The Anonymous Client

“What?” Mark Taylor exclaimed.

Steve swung the safe door wide open so they could see. “The ten thousand dollars is gone. Look. It’s empty.”

Tracy and Mark crowded around the safe to look. Of course, there was nothing to see. The safe was empty.

“Son of a bitch!” Taylor said.

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Mark, look. Run down and get your fingerprint kit, will you?”

Taylor looked at him. “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

“Yeah. Go on. Get the stuff.”

Taylor returned with the kit and dusted powder on the combination of the safe.

“Christ, Steve, its lousy with prints.”

“Most of them will be mine. You want to take my prints so you can eliminate them?”

“I don’t think I need to. I’ve got Bradshaw’s prints here. I figure one match is all we need.”

Taylor busied himself with his work. Tracy stuck like glue, looking over his shoulder. Steve sat at his desk and buried his face in the drama section of the New York Times. As he read, he could hear Mark Taylor giving an impromptu lecture on the art of matching fingerprints.

Five minutes stretched to ten. Steve moved on to the Sports section. In the background, Tracy was now throwing around terms like “whorl” and “tented arch.”

“Got it, Steve!”

Winslow folded the paper and stood up. “You sure?”

“Eighteen points of similarity. That’s a positive identification. It’s Bradshaw’s right thumb.”

“Well, thank god for that,” Steve said. “I was certain it was Bradshaw, but the way this case has been breaking, I wouldn’t have been that surprised if it wasn’t.”

“Yeah, but what’s up?” Taylor said. “Why would Bradshaw send you a retainer and then steal it back?”

“Beats me.” Steve got up and started pacing. “Christ, what a goofy case. Yesterday I had a retainer and no client, and today I have a client and no retainer.”

“Personally, I liked it better the first way,” Taylor said.

Steve sighed. “All right, Mark. Call off your men. Bradshaw’s given us a retainer and now he’s taken it back. I don’t know why he did it, but I don’t care. The hell with him.”

Mark Taylor nodded. He couldn’t have agreed more.

But Tracy Garvin couldn’t have agreed less.

9

Tracy Garvin sat and stewed. Wasn’t that just her luck. The whole thing had been too good to be true. It figured that just when things got to be interesting, something would come up to spoil it. And didn’t it just figure that that something would be named Steve Winslow?

Tracy could understand why he’d done it. It was frustrating that Bradshaw had taken his money back. And Tracy could understand Steve not wanting to work for nothing.

But still.

As she sat at her desk with nothing to do, Tracy’s mind wandered away from Winslow and Bradshaw and her job, and back to the problems that had been obsessing her before the whole Bradshaw thing started. What to do now? She’d given notice, and she needed a job. When was she going to look, on her lunch hour? Damn. Why the hell’d she thrown out the Sunday Times. That was stupid. Didn’t she want to get a job?

She realized, of course, the answer was no. Who likes looking for work? Getting a job was one of the worst experiences in the world.

But it was more than that. She didn’t really want this job to end. She didn’t really want to quit, to give up, to admit it was hopeless.

But there was no help for it. Two more weeks. She’d have to find something fast. Her lease was up in three months, which meant a rent increase. And she was just getting by now. She couldn’t afford to miss even a week of work. Then she’d really be in trouble. She might even have to take in a roommate. In a one-bedroom apartment, that meant giving up the living room. And sharing the bath. And the bathroom was off her bedroom, not off the hall. Which meant her roommate would have to come tromping through her room every time she wanted to use it. Jesus, what a nightmare. What a hell of a-

Tracy’s thoughts were interrupted by the plop of the mail falling through the slot. She looked up. Two letters were lying on the floor by the door. Two. Wow. Big day. Tracy got up from her desk and plodded mechanically over to pick up the mail.

Steve Winslow looked up from his paper when Tracy Garvin appeared at the door. He figured that she was just reaffirming the fact that she had given notice, and was ready with some sarcastic comment, but the look on her face stopped him.

“What is it?” he said.

Tracy held out a letter. “Another one.”

“Another letter?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t tell me there’s another retainer.”

“There is.”

Tracy handed Steve the envelope. He reached in and pulled out the torn half of a dollar bill.

“Son of a bitch,” Winslow said.

“There’s a letter with it.”

“Don’t tell me,” Steve said. “This is my change from the ten grand, right?”

“Not quite.”

Steve pulled out the letter, opened it, and read it aloud.

“Dear Mr. Winslow: I realize that my first letter failed to establish any means by which I could prove my identity. Enclosed find half of a dollar bill. In the event that I am in need of your services, I will present you with the other half of the bill. In the meantime, please remember that this is a matter requiring the utmost tact and delicacy.”

Steve looked at Tracy. “Jesus Christ.”

Tracy eyes were gleaming. “Yeah. Why would Bradshaw send you that letter?”

Steve shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense. First Bradshaw sends me a retainer. Second, Bradshaw steals the retainer from my safe. Third, Bradshaw sends me the letter.”

“Maybe it’s the other way around.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe he sent the letter before he took the money back.”

“The letter is postmarked today.”

“That’s true, but he could have mailed it yesterday. He might have dropped it in a mailbox, and the mail wasn’t picked up until today.”

Steve shook his head. “He was in my office at three-thirty in the afternoon. If he’d mailed the letter before then, it would have been picked up. And he wouldn’t have mailed it after he’d been to see me.”

Tracy frowned. “I see the point. But that’s what he must have done.”

“All right, then we come back to why.”

Tracy shook her head. “You’ve got me. There’s no reason on earth why he would send that letter.”

“Exactly,” Steve said. “If he stole the money, he wouldn’t have sent the letter. And we know he stole the money.”

“So who sent the letter?”

Steve sighed. “How the hell should I know? All right, Tracy, take this letter down to Mark Taylor and tell him