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

The briefcase had yet to make an appearance, but all the trash disposal companies were keeping an eye open as they picked up Dumpsters, and during his three hour stint, a popular local talk show host had urged his audience to do the same.

Beckett’s mind backslid into areas he’d been trying to avoid — like what he and Toni might be doing if she hadn’t left, dredging up memories that would never go away and could only be walked off like one too many shots of scotch. Damned if he’d go that route. He’d been down it after his divorce and before he met Toni and discovered he didn’t really like the taste of liquor, no matter how highly extolled as a panacea for anyone in that position.

As he passed through the office, Kern’s head with its closely cropped black hair lifted. “Finally through for the day, captain?”

“Going for a walk.”

“You’ll get mugged.”

“I hope so,” said Beckett.

Kern stroked a brown jaw and watched him go. Muggers weren’t noted for a high level of intelligence, but one who would try to mug Beckett since Toni had left was not only stupid but had run out of luck. Having been there himself, Kern imagined he could feel Beckett’s pain, left behind like the wake of a ship.

“Gower was sitting in a dentist’s chair,” said Spocker. “Andrews said his wife was away and he’d gotten off to a late start, had some things to do and was concerned only about being in time for the meeting.”

“He’s too dumb to be the man we want,” said Gina.

Spocker grinned. “What she means is we checked at his house. His wife is away all right, but Gina had a heart-to-heart with the housekeeper.”

“When his wife is away, he spends the night at his girlfriend’s apartment,” she said. “Her name is Keri with an i, and any man spending the night with her is bound to get a slow start in the morning. Some may be unable to move until noon.”

“Very humorous,” said Beckett.

“If you were in my shoes, you’d find it discouraging. I don’t doubt the dentist, but I could have trouble with someone named Keri with an i, whose real name is probably Delores. Without that—” She lifted her hands.

“Get a list of Nelson’s friends in the company from Mrs. Abernathy,” said Beckett.

Spocker nodded. “He may have told one of them something.”

“Maybe, but that wasn’t what I had in mind. We assumed it had to be someone on Nelson’s level or above because he met him in that motel room rather than drop a bomb at the meeting. Anyone below him wouldn’t have received so much consideration. Unless—”

“It was a friend,” said Gina. “I can see that.”

When Beckett looked up, they were gone. Four hours’ sleep last night. Five the night before. Yet his mind still functioned. He wondered if the police department in a small town somewhere could use a former captain of detectives who didn’t need sleep.

Finding him settled back in his chair, eyes closed, not hearing them enter the office, wasn’t new to Spocker. Neither were the pouched eyes, stubbled face, open collar, and loose tie. This was classic BBT — Beckett Before Toni. She’d gently eased him back into the human race, but with her gone, he was drifting out of it again.

He rapped on the desk. Beckett’s eyes opened.

“Don’t say it,” he said.

Spocker shrugged. “I save my lectures for my kids. They listen. We thought you’d like to know. The friends Abernathy gave us were all at their desks except one, and he went on vacation last week.”

Beckett placed his elbows on the table and held his head in his hands. There were times when you knew damned well you were right no matter how many doors closed in your face. Before he’d dozed off, he’d been looking at a rap sheet, a fingerprint card stapled to the corner. It was still there, bracketed by his elbows.

“In order of rank,” he said, “you’re dumb, Gina; you’re dumber, Spocker, and I’m Chief Dummy. We all know the genius has a partial thumbprint and no one works at MT without being fingerprinted—”

He wasn’t asleep when Spocker called.

“Nicholson identified the print as belonging to the guy on vacation. Name is Millard Humble. He was a purchasing agent.”

“Was?”

“We’re at his apartment. His vacation became permanent when someone shot him last night with a .32, maybe two or three o’clock according to the M.E., and no, there’s no briefcase here.”

Spocker slumped in the chair as usual. Gina sat on the windowsill, jacket off, arms folded around her. Beckett reflected that she really wasn’t that skinny, after all.

“Too many loose ends,” said Spocker. “Nothing hangs together, Hoke, you know?”

There was always a sort of logic. Weird sometimes, but still there. You needed a key to understand it, the way you needed a formula to solve a math problem.

Nelson over Humble multiplied by .32, divided by computer printouts plus the briefcase equals — what? A piece was missing.

“Either of you want to hear something bothering me?” asked Gina.

“Physically, emotionally, or socially?” asked Beckett.

“Mentally. Like Miriam Abernathy. The fountainhead from which all information flows.”