Secret Dead Men

Susa

I'm sure she had been saving this for the right moment. Both Paul and Richard did the exact same thing: lowered their drinks and averted their eyes, as if ashamed for the entire male sex.

“Oh, he made such a fuss about apologizing, blaming the drink, his frustrations with being unknown. But nothing could explain away the act. The first chance I had, I ran to a nearby diner and called my father to beg his forgiveness and ask for train fare home. But my mother answered. It turned out I was too late."

“He came looking for you?” asked Richard.

“No. He'd already dropped dead from a stroke."

Susa

“When I arrived home, I found my mother had pulled a Sylvia Plath."

Paul and Richard said nothing. They lowered their heads even further.

“But then I discovered Dad had forgiven me, in his own way. Weeks after I'd told him I was staying in New York, he had his will changed, and I soon discovered I was a half-million dollars richer."

“That was all he had left?” Paul asked. “For an inventor of something as important as…” He faked a pause, as if struggling to remember. He was trying to make her give away an extra detail.

It didn't work. “No, that was all,” Susa

“The guilt must have been awful,” Richard said.

Thank God I wasn't the one conducting this case. I couldn't imagine spending any more than 20 minutes with this drama queen.

Paul said, “And you took the money."

Susa

“Was that necessary, Mr. After?” asked Richard.

“I'm sorry if I offended either one of you,” Paul said. “I'm simply trying to establish motive.” He looked directly at Susa

“No,” said Susa

“Then who's after you?"

“Oh,” she said, then laughed to herself. “You thought the man after me was… him? Please. No, no, Mr. After, I didn't have Richard bring you all the way from Los Angeles to protect me from a scummy painter boy. We've hired you to protect me from a professional killer."

Boy, I thought. Professional killers were everywhere this time of year.

“Come again?” Paul asked.

“Of course, I didn't know he was a pro at the time. He was all fancy French wines and exotic meals at first. He told me he was an international banker. Only later did I realize his most recent target was an international banker. That's how he knew so much about the lifestyle. He was-is-a professional chameleon."

“What's his name?"

“The name he used? Roger Adams. I'm sure it's fake."

Paul took the opportunity to stand up. I was suddenly thrown off by the sudden change of perspective. Even flashed up on the screen of the hotel lobby, sudden motion always gave me a touch of vertigo.

“Ms. Winston, can you tell me anything about the daily schedule of this Adams? I happen to know a great deal about these types of men…"

Understatement of the year!

“…and it would help to understand his habits."

“I didn't see him often enough to learn a routine. You see, I've been traveling for a while. I mean, was. Travel brought me to Philadelphia, and to Richard."

The sap smiled as if this was some sort of personal achievement.

“Right after my parents died, I decided I wanted to see the world. I met Roger months later, in Paris, while I was staying in a small artists’ tenement. The rent was cheap, and the conversations-the ones I understood at least-were phenomenal. Everyone I met was either a novelist, or a painter, or graphic designer…"

Was there a pistol in this hotel lobby? I asked myself. Can I put myself out of my misery now?

She went on at length about the wonders of café life, and how she was completely bedazzled by the Great and Powerful Roger Adams, and what they ate for di

“And you saw him only once in Paris?"

“Yes, but we met up many, many times after. He traveled a lot on business and I found myself tagging along. It was fun and it gave my traveling a kind of purpose. I felt alive again. Until reality reared its ugly head."

“When did you first realize?” Paul asked.

“When I found the gun in his suitcase, and the dossier."

Ah. Now here's where Ms. Winston was tripping herself up. And I didn't need Paul's expertise to know it. Pro killers didn't carry a pistol, singular; they carried a portable arsenal. Knives, clips, guns, poisons, knucks, the works. And a dossier? Yeah. Unless it's tattooed onto their lower intestine for emergency reference, all the pros I've encountered never kept written info on their person. It was memorized, or locked away in a safe location.

Of course, Paul knew it too. I could sense him smirking. “A dossier?"

“Yes. Photographs, addresses, social security records-everything."

Paul nodded. “Where were you when you made this discovery?"

“In Dublin. I'd been dying to go ever since I read Portraits of the Artists as Young Men. I've long loved Joyce-and art history. Especially the chapter about Picasso."

“Ah, yes,” Paul said. “It's a classic."

My God. Who the hell did she think she was fooling? One look at Richard Gard supplied my answer. Gard wouldn't know James Joyce from a Rolls Royce.

Then again, I wondered if Paul would.

Susa

Richard Gard suddenly spoke up. He'd probably been dying to talk for the past ten minutes. “And that's when you found the gun."

“And the dossier,” Paul added.

“Yes.” Susa

Richard actually winced.

“It was Roger, of course. I slid the files back into his briefcase and nudged the briefcase off the side of the bed, praying it wouldn't make too loud a noise, or flip over and spill its contents. But thankfully, it didn't. Just one thump, which the sound of the door closing again completely covered.