Blue Lonesome Read Online Free

play.”
    “Then it’s a closed case.”
    “Except as far as the money is concerned. That went into an escrow account in case a relative shows up and puts in a claim. Minus whatever it costs to bury or cremate her remains.”
    Messenger said, “And if nobody claims the balance after seven years, it goes to the state.”
    “How did you—Oh, right, you’re a CPA.”
    “If it really was her money, it should go to her family.”
    “Sure, assuming she had a family. But the way it looks now, we’ll never know.”
    “I guess you’re right. The way it looks now we never will.”

3
    H E WAS AN hour late getting back to work. Not that it mattered; no one said anything to him about it. After fourteen years with Sitwell & Cobb, he had a certain amount of leeway where his time was concerned. It didn’t make any difference to Harvey Sitwell where the work got done, office or home, or how much time it took to do it as long as an employee kept his billable hours up. In that respect, and in terms of base loyalty to his people, Sitwell was a good man to work for. The problem was that he was tightfisted and inflexible in his opinions. Prying an annual raise out of him was always a chore; and once he’d made up his mind where you fitted in the office pecking order, that was where you stayed. It had taken Messenger five struggling years to find out that his slot was somewhere in the middle, and that no matter how hard he worked, no matter what he did, he’d still be in that same slot in ten, twenty, thirty years.
    More than once, early on, he’d thought about leaving the firm and hooking up with another that offered a better chance for advancement. But he’d never quite gotten around to doing it, and now he no longer even considered the idea. Apathy, sure, but it was apathy motivated by complacency. The job here was secure; he got along well with Sitwell and with his fellow wage slaves; his salary was more than adequate for his modest needs; and his annual vacation time was three weeks, plus odd days here and there whenever he finished an account ahead of schedule. It was only once in a great while—like today—that he chafed at the job, that his little slot seemed too tight, too confining, and he yearned for something more. Or at least for something different.
    He found that he was having trouble concentrating. His mind kept shifting gears, replaying his conversations with the coroner’s clerk and Inspector Del Carlo. The fourteen thousand dollars bothered him the most. Whether it was legally Ms. Lonesome’s or not, and where she’d gotten it. If there was somebody somewhere who was entitled to it, who needed it far more than the state of California, and soon.
    At four-fifteen he quit trying to work and packed the Sanderson tax account into his briefcase. He’d get his head into the figures at home later, with the aid of Kenton and Dizzy Gillespie.
    “Leaving early, Jimmy?”
    He looked up. Phil Engstrom. Fellow wage slave; slot or two higher than his but also not going anywhere. Thin, bald, and determinedly optimistic. His best friend in the office.
    “Might as well,” he said. “I can’t seem to concentrate this afternoon.”
    “Anything wrong?”
    “No. Just one of those days.”
    “You need a vacation, son. Still have two weeks, right?”
    “Right. End of October.”
    “Made up your mind yet where you’re going?”
    “Not yet, no. Hawaii, maybe—if I can afford it.”
    “Good choice. Plenty of eligible women in the islands. And I don’t just mean one-night stands.”
    “Sure.”
    “Speaking of which,” Phil said, “what’re you doing tomorrow night?”
    “Friday?”
    “Friday. Start of the weekend. Any plans?”
    “No, no plans. Why?”
    “How’d you like to go to a party with Jeanne and me?”
    “Oh, hell, Phil …”
    “Now don’t say no until you’ve heard the particulars. Jeanne’s brother, Tom, is an artist, remember? Well, he just sold one of his paintings through the Fenner Gallery