Double

Inside the bottom folder in the stack there was the carbon of a typewritten letter, dated two days ago, to an Alan Thorburn, Esq., at a downtown address. The first paragraph mentioned a meeting next week with Thorburn and someone named Hugh — probably a C.P.A. — to review Elaine’s tax situation. I was about to put the letter back in the file when the second paragraph caught my eye. I skimmed the rest of it, then sat down in the desk chair and reread it more slowly.

As I mentioned on the phone the other day, I’ve uncovered a disturbing situation at the Casa del Rey. I am taking this opportunity to go on record about this, and ask that you date-stamp this letter and place it in your safe, in case I should need evidence of my lack of involvement in this situation at some future date.

At this point, I can’t say exactly what is going on, although I’m quite certain that the hotel is being used for illegal activities. I am also fairly certain that the parent company, Yamana International, is not involved.

Should these activities come to the attention of the police, I would naturally be suspect as chief of security. Therefore I need this letter and the attached clipping on file as proof of my noninvolvement.

You cautioned me to be careful, Alan, and I assure you that I will be, although I definitely intend to get to the bottom of this matter. Please don’t worry; I will proceed very cautiously.

Looking forward to seeing you and Hugh next week, with all best wishes,

Elaine’s name was typed below the closing sentence.

I sat staring at the letter, then looked for a copy of the clipping she’d mentioned, but didn’t find it. Then I stuffed the letter into my purse.

A wastebasket stood next to the desk. I pulled it over and began going through its contents. There was a draft of the letter to Thorburn, a bunch of junk mail, some crumpled Kleenexes, an empty paper-clip box, and a wadded-up ball of blue paper. I smoothed the blue paper out on the desk and saw it was written on in bold felt-tip printing. With a slight sense of shame at further invading my friend’s privacy, I read what appeared to be a love note.

I know that you have been avoiding me and I can guess the reasons why, but I think we are both aware that this thing that has started between us is totally beyond our control. Ever since that night at the club, I have been unable to get you out of my mind. And although you claim otherwise, I know you feel the same way too. Please don’t turn a cold hand to me, Elaine. There have been others for me, but never anyone like you. I wait for your reply.

The signature was a scrawled letter that could have been an H or an R or a K, or perhaps even a B.

So she’d had a lover after all — one who sounded pretty devoted, if not downright lovelorn. H or R or K or B? Or possibly a stylized S or P? I was willing to bet it was R. For Rich.

There was a red purse-sized address book on the desk. I picked it up and went through it, looking for someone named Rich. There were two, along with someone called Rick. A few of the other names I recognized — Karyn Sugarman, Lloyd Beddoes, Alan Thorburn — and others were totally unfamiliar. I glanced through the entire book, and put it and the love note in my purse with the other letter. Hastily I checked the desk drawers, found them almost empty, then left the office and went down the hall to the living room.