Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 41, No. 4, October 1977

Gently, “Who is the woman, Mrs. Murray?”

“Her name is Joanne Everett. She works downtown in some welfare agency. I don’t know which one.”

“Do you have her telephone number?”

“Beth put it here somewhere.” Mrs. Murray crossed the room to an old black-and-white television set and rummaged through a clutter of papers on top of it. “Do you have to talk to her?”

“We really should.”

“Here it is.” She handed him a slip of paper. “Lieutenant, these... investigations are confidential, aren’t they?”

“We do the best we can to keep them so.”

“Good! I wouldn’t want it in the paper.”

The tennis ball traveled in a high arc through the cold air. Joanne Everett moved back easily and slapped the ball into the far corner. Her opponent lunged at it, but came up a foot short. Joanne laughed and called, “That’s game, set and match.”

Macauley shivered inside his coat and wondered how the two women could play tennis in weather like this. He watched through the high fence around the court as Joanne Everett came toward him, swinging her racquet.

He looked at her more closely now than he had earlier. He put her age at about thirty-five, but the long legs revealed by the short tennis skirt were slim and nimble, resembling those of a teenager. He could tell by the play of the muscles under the skin that she was in superb condition.

Sleek dark hair fell nearly to her shoulders, and her face was open and nicely-formed. Her mouth was a little too large for classic beauty. Macauley thought she was very attractive.

When she reached the fence and stooped to pick up her jacket and the can of tennis balls, something possessed Macauley to say, “He who lives by the lob dies by the lob.”

She looked up at him through the chain link and said, “What?”

Embarrassed, he pulled his ID folder out. “Lieutenant Macauley. Are you Joanne Everett?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Could we talk for a few minutes? It’s about Elizabeth Murray.”

Her forehead creased as she frowned. “Elizabeth’s death was a needless tragedy, Lieutenant. What more is there that I can tell you?”

A gust of wind cut through him. “Why don’t we go inside somewhere? That wind’s awfully cold.” He paused, then asked in spite of himself, “How do you stand it in no more clothes than that?”

She slung the light jacket around her shoulders. “I like to stay in shape. You get used to the cold.” She waved at the redheaded woman who had been her opponent and who was now leaving the court at the opposite end.

Joanne turned back to Macauley and said, “There’s a little cafe down the street. We could talk there.”

“Okay. I could use some hot coffee.”

She unlatched a gate in the fence and joined Macauley. He hunched down deeper in his coat as they walked, but she strode along easily.

The small coffee shop was nearly full with a good lunchtime crowd, but Macauley grabbed a booth and ushered Joanne into it. When they were both seated, he asked, “Coffee?”

“Please.”

He gave the order to a harried waitress. She came back in a moment with two cups of steaming black liquid. After one sip, Macauley decided it would be an injustice to call it coffee.

Joanne Everett looked down into her cup and said, “What exactly did you want to talk about, Lieutenant?”

“First of all, what was your connection with Elizabeth Murray?”

“She was a client.”

“You’re not a lawyer — you’re a social worker.”

“She’s a friend, then — was a friend.”

“I talked to that welfare agency of yours. They told me you were playing tennis, and where. I didn’t believe them at first.”

“You should be more trusting.”

“That can get you in trouble. Your agency specializes in unwed mothers, narcotics addicts and prostitutes. Elizabeth Murray wasn’t pregnant, and there were no needlemarks on her. Was she hustling?”

Joanne Everett sipped her coffee. Macauley saw her hand shake slightly as she set the cup down carefully. “Not that I know of.”

“But she had been.” Macauley didn’t even bother to make it a question.

“She was on the streets last summer. She couldn’t find a job. Luckily, she never got busted. But she quit, Lieutenant, voluntarily. We helped her to quit, showed her that she had other paths she could follow.”

“Other avenues of escape, you mean.”

“Everyone needs to escape sometimes.”

“I guess so. Anyway, Elizabeth Murray used to be a hustler, and it’s possible she may have started up again. That gives us something, anyway.”

“What does it give you?”

“A reason for her to be on the streets at that time of night.”

Macauley drank a little more of the bitter coffee. “I guess you were out at the Murrays offering your condolences.”

“That’s right, I was.”

“They know their daughter used to be a prostitute?”

“They knew.”

“How did they react when they found out?”

Joanne Everett’s voice got harder. “Her mother wrung her hands and her father hit the roof.”

“Not very sympathetic, huh?”

“Not very. And I don’t think you are, either, Lieutenant.”

“I’m sorry the kid got killed. It’s such a waste when they’re so young.”

“Lieutenant, being a hooker is a waste no matter how old you are.”