Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 35, No. 10, October 1990

“Maybe the killer made it up as he went along, one of these people who believe every man goes through life meeting hookers in motel rooms at all hours of the day and night.” Beckett leaned back in his chair. “I’m more concerned with the briefcase. Why wasn’t it there? Generally they hold nothing of value, are too much trouble to get rid of, and are a link to the killing. Something inside he wanted?”

Spocker rose. “I’ll talk to Miriam Abernathy again. A good secretary is supposed to know what her boss carries in his briefcase along with his lunch.”

Framed by the window, the blue sky called to Beckett, held captive in the office all day. Even a convict gets a turn around the yard.

“Go home to the wife and kids. I’ll talk to her. What kind of woman is she?”

“A nice lady. Couldn’t figure out why any man would divorce her.”

“I’ll take your word for it, but since I’ll be talking to her in her apartment, Gina’s coming, too.”

Gina was tall, more skinny than slim, a few strands of gleaming brown hair falling over her forehead, the rest parted and caught in the back with a barrette. In a blue suit and white blouse, all she needed was an attaché case to look like one of the female reps at the motel. Her face was bony, her nose a little too prominent, her soft brown eyes large and wide, her lips full. Contemplating those eyes and lips across a I small table could make a man forget what was on his plate, thought Beckett, which accounted for the dinner invitations.

Beside him in the car she sat silent, evaluating what the newest detective could or could not say to the captain.

“Go ahead,” he said. “All I can do is drop your evaluation report one notch.”

“Since the department frowns on overtime except in case of disaster, why am I here?”

“You are a female—”

“So I’ve been led to believe, but I’m surprised, captain. You don’t have that kind of reputation.”

“Lone male officers interviewing lone female witnesses in their apartments—”

“Ah. Just a shield against false accusations and litigious lawyers. And here I thought it was me. You don’t know what that does for my ego.”

Beckett grinned. “There is also the matter of vibes. Spocker says she’s a nice lady. So, probably, will I. You may think differently.”

She considered that as he turned into the apartment complex, waiting until he parked.

“Something tells me you don’t need any help at all in reading a woman, captain.”

“The gutters of history are filled with the bodies of men who thought they were good at it.”

Her voice scaled upward. “The gutters of history?”

“Say goodbye to ten points on your evaluation report,” he said.

Miriam Abernathy fitted the mold for executive level secretaries — the right height, the right weight, attractive without being too noticeable; late thirties, probably; radiating competence and good taste reflected in the apartment furniture and furnishings. She wore tight jeans and a loose sweatshirt, gold earrings dangling below the short, when-you-look-good-we-look-good blonde hair.

He couldn’t define or identify it, but something reminded Beckett of Toni Ewing as he sat across from her, Gina half turned toward her on the sofa.

The coffee in the cup was almost gone when he asked:

“Just exactly what does Meridian Technology do, Mrs. Abernathy?”

“We produce a very specialized component which is assembled into certain Air Force radar equipment by our parent company.”

“Any particular reason for the meeting this morning?”

“No. The weekly evaluation of the company’s progress.”

“Nelson plan to bring up anything special?”

She reached for his cup. “I wouldn’t know.”

Beckett sensed evasion and took her wrist. The skin was cold.

“I think you do.”

She didn’t move.

“The man left at nine thirty. He had to be back by eleven. Yet he took his briefcase along.”

“He always took his briefcase when he left the. office.”

“Not always. Only when he needed it. The briefcase held something he intended to show someone at a meeting — a meeting in a motel room to keep it secret from everyone in the company. When Lieutenant Spocker told you he was dead, you knew why, but you never said a word. I think you’re protecting someone.”

She stared down at the cup.

Gina rose and began pacing up and down behind the sofa.

“I’ll give you one candidate. You.”

Surprised, the woman turned to look up at her.

“Not easy,” said Gina. “You start by pounding a typewriter, and you slip in the specialized college courses at night and learn how to dress, and maybe you catch someone’s eye and you start moving up when he does. Along the way, you see and hear a great many things because of his position, but you’re expected to keep your mouth shut unless you want to go back to the typewriter, which is what you’re sure will happen if you tell us what it was all about. How many years go down the drain along with the nice salary?”

Her voice was a whisper. “Fifteen.”