Now he had that same odd, hazing feeling of when he knew a picture was not what it appeared to be.
The morgue was in the basement of a building the police department used for record storage. Max arrived at two o'clock and waited in the deserted lobby. The building was quiet, with only the vague sound of a record keeper moving a cart around in a storage room. After a few minutes, Tony came lumbering up the steps and led him into the basement.
Tony found the coroner, Dr. Charles, in his office. Dr. Charles was a tall, scholarly looking gentleman who quietly took them through the various examining rooms to an area where they stored the bodies that were under question. The doctor flipped open a file folder, apparently looking for the location of Morgan's body. With a flourish, he closed the file and opened a drawer in the refrigerated cabinet built into the wall. "James Morgan, aged 53," he said pulling the sheet back. "I've found a few things."
Max saw a definite entry wound where the left eye used to be. "Give us some details, Doc, type of gun, how far away, that sort of thing."
"Doctor Charles," the doctor said, giving Max a raised eyebrow that arched above his glasses. "The weapon found in the victim's hand was a .357. The wound and the bullet found match that caliber."
"This was a suicide?" Max said.
Dr. Charles put a pair of gloves on and grabbed Morgan's head by the hair. "No, not at all. See the exit wound?"
"Not really," Tony said.
The doctor carefully twisted the head around until they saw a sizable divot in the back of the skull. He pointed to the exit wound with his index finger. "This hole would be about twice the size if he had shot himself." When the doctor moved the head back down to the metal bed, the neck vertebrae popped a couple of times. The sound echoed off of the concrete walls. "Besides, he was shot in the eye. Who shoots himself in the eye on purpose?"
"Morgan was pretty stupid," Tony said.
"Cops," Dr. Charles said under his breath, but loud enough for them to hear. "The shot was fired from between five and twenty feet. There was some residue on his face, but not enough to have been done from any closer. It's a little difficult to tell, but I would estimate the killer is between five foot three and five seven. Certainly no taller than that."
"We didn't find any prints on the gun," Tony said. "Other than Morgan's, of course. The killer must have brought it and shot him. Tried to make it look like a suicide."
"You gentlemen need anything else?" the doctor asked. "I have other cases to attend to."
"Real quick," Tony said. "Find anything on the clothes?"
"Not really. I have them in the other room." They followed the doctor into the lab area, where he pulled a heavy lined bag off of the shelf and set it on the examining table. He unzipped the bag. "Like I said, not much here of interest. We looked his clothes over thoroughly."
When the bag was opened, Max caught a brief hint of perfume. Camille used a Belgian perfume that was not available in the United States. He commented on it once and she told him that she always made a point to buy a few bottles when she was in Europe. Often after spending the evening with her, he would smell the muted lavender and spice fragrance on her pillow when she got up to take a shower. It was the same perfume she had on earlier in Leo's. The smell was marked into his memory, and when he leaned towards the clothes the doctor was laying out it was a perfect match. She was so unique. The conversation between Tony and Dr. Charles melted into the background as Max began to realize the facts fit together. She matched the height profile Dr. Charles had described. He tried to picture her pointing the gun at Morgan at a slightly upward angle and calmly pulling the trigger. Again, Max cautioned himself that he might be reading too much into the facts.
"Let us know if anything turns up," Tony said to the doctor. "Max, you ready to go?"
Max brought his thoughts back to the present, though he knew Tony's keen sense picked up that he had been disturbed by what they found. "Sure. Nothing else here."
The doctor left them and they returned to the sidewalk outside the building. Tony wiped off his brow. The day was a warm, and he was starting to sweat just stepping out of the building. Big men in cheap sport coats tended to do that. "Give me the deal Max, what's on your mind."
"Can't say for sure."
"You got an idea who did this?"
> "Remember what you said about how hard you want to find the killer?"
"Sure."
"Give me a few hours to run this down."
Tony put his hands on his hips and moved a few inches closer. "I saw that look on your face. I could haul you in and make you talk. "
"But, you won't," Max said. "You won't because you might not want to go after this person."
Tony dropped his hands down to his side. "I'll be at my desk 'til six. I want you to call me before I go home."
Max got in his car and started the engine. He pushed in the clutch and put the car in gear. After a moment, he shifted back to neutral and listened to the car idle. Up until Dr. Charles opened the bag, logic had allowed him to hope he was mistaken. The hard truth was that she had created a relationship not out of interest, but out of a need to commit a murder and to dupe him into playing along. His entire occupation was built around people with ulterior motives, but this was different. More personal. A few hours ago, he was glad to believe he had been lucky enough to find a beautiful woman to spend time with.
The antique store was about a quarter mile from the lake in an area that had a collection of boutiques and shops. Other than going to her store, he rarely visited that part of town. When he stepped into her shop, she was seated at her desk, talking to a man in a suit and tie. Max glanced at her before he went around looking at some of the pieces she had on display. The leather chairs, dark wooden desks and tables in Camille's store tended to be on the masculine side, allowing her to play off her looks and confidence with male clients. Max had been in the store many times and was always amazed that people could afford such furniture. He had been looking at moving his business out of his small apartment and into a rented office. However, between the cost of rent and buying a few desks and chairs, he had been hesitant to make the move.
The meeting with her customer ended a few minutes later. When he left the shop, Camille said, "there's no one else here."
He looked around and found a vase, darker than the one Morgan had, and picked it up. Max walked over to her desk and pulled a chair up. After a few moments, he placed the vase on the desk.
"It's a German piece," she said, reaching across for it. When she did so, he could smell her perfume. "I picked that up about five months ago on a trip to Milan. Are you interested in this?"
"In a way yes. I found Morgan was curious about ceramic vases as well. In fact, I think he liked to shop in your store."
She set the vase in front of her, where it wobbled back and forth a moment before settling down. She drummed her fingernails on the polished surface of the desk. "The white one with the blue swirls," she said. "I forgot I had given that to him. How much would you like to know?"
"Enough so I have an idea why you tricked me into this."
She rolled up the sleeve of her blouse to show a scar he had seen before. Then she rolled up the other sleeve. There was a fresh line of bruises on her upper arm, obviously from fingers gripping too tight. "He did this before you and I met," she said, pointing to the scar. "He did this a couple of nights ago," she said, pointing to the bruises.
"Let me get this straight, you were still seeing him while you were with me?" Max found this revolting.
"No, I stopped seeing him before I hired you. A few days ago I said I wanted to see him again. As soon as I came into his house, he thought he would have his way with me. He started grabbing me. I knew what he was going to do and had brought a gun. At that point, I shot him."
The entire story was told with no more emotion then if she had stubbed a toe. "There has to be more," he said.
Camille set both hands on the desk, and sat up in the chair. "The truth is, I heard about him from a friend, one of his girls. He pushed her down a flight of stairs. Broke a bone in her back. She'll never be right. I asked a few questions and found out hurting women was a habit of his."
"Why not go to the cops?"
Her face twisted up as she considered how to answer the question. "There are some things you don't know about my past, things like this." She ran her palms across the polished surface of the desk. The pained look was still present.
They had only been together for a few months, but still, he had not seen her like this. The cool control had been etched, and she was biting her lower lip, like she was trying to shut down images she could never reveal. Camille had not mentioned anything like this to him before, but Max knew she was thinking of past abuses. He had known other women that had been through the same hell and each had been torn down to the harshest depth of their lives. Some were emotionally destroyed, others pieced themselves together and went on. Camille must have had a different reaction. "I know this is difficult, but you have to give me an answer," he said.
"Max, I wasn't always what you see here. I learned early on that, there are men, who like to harm women. I've seen it and been part of it. The police never do anything. Morgan knew how to do it. He could beat up a girl far enough to where... to where she was almost dead."
There was more here than he would be able to sort out. "Why me?"
"I'm so sorry Max. I'm just so sorry I brought you in. I was so careful at first. I never even told him my real name. When I started seeing him, it was for the purpose of killing him, but I didn't know how. One afternoon, I went through his desk and found your name in an address book, and an idea came to me. I started sending him threatening letters from Joliet. I would call up and talk in a whisper and tell him the FBI was looking into his businesses. He bought it and started to get worried. Then he called you to look into it. I sought you out so I could keep track of what he was doing."
The plan was simple, though full of problems. "You wanted to establish a motive and a track record of people after him, and then kill him yourself."
"Exactly."
"Whatever you tried to do, it was stupid and sloppy. Do you have any idea how this could have turned out? Any good cop could track you down in about a week."
She shook her head in agreement and settled back in the chair. "You're right. I had not thought this through well enough. But, he's now gone, and I know he'll never be missed. Admit it. I did everyone a service by killing him."
This was one of those dilemmas that he had agonized over since he was in the war. Right and wrong often get mixed up when one considered what was best for people as a whole. Morgan was a mean little bastard who liked to beat up women, and the cops would never get him for that. Sure, he deserved to be taken out, but did that make it right? After seeing how cruel people could be, in his mind, yes, that did make it right. Morgan was gone, and Chicago was better off without him. He knew Tony felt the same way. "You're right," he said.
Camille looked down for a moment, then back up at him. She said in a quiet, but determined voice, "Max, women like me don't go to jail."
Despite all that had happened Max had to grin after she said that. He had not met anyone like her. She had pulled a risky little con on him with the full belief that she would never be punished. Camille had played on his personality, knowing he would investigate this as long as Morgan kept asking. That and the fact that he believed she did what should have been done years ago. "You know, we're through. I should be angry, but I'm not sure how I feel. Tell me. Was there anything else between us besides getting to Morgan?"
She stretched back in the chair like he had seen her do dozens of times. "I enjoyed every minute we spent together. I almost didn't do this, because I knew I would lose you."
"I'm not sure I'm buying any of that, but, nice try," Max said. He wished this were true, but he could not reconcile the enjoyment they had together with what she had done to him.
"I understand. I know there's nothing I can do to make this up to you, but anything, just name it."
"I don't know if the cops will come after you or not. Either way, you're playing a dangerous game," he said.
The tension went out of her face, as if she h
ad crossed over a mental threshold. "Yes, of course."
"I also don't work for free."
"I can pay you for your time." She took a checkbook out of the desk and began writing his name on the top check.
Max reached across, placed his hand over hers and slid the pen out of her fingers. She looked at the checkbook for a moment. When she pulled it back towards herself, he kept looking at the desk and thought about how it would look in his new office. He would keep it away from the window, so there would be no damage from the sun and moisture. "How much is this desk worth?"
"I bought it for $500, but I could sell it for $5000."
This was small compensation for what had happened, but it was better than leaving with nothing to show for three months of frustration and a false relationship. Max stood up. "Give me a few days, and I'll tell you where to have it delivered."
"So, what should I do about my problem?" she asked.
"Nothing. If the police find you, my guess is you'll walk. If they don't find you, consider yourself lucky."
Max left her store and found a phone booth a few blocks away. He hesitated before dropping the dime in. The next few minutes would determine whether or not Camille got on with her life with little interruption. The dime fell into the slot and he dialed the number. Tony picked up on the second ring. "Tony. Max. What we talked about, I said I would check this out."
"Sure."
"The question is if you care to know."
"Is it someone I might be interested in?" Tony asked.
"No, not at all."
Max could hear background noises over the phone line as Tony thought this over. "Leo P. still make a decent cheeseburger?"
"His brother cooks them now, but he does a good job."
"I got other problems to worry about, but if that changes I'll meet you there to try one. Understand?"
"Yes." He hung up the phone and went back to his car. The newspapers from that morning were still in the passenger seat. Maybe he would find a quiet place where no one could find him and finish his reading.