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

and said, “Hey, pal, checking to see if Beth Kemper is at her place here.”

The gent looked him up and down in a disinterested way. “Who wants to know?”

Archer produced his PI license, which had about as much effect as if he’d stuck out his tongue and tried to pull the guy’s pants down in a fit of mild mischief.

“You’ll have to do a lot better than that,” said the man. And he looked like he meant it.

“Then Lincoln wants to know.”

The man looked dubiously at the single bill Archer held out.

“And his twin brother,” Archer added, producing a second five-spot.

“Lady is in, and it’s Apartment 411, pal,” said the man, sliding the two Lincolns into one of his numerous pockets.

Archer cleared the set of double doors and took the stairs up to the fourth floor.

He hurried down to 411, knocked on the wood, and did it twice more before there was a response.

“Who the hell is it?” called out Beth Kemper.

“Archer. We need to talk. It’s about your husband.”

He could hear feet running toward the door and it was thrown open a moment later.

There stood Kemper in a nightgown and bare feet, her hair disrupted by sleep. “Yes?” she said breathlessly. “What about Douglas?”

Archer took off his hat and said, “Can I come in?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

He stepped through and she closed the door behind her.

“Have you proven that Douglas didn’t kill those people?”

Archer sat in a chair and waited until she did the same. “No, we haven’t. Not yet. But there have been developments, lots of them.”

“What developments?”

“For starters, Alfred Drake shot himself this morning at his home. He’s dead.”

Her hand flew to her bosom. “Oh my God. Why would Alfred do that?”

“Let’s just say he played his winning card. He didn’t want to be your old man’s lackey as mayor.”

“That’s ridiculous. My father wasn’t backing Drake.”

“You’re right about that; he was blackmailing him.”

“Blackmail? I don’t understand, Archer.”

“You don’t have to, but it’s true. Drake was a key to the casinos that were going to go up on that hunk of rock out there your father bought. Your husband would never agree to do his dirty work, so he couldn’t be allowed to be mayor. Your father was the one who sent the blackmail note to your hubby. He was the one who had Fraser and Sheen killed. And now he, with the help of Chief Pickett, is framing Douglas for the twin murders and hoping he spends his last few minutes on earth breathing in cyanide in the gas chamber at San Quentin.”

“You…you must be mad,” she said breathlessly. “Even if what you say about the election is true, my father wouldn’t have to try to frame Douglas for murder and see him executed.”

“He already executed Benjamin Smalls. So what’s one more?”

She stood, her fury evident in the reddened cheeks, the slash of her mouth, and the trembling arm that was pointing to the door. “You just get up and march the hell out of here. I never want to see your lying face again, do you hear me?”

“Well, you’re going to have to endure it for just a while longer. By the way, do you know your blood type?”

This comment might very well have been the only thing that Archer could have said to stop the lady in her tracks. “What?”

“Your blood type. Everyone has one. Mine’s AB.”

“I’m…I’m a B,” she said slowly.

“Okay, do you know your mother’s blood type?”

“No, I don’t.”

“How about your father’s?”

“No,” she snapped, obviously growing irritated at these queries.

“How about Sawyer Armstrong’s?”

She started to say something, but as she got the point of his question the look on her face made Archer tense.

“What exactly do you mean by…that?” she said in a low and threatening voice.

“I think you know exactly what I mean.”

“How dare you? You are a lying, filthy—”

“They killed Myron O’Donnell last night. And the only things missing from his office were the medical records for you, your mother, and Sawyer. See, the doc had all three of them. He’d had your mother’s and Sawyer’s for a while. But then you just had your appendix operation. And Sawyer realized that what O’Donnell could have seen from that was that one plus one does not equal…you.”

Archer barely caught her before Kemper hit the floor in a dead faint. He picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. He laid her down on the bed, propped up against the pillows, found some smelling salts in her medicine cabinet, and also poured out a snifter of brandy from the small bar set up on a stainless steel rolling table in the front room.

The salts did their duty, and she jerked and sat up, gasping. He gently but firmly pushed her back against the pillows and held up the snifter.

“Drink this,” he said. “It won’t make you feel any better, but it won’t make you feel any worse, either.”

She took the drink without a word and finished it in one impressive swallow. “You…if you’re lying to me, Archer—”

“I don’t have anywhere near that sort of imagination, Beth. They shot O’Donnell, made it look like a narcotics job, and slit the poor elevator guy’s throat, just like they did Fraser.”

Kemper dropped the empty glass on the bed, slowly sat up and put her face in her hands, and started moaning.

Archer gripped her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to drop this on you like an A-bomb, but you needed to know.”

Through her hands she said, “You mentioned that you had news of Douglas?”

“You might need some more brandy.”

She shuddered and lowered her hands. She looked up at him hopelessly. “Please…please don’t tell me that he’s…”

“He’s not dead. But the jury’s still out on whether he will be. That’s why we need your help.”

She shuddered again and said in a whisper, “I have whiskey out there.”

“I have whiskey in here,” he replied, pulling out his pocket flask and handing it to her.

She took a swallow, handed it back to him, and said, “Now, tell me what’s happened to