A Gambling Man David Baldacci (reading eggs books .TXT) 📖

seemed…normal. He’s never one for small talk, but he…he didn’t seem like a man ready to shoot himself, either.”

“Did you hear any noises? Like a gunshot?”

She shook her head. “Me and the cook sleep at the other end of the house. This is Mr. Drake’s private wing. I didn’t hear anything. Not until you knocked on the door.”

“Okay. Did he have any visitors last night? Phone calls? Get any messages delivered?”

“No, nothing like that. It…it was a typical evening.” She glanced at Drake’s body and shuddered.

Dash eyed the phone on the nightstand. He picked it up and dialed.

“Yeah, I want to talk to Ernie Prettyman, tell him it’s Willie Dash.” He paused and then stiffened. “When? Shit. Okay.”

He slammed down the phone and looked at Archer. “Ern’s in the hospital unconscious. Some goons jumped him and the two guys guarding Kemper.”

“And Kemper?”

“Looks like they took him. Son of a bitch!”

He picked up the phone again and stared at it like he’d never seen one before. Turning to Ruthie he said, “But you wouldn’t know if Drake called someone, would you?”

“No sir. I would have no way of knowing that.”

“Willie!” exclaimed Archer.

Archer was kneeling and looking down at the carpet near a set of French doors opening to the outside.

Dash hurried over to him.

“It was raining up until about an hour ago,” said Archer.

Dash examined the wet footprints on the carpet. “Those weren’t made by Drake; they’re too short.”

Archer opened one of the French doors. “Not locked.”

Dash walked over to the woman. “Ruthie, that young fellow we saw planting a bush when we were here before? Who is he?”

“You mean, Bobby?”

“Yeah, Bobby.”

“He’s the gardener. Takes care of everything outside.”

“He live here?”

Ruthie nodded. “In a room over the garage.”

“Thanks.”

Chapter 66

THEY HEARD THE SOBS AS THEY APPROACHED the garage. They cut through the still morning air like a machete through bamboo. The garage was a three-bay setup with a full floor above, where, presumably, Bobby lived.

The exterior door was locked, but Archer managed to push up one of the garage doors and they went inside, passing a Buick and a trim little green Hunter convertible with the canvas top down on their way to the set of interior stairs. The sobs were now even louder, and in them Archer thought he could hear an anguish associated with only the deepest of personal losses.

They reached a doorway at the top of the stairs. The cries continued, with the person inside seemingly oblivious to their presence.

Dash whispered, “Pull your heater, Archer, just in case.”

The gun came out. Archer stepped in front of Dash, put his hand on the doorknob, and slowly rotated it. The next moment he eased the door open and peered into the room.

The space was small, with bead-boarded, whitewashed walls and plenty of windows to let the emerging dawn peek through; one of the windows was open. That was no doubt how they could hear the crying all the way outside. On the wall were framed publicity stills of Cary Grant, Montgomery Clift, and other male actors. A two-drawer dresser painted a pale blue, some built-in cabinetry, a banjo leaning in one corner, and a mahogany four-poster bed were the only things to be seen—other than the young man lying in the bed and sobbing his heart out.

Archer and Dash stepped into the room and Archer closed the door behind him hard enough to make the man sit up and stare in fear and confusion at them.

“Who…who are you?”

Dash came forward. “You’re Bobby, right?”

“Yes sir.” He sat up and pulled the covers up over his bare chest.

Seeing him up close, Archer figured he was no more than twenty years old, with fine, delicate facial features and large blue eyes.

“I’m Willie Dash and this here is Archer. We’re private eyes. You know about your…employer, I take it?”

Bobby wiped his eyes and nodded. “He shot himself. Did…did you see him, too?”

“Yeah. Hey, Bobby, let me see your hands for a sec.”

Bobby held out his hands, and Dash wiped them with his pocket handkerchief. He looked at the cloth and then sniffed it.

“Well, you didn’t fire that gun.”

“I would never hurt anyone, especially Mr. Drake.”

“Okay, calm down and tell us all about it.”

Bobby glanced at Archer, who put his gun away, leaned against the wall, and said, “Must’ve been pretty upsetting to see him like that.”

Bobby nodded and wiped his face on the sheet, looking anxious. “Yeah, it was.”

“You went to see Drake sometime really early this morning, right?” asked Dash.

“I, uh…”

“Look, Bobby, I don’t give a damn what you had going on with Drake. I just want to hear any information you might have so we can find out why Drake did what he did.”

“You’re in no trouble, Bobby,” Archer added. “And what you tell us goes no further.”

Bobby glanced at Dash, who nodded. “That’s right, son.”

Bobby grew calmer and sat up against the headboard. “I usually go to…see Mr. Drake around three in the morning, unless he tells me not to the night before.”

“Why at that hour?”

“Well, the ladies are sure to be asleep by then and…”

“Okay. So you went there around three?”

Bobby nodded. “His bedroom door, see, I can walk right in off the rear verandah. Don’t have to go into the house.”

“We saw your footprints,” noted Dash. “And saw that the door was unlocked.”

“Well, I opened the door and walked in, like usual…and there he was.” Bobby’s eyes filled with fresh tears. “It was like he was staring at me, but he was…he was all dead and everything.”

“Did you touch the body?” asked Dash.

“No sir,” he said quickly. “I…I just turned and ran back here. And I been here crying the whole time. I mean, Mr. Drake was real good to me. I…I can’t believe he’s gone.”

Dash glanced at Archer. “Now, Bobby, this is real important, okay?” He paused and drew closer to the bed. “When did the men come out here? You saw them, right?”

Bobby looked at him in surprise. “H-how’d you know about that, mister?”

“I didn’t, at least not