Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 44, No. 4, April 1980

“His pen?”

“His sketching pen. Damn fool think’s he’s an artist. Always carries the pen and a sketch pad around with him.” He took a checkbook out of the middle drawer and asked, “How much do you want?”

“My usual rate is two hundred dollars a day plus expenses. One hundred is good enough for a retainer.”

“All right.” He picked up a pen and opened the checkbook.

“But there’s one thing we have to settle before I take your money.”

He looked up in surprise. “What’s that?”

“If I find Wheeler, I turn him over to Sheriff Cartwright. That’s the only way I’ll take the job.”

He put the pen down. “I don’t know, Markham. There’s a few things I’d like to say to Wheeler before he’s turned over to the law.”

“I’m sure Cartwright would let you visit at the county jail.”

“You just don’t understand, do you, Markham?” Barrett pushed his chair back and stood up. “It wasn’t your office he broke into. It wasn’t your grandchildren he stole. And it wasn’t your daughter that he married in the first place. He ruined Elaine’s life.”

“I imagine she was old enough to make up her own mind. Maybe that’s why you don’t like Wheeler. He’s a symbol of Elaine’s rebellion against you.”

Anger began to turn his face red. He snapped, “I don’t need any amateur psychiatry from a private eye. Do you want to find Wheeler for me or not? If you do, I get him first. Those are my terms.”

“I want to find him. On my terms.”

“Then you won’t get any of my money to help you. Get out of here.”

Barrett was more of an enemy now than ever, but I didn’t care. I stood up and said, “So long, Barrett. I hope I won’t be seeing you again.”

He started around the desk, fists clenched, and then stopped. I guess he saw that my fists were clenched, too, and that I was two inches taller, ten pounds lighter, and twenty years younger. He grated, “Get off my property.”

“I’m going.”

I went. As I left, I saw Barrett talking rapidly to several burly characters who were probably truck drivers or mechanics. Given Barrett’s penchant for violence and his need for revenge on anyone he thought had wronged him, it could be that I had made a bad enemy. I wasn’t going to hunt Wheeler down just so that Barrett and Elaine could have their vengeance, though.

I would have to do it for Cindy’s sake, and for my own.

Joyce McCormick, the other woman in Wheeler’s life, might be a place to start. I found a telephone booth with a directory in it and got the first good break in this mess. Joyce McCormick was listed. There was no address, so I dropped coins into the phone and dialed the number that the book gave.

It rang three times before a woman answered, “Hello?” It was a pleasant enough voice, not sounding annoyed at the intrusion of the telephone.

“Is this Joyce McCormick?” I asked.

“Yes, it is. Who’s this?”

I told her my name and then said, “I’m looking for John Wheeler. Do you know where I might find him?”

Her voice changed. “Are you a policeman? If you are, you’re wasting your time. I’ve already told the sheriff everything I know.”

“I’m a private detective. I’m not working for the sheriff.”

“Then why are you looking for John?”

“It’s a personal matter.”

“Sure. Well, I’ll tell you just what I told the sheriff. I haven’t seen John for four days, I don’t know anything about what he did last night, and I don’t have any idea where he is now. All right?”

“Could I come and talk to you?”

“What for?”

“I want to know more about John and his kids and his wife. And I’d like to meet you.”

There was a moment of silence from the other end. Then, sounding puzzled, Joyce said, “What’s your interest in this? Who are you working for?”

“Myself. And a little girl named Cindy.”

There was another moment of silence, then she asked, “Where are you calling from?”

“I’m at the phone booth in Dunes.”

“I live a mile west of town. It’s a green frame house.”

“I’ll be right out.”

I hung up and stepped out of the booth as a blue pickup cruised by. I seemed to remember passing a green frame house outside of town. I got in the car and headed in that direction.

Finding the house was no trouble. It sat right beside the highway, behind a neat little yard that was surrounded by a chain-link fence. I pulled in the driveway.

Joyce McCormick met me at the front door. When I stepped up onto the front porch, I could tell that she was a tall woman, her eyes nearly on a level with mine. She was about thirty-five and wore her hair cut short. It was a pretty shade of brown. I got the feeling that her mouth was capable of a very nice smile, but right now it was set in a tight, stem line.

“You’re Mr. Markham?” she asked.

“That’s right.”

“Come in.”

I followed her into the house. She was wearing blue jeans and a man’s shirt and making them look good on her.

“Sit down.” She gestured at an overstuffed armchair. I took it while she sat on a small sofa. She went on, “Just what is it you’d like to know?”

“I guess you heard what John Wheeler did last night?”

“I know what he’s supposed to have done.”

“You don’t think he’s, capable of robbing his father-in-law and kidnapping his children?”