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

“Take that thing away,” he said.

The nurse looked at Gina. “The rules—”

“Don’t give me a hard time, captain. I volunteered for this.”

Spocker had told him she’d insisted on it. Even though they’d both been caught flat-footed, someone else might have come to him weepy, apologetic, and with excuses. She hadn’t, but Spocker had also told him he’d tom up three resignations before convincing her he could destroy them faster than she could type them up.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you never to volunteer for anything? Let’s go.”

“Just follow,” she told the nurse. “We’ll scoop him up when he collapses.”

In the car, she said, “Thought you’d like to know. Abernathy won’t go to trial for quite a while now that the psychiatrists have hold of her.”

It might have been when he opened his eyes in the recovery room, or even the first day he’d sat up, but somewhere in there, he’d realized the pain of Toni’s departure was gone. He couldn’t buy the obvious — Beckett alive — Beckett on the brink — a grateful Beckett alive again with a new perspective. No, thank you. That wasn’t it.

He’d awakened one night in the quiet of the hospital, puzzled by the resurrected memory of a split second of satisfaction when his fist hit home. He lay there pursuing that — he’d never hit a woman in his life — couldn’t imagine doing it — much less enjoying it, even though he’d had no choice — until it came together in the silence and the dark. Not a resemblance to Toni, but the same scent; perfume or whatever. Not Abernathy putting a bullet into him. Not Abernathy he was hitting.

Toni Ewing.

Change was inevitable. He’d known he’d get over her, as much as one ever did, but Abernathy had accelerated the process the way the high tech firms had accelerated Meridian County’s, and if no one minded, he was just selfish enough to be grateful for one and not the other, thank you.

“Strange that I didn’t like her from the moment I saw her,” Gina said. “I’m not like that.”

“Don’t be too hard on her. She did me a favor.”

“Oh, fine. Mind if I lodge a complaint here? You’ll probably never let me forget it was my fault you were shot, but she puts a hole in you and you become Mr. Forgiveness.”

“It wasn’t your fault, I forgive you, and shut up.”

She glanced at him. “You know, you look much better shaved, without those bags and those bloodshot eyes. The clean shirt doesn’t hurt, either.”

He smiled. “Buttering up the brass won’t help your evaluation report.”

She laughed. She had a good, solid, soft laugh. Not giggly or forced or harsh.

“Just remember the reason your men in the gutters of history ended there, Beckett.”

Treasure Hunt by James McKimmey

Geblick, a hefty man of middle age with a face that mirrored twenty-five years on a police force — eyes tough and suspicious, nose twice broken, chin squared with determined dedication — stared at Barstow, the young and clever attorney, with disbelief. “Oh, no,” he said.

“Oh, yes,” said Barstow, smiling behind his expansive desk in his expansive office; crisp, neat, slim, as well-tailored as Geblick was not.

“Insane,” Geblick said.

“Perhaps he was,” Barstow agreed.

“I tried to run him into the hole for the past year, he dies on me, and now you tell me he willed me everything. Why?”

“Maybe he thought a cop like you doesn’t earn enough.”

“Don’t get smart, Barstow.”

“You see, Geblick? You’re good at muscling a wife-beater into the wagon, but when it comes to good manners, you’re a clod. That’s why Snider’s trial turned the way it did. You had enough evidence to shade him behind bars, if just barely; but you got on the witness chair, and the jury suddenly started feeling sorry for Snider. You alienated the judge. So Snider, if he took that eighty-seven thousand out of the bank that day, got away with it.”

“Cheap, squirrelly little bum,” Geblick managed.

“He willed you his estate, Geblick,” Barstow said, grinning.

Geblick, massive of shoulder and angry looking, stood up. “When did he do it?”

“After the trial, after he had the heart attack, he came in here and told me he’d given me all the money he’d saved over the years, but that he wanted you to have what else he had when he died. And he knew he was going to die soon — the doctors had told him he was ripe for another attack that might kill him.”

“From what money he’d saved,” Geblick said loudly. “Out of what? His lousy veteran’s pension?”

“Royalties, Geblick. He was a songwriter, remember?”

“So sing me one of his songs. You ever hear one?”

“He played some of his records for me one afternoon when we were setting up his defense.”

Geblick swore.

“Why did you hate him so much, Geblick?”

“I hate criminals! And when I got on his trail, I found out that he was weak. I hate that, too!”

“Because his heart turned bad on him, Geblick? He gave you credit for that, you know — hounding him, hounding him.”