Death Notes

I asked.
    ‘Looks like it was the son,’ he said. ‘It was something he overheard from the bartender.’
    ‘Lucius?’
    ‘The son misunderstood and spread it around.’
    Great. I’d become a target for murder all because of a deadly version of ‘telephone’, the kids’ game.
    ‘Hell.’
    Post rubbed his face with both hands, then glanced in the direction Sharon had gone.
    ‘This broad’s a flake.’
    He trudged toward the door, leonine head bent, shoulders stooped like an old man’s.
    ‘Either that,’ I said to his receding back, ‘or she’s smarter than both of us.’
     

20
     
    A s much as I hated to, I stuck around after Philly Post left. L Somebody had to make sure Sharon was all right and it looked like I was elected.
    ‘Isn’t there somebody you can call?’ I asked. ‘Family, maybe?’
    ‘I don’t have any family.’
    Her voice was stronger now and her expression was turning petulant again. The liquor had dried her tears. The only sign she’d been crying were the reddened eyes and the black smudges of mascara above her cheeks.
    ‘You need somebody. How about somebody from the band? Would any of them come over and stay with you for a while?’
    ‘I don’t get along with the band, honey. They’re nothing but a bunch of hungry mooches, anyway.’
    ‘Who can I phone?’
    ‘Nobody.’
    Her choice. I wasn’t going to ask again. I sat down across from her and waited until she looked up and met my gaze.
    ‘Tell me about the sax,’ I said. ‘Post thinks a collector stole it. Can you think why anybody would take it?’
    She swizzled her drink and stared out the window at the blue sky outside. The place was so depressing, I’d forgotten the sun was out.
    ‘I told that lieutenant all this already,’ she complained. ‘Now tell me.’
    ‘The museum. I was going to sign everything over to the museum. They were going to give me a hundred thousand dollars for it.’
    ‘Did anybody know that? Who did you tell?’
    ‘Why, everybody, honey. I told the whole world - the band, the reporters last night, record companies, agencies, every university that called, Match’s old pals - everybody. That’s how you get them to bid so high, honey, playing them off each other. Why? What are you thinking? Are you figuring one of them swiped it?’
    ‘I’m just looking for a motive. Have you heard from anybody, anybody asking for a ransom or anything?’
    She shook her head mournfully.
    ‘Do you think the cops will find it, honey? I really need it back this week. I don’t want to have to tell the museum people I lost it.’
    I doubted the SFPD was going to make it a priority, but with one hundred grand riding on it, I didn’t think she wanted to hear the truth.
    ‘It’s possible,’ I said.
    After all, anything’s possible.
    I filled her in on my visits to Malone and Teagues, but she didn’t even pretend to show an interest. Not even when I told her they’d forgiven the loans.
    ‘Look, Sharon, what aren’t you telling me?’
    ‘Why... I... What do you mean, honey?’
    ‘You hired me to talk to these guys and now you act like they’re yesterday’s news. What’s going on?’
    She squirmed, then bit her lip and said, ‘Is this confidential, honey?’
    ‘None of it, starting from day one, is going to be confidential if you don’t start talking right now.’
    ‘It’s like this, honey.’ She got up, freshened her drink, then sat down again. ‘The man who tried to break in Sunday night, before you put in the alarm,’ she began, ‘the man who broke in last night, I thought he was trying to kill me.’
    ‘Why would anybody want to kill you?’
    She stared at the ice cubes in her glass.
    ‘I don’t know, honey. Somebody killed Match.’
    I jerked the list of names she’d given me yesterday out of my back pocket.
    ‘You’re thinking it was one of these guys, right?’
    ‘I wasn’t sure,’ she sniffed.
    ‘Why not just tell the police?’
    ‘I can’t, don’t you see?’
    She set her glass down on the table between us and let her hands drop into her ample lap. Her sigh was theatrical.
    ‘You just don’t understand, do you, honey?’
    ‘No, I guess I don’t.’
    All I could think of was me, knifed in some back alley while Sharon wheeled and dealed over the phone for the movie rights. Or, if I survived, Philly Post screaming his brains out at me for withholding information.
    ‘It’s Match’s reputation I’m protecting, honey. You see, his friends are no good. If it gets