Deep Without Pity | Page 9

murder, and now a
third one was taking shape in my mind. It was ugly, and I wanted to get
rid of it. It started with Jeff waiting till the house was empty on
Thursday night to confront his father. They quarreled, Jason walked
away, and Jeff reached for the gun. The he stopped and wrapped his
hand in a handkerchief so he wouldn't leave any prints...
No. No soap. People who shoot in anger worry about prints afterward,
not before. Still, he seemed to have a real martyrdom compulsion, and
people have been known to hire detectives to punish themselves. In

more ways than one.
"Your friend the scarlet woman didn't do it," I said. "Your father never
gave her anything but letters to type. And not many of those, from what
I hear."
"It seems I've made a serious mistake. And it's too late to rectify it."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I had an awful, sinking feeling that
the kid was about to confess. I held on tight to the receiver,
"He has cursed his father...his blood is upon him."
"Jeffrey, have you got an alibi?"
"I beg your pardon?" He sounded like I'd just woken him up.
"Where were you when your father was killed?"
"With a bible study group."
"Can you prove it?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Nothing," I said. "Never mind. " I sighed, a little, and began to
understand what Marion King had been talking about. If his quotations
didn't get me, his self-righteousness would. I decided to give him
written reports from that point on. I said goodbye and drove out to
Cameron Road.
The house was mass produced, built to last three years and now in its
fourth. I parked at the curb, and a herd of little kids rattled past me on
plastic tricycles with huge front wheels. I noticed that the lawn had lost
its battle with Johnson grass.
Jenny Shaw answered the front door with a wary smile. "I'm Daniel
Sloane," I said. "I'm a private investigator." In all the years I'd been
doing it, I'd yet to find a positive name for it. When I introduced myself

I had to be ready to face hostility and distrust. The private detective had
lost all his glamour, was back to being the dirty little peeper at the
window. Sometimes I felt that way about myself
"Come in," she said, and held the door open. She was cast out of the
same mold as her sister, with the same rich brown hair and the same
large but attractive features. Her hair was cut shorter, though, and fell
in a more relaxed way. Her eyes were brighter, less strained. She was
perhaps five years younger, but looked more like ten. She was one of
the more attractive women I'd seen in a while, and washed Charlene
Desmond from my memory like a long drink of water.
"Could I get you a cup of coffee?" she asked. "Or something stronger?"
"Coffee would be fine. Please." .
I sat on the edge of a chair and looked at the prints on the walls. Her
taste ran to symbolists and expressionists. She came back with two
cups of coffee and handed me one. "There's cream and sugar on the
table," she said, pointing.
"Black is fine."
She sat on the sofa and examined me. "You're working for my sister?"
"Your nephew, actually," I said, "but it comes to the same thing."
"How can I help you?"
"I'm not sure. I seem to be losing ground faster than I'm gaining. All I
know at this point is that someone set Jason King up for that scandal.
Maybe the secretary, maybe someone behind her. It might even be a
reverse blackmail scheme, where they would have dropped the charges
if King paid them. Whoever set it up probably killed him, or is at least
involved in the murder somehow. But I don't have any clue as to who it
is. I think your sister does, but she won't tell me."
There was a long silence. I could tell she was thinking something over,

and I didn't want to give her an opportunity to let it go. At last she said,
"Can I trust you?"
I shrugged. "That's a pretty vague term. If you mean will I lie, cheat
and steal to protect a client, no. If you mean do I have a conscience, yes,
but I put caution and common sense above it."
"That's a fair answer," she said. "You see there's...something I didn't
tell the police. I may have been wrong, but then again they never asked
the right questions, either. They seemed to have their minds made up,
and I saw no need to bring something up that might look, well;
compromising for my sister."
"The police have a