Read Online 3 Strange Bedfellows by Matt Witten - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Matt Witten
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the door on me.
What was going on here? Was Ducky's wife really the Hack's secretary? But why? Obviously they didn't need the money.
Between Linda Medwick and Susan Tamarack, I was dealing with two very puzzling women. I walked back to my Toyota, annoyed at having no one around to answer my questions. One unfortunate reality of detective work is that in order to do an interrogation properly, it helps to have someone to interrogate. It's not like writing, where you can just go off by yourself and do your thing.
I resolved to wait in my car until Ducky came home. Of course, Linda might notice and call the cops on me, but I'd cross that bridge when I came to it.
I waited thirty minutes, until 9:45, when a car finally pulled up in Ducky's driveway. It still wasn't Ducky, though. He must be off at some late-night, cigar-filled political meeting. A gangly preteen boy hopped out of the backseat carrying a basketball, and said good night to the woman who was driving. Yet another bleached blonde, I noted. What's this world coming to? " 'Night, Terry. Good game," she told him, and zoomed off.
Terry aimed a jump shot at the basketball hoop in the driveway, getting a satisfying swish. Then he bounced the ball up the path toward the front door. I jumped out of my car and intercepted him.
"Excuse me, Terry," I called out.
He grabbed the basketball, pulling it tight to his body, and froze. I could practically hear his brain cells screaming, "Don't talk to strangers!"
"I didn't want to bother your mom this late," I said casually. "Do you know where I can find your dad?"
Terry had an open, honest face. In his confused eleven-year-old eyes, I could see "Don't talk to strangers" warring with "Be polite."
I felt like some kind of evil child mol ester, but I continued on. "It's just that your dad wanted me to give him something. For tomorrow's vote in the Senate."
Finally Terry spoke. "Dad's not home," he said. His voice broke a little on the last word, and a twinge of sadness crossed his face. What was that all about?
"Is he at a meeting? I could just go and give him this thing."
"No, he's at a hotel."
Huh? "Which hotel?"
"Holiday Inn. In Halfmoon. He's been there since Sunday."
Then, as if afraid he'd already said too much, Terry hurried away and let himself in the front door.
The Holiday Inn in Halfmoon, fifteen miles north of Albany, was no doubt a hot spot for traveling salesmen on their way up I-87 to Plattsburgh or Montreal. But it wasn't exactly a place where you'd expect to find the majority leader of the New York State Senate fluffing his pillow.
Maybe that was the point, though. Maybe he didn't want anyone to find him.
Myself, I got lucky. I didn't have to bribe someone for a waiter's uniform and then sneak up to Ducky's room pretending to be room service in order to get hold of him. He was right downstairs in the hotel bar, sitting all by himself in the corner with a glass of amber liquid in his hand. Two other lone wolves sat in other corners with glasses in their hands, and behind the bar a chubby, dimwit-looking bartender yawned. B.J. Thomas's voice came over some tinny speakers, warbling about raindrops falling on your head. The television set was showing a commercial about how you can reverse hair loss.
But Ducky, bald though he was, ignored the commercial. He was ignoring everything except his glass. He sat there staring at it mindlessly as he swirled his drink around and around. I felt sorry for him. I was almost tempted to walk out and let the man suffer in peace.
Then Ducky looked up. His bleary eyes recognized me, and instantly his drunkenness seemed to fall away. He straightened his back, his eyes flashed, and he became once again the man I'd seen on the TV news so many times over the years, b lasting away at governors, Democrats, criminals, and whoever else was unlucky enough to arouse his fury. He got the ironic nickname "Ducky" not because he resembled that friendly, waddling creature, but because
What was going on here? Was Ducky's wife really the Hack's secretary? But why? Obviously they didn't need the money.
Between Linda Medwick and Susan Tamarack, I was dealing with two very puzzling women. I walked back to my Toyota, annoyed at having no one around to answer my questions. One unfortunate reality of detective work is that in order to do an interrogation properly, it helps to have someone to interrogate. It's not like writing, where you can just go off by yourself and do your thing.
I resolved to wait in my car until Ducky came home. Of course, Linda might notice and call the cops on me, but I'd cross that bridge when I came to it.
I waited thirty minutes, until 9:45, when a car finally pulled up in Ducky's driveway. It still wasn't Ducky, though. He must be off at some late-night, cigar-filled political meeting. A gangly preteen boy hopped out of the backseat carrying a basketball, and said good night to the woman who was driving. Yet another bleached blonde, I noted. What's this world coming to? " 'Night, Terry. Good game," she told him, and zoomed off.
Terry aimed a jump shot at the basketball hoop in the driveway, getting a satisfying swish. Then he bounced the ball up the path toward the front door. I jumped out of my car and intercepted him.
"Excuse me, Terry," I called out.
He grabbed the basketball, pulling it tight to his body, and froze. I could practically hear his brain cells screaming, "Don't talk to strangers!"
"I didn't want to bother your mom this late," I said casually. "Do you know where I can find your dad?"
Terry had an open, honest face. In his confused eleven-year-old eyes, I could see "Don't talk to strangers" warring with "Be polite."
I felt like some kind of evil child mol ester, but I continued on. "It's just that your dad wanted me to give him something. For tomorrow's vote in the Senate."
Finally Terry spoke. "Dad's not home," he said. His voice broke a little on the last word, and a twinge of sadness crossed his face. What was that all about?
"Is he at a meeting? I could just go and give him this thing."
"No, he's at a hotel."
Huh? "Which hotel?"
"Holiday Inn. In Halfmoon. He's been there since Sunday."
Then, as if afraid he'd already said too much, Terry hurried away and let himself in the front door.
The Holiday Inn in Halfmoon, fifteen miles north of Albany, was no doubt a hot spot for traveling salesmen on their way up I-87 to Plattsburgh or Montreal. But it wasn't exactly a place where you'd expect to find the majority leader of the New York State Senate fluffing his pillow.
Maybe that was the point, though. Maybe he didn't want anyone to find him.
Myself, I got lucky. I didn't have to bribe someone for a waiter's uniform and then sneak up to Ducky's room pretending to be room service in order to get hold of him. He was right downstairs in the hotel bar, sitting all by himself in the corner with a glass of amber liquid in his hand. Two other lone wolves sat in other corners with glasses in their hands, and behind the bar a chubby, dimwit-looking bartender yawned. B.J. Thomas's voice came over some tinny speakers, warbling about raindrops falling on your head. The television set was showing a commercial about how you can reverse hair loss.
But Ducky, bald though he was, ignored the commercial. He was ignoring everything except his glass. He sat there staring at it mindlessly as he swirled his drink around and around. I felt sorry for him. I was almost tempted to walk out and let the man suffer in peace.
Then Ducky looked up. His bleary eyes recognized me, and instantly his drunkenness seemed to fall away. He straightened his back, his eyes flashed, and he became once again the man I'd seen on the TV news so many times over the years, b lasting away at governors, Democrats, criminals, and whoever else was unlucky enough to arouse his fury. He got the ironic nickname "Ducky" not because he resembled that friendly, waddling creature, but because
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