The Cavanaugh Quest Read Free

sometime thing.”
    “Bullshit,” he said. He was sensitive about his political ambitions and I didn’t really think he was wrong. Anything is better than being a homicide dick, even being mayor.
    Nobody said we couldn’t tag along so Hub and I went on into the office. Pat Oliver had gotten there first and was putting the desk chair in place. She looked worried, her deep-set eyes downcast and hiding. She sighed heavily and leaned against the filing cabinet and watched the lads in white with stretchers go in to wrap up their bundle.
    Bernstein said, “May I see this letter, please?”
    Oliver picked it up off the neatly arranged desk and handed it to him. “Goddamnedest thing I’ve ever seen,” he said. His jaw was rigid and his pale blue eyes flickered nervously from Bernstein, who was reading the note, to me. “He comes in here, Paul, and says hi to Pat and me, just as normal as hell, all dressed up like he’s going out to dinner or something, fresh clean suit, tie, like all he’s got on is brand new … I could smell the Old Spice. He says he’s got this for me, hands me the envelope, and I figure it’s rent or something. Rent’s the only thing people come in here with in an envelope, and I don’t even give it a second thought. I took it from him, said, ‘Okay, Mr. B.,’ and he just smiles and goes back out. Fritz is coming in at the same time and he’s going on with some song and dance about the goddamn air conditioner and I’m opening the envelope and I read the note and I can hear Fritz talking, at first it doesn’t take—and then, holy shit, I get the point and right away the gun goes off …”
    His voice was shaking and he was short of breath. He shrugged his square farm boy’s shoulders and took off his bifocals. He grabbed a Kleenex from the desk dispenser and began polishing them. “Christ, I hardly knew the guy, but still, it hits you when a guy does that to himself in your goddamn lobby …” He turned to look out of the window where the sun’s waves jumped and quivered on the cars.
    Hubbard sat down in a straight-backed chair. He hadn’t said a word since his quiet little exclamation in the lobby. I knew him well enough to know that he was getting himself under control by an expenditure of will; I’d seen him do it on the tennis court, counteracting a bad shot or a miscalculated placement I’d returned for a winner.
    Bernstein bit his lip and said, “Funny, very funny, this one,” and shook his head.
    “So what does it say?” I asked.
    He handed it to me.
    “Read it out loud,” he said. “Slowly, conversationally. I want to hear what it sounds like.”
    It was written in green Flair ink on cream-colored stationery of high quality. His name, Lawrence Blankenship, was printed in simple, unexaggerated capital letters across the top of the sheet, centered. No address, no occupation. Just the name. Very classy.
    “ ‘Dear Mr. Oliver,’ ” I read. “ ‘I’m very sorry to cause you the inconvenience of doing this in your lobby but I do have my reasons. As you know, I live alone. It bothers me to think that my body might go undiscovered for several days and suffer the unhappy effects of hot weather. Particularly with this lousy air conditioning. So accept my apologies and my goodbyes to you and Mrs. Oliver. Sincerely, Larry Blankenship.’ ”
    Nobody said anything and I read it again to myself.
    Bernstein went to the window facing into the entranceway and the lobby. They were bringing the stretcher out, all covered up, and that was the end of Larry Blankenship.
    But of course it wasn’t. It was only the beginning.
    I built us a pitcher of Pimm’s Cup No. One with brandy, apples, cucumber slices, and lime wedges, sloshed over a seventy-nine-cent bag of sanitary ice cubes, all in a silver pitcher that had long ago been a wedding present and which I had stolen from what had once been my own home. Hubbard was sitting in an Italian deck chair with his feet tilted up on the rim of a