Denton - 01 - Dead Folks' Blues Read Online Free

we’re still married. In name, anyway.”
    Her focus dropped to the floor. I decided to sit and wait for ter to continue. Finally, she did. “Harry, I know things haven’t always been that easy for us.”
    “No worries.” I grinned at her as I spoke. “I’ve always prided myself on being a gracious loser.”
    She looked up quickly. “You weren’t a loser, Harry. You’ve never been a loser. I never thought you were.” Her head drifted to the right, her sadness a weight pulling her down. “I’ve just made some mistakes in my life.”
    I suddenly felt sorry for her, the first time in years I’d felt anything at all for her. And I was surprised to see it was that. But there was something about her, despite the great looks, the obvious wealth and health, and all the other accoutrements, that was downright pitiable. I wanted to reach across the desk and touch her, but knew that was probably the worst thing I could do.
    “What is it, Rachel? Why are you here?”
    She opened her bag, a small silver clutch, and withdrew a pack of cigarettes, the long, skinny kind with blue and red flowers intertwined on the paper. Her hand shook as she took out a disposable butane lighter in a gold case and lit the cigarette.
    “It’s Connie,” she began, after taking a good long pull on the smoke. “He’s gotten himself into some trouble. I’m terribly worried about him.”
    “When’d you start those?” I gathered from her glare that she considered the question inappropriate.
    “What kind of trouble?” I asked, trying to extricate myself.
    She hesitated, self-consciously lifting her hand to take another drag off the cigarette. “He’s been gambling again. Heavily, I’m afraid. Apparently he’s into somebody for a lot of money. He’s getting threatening phone calls, letters.”
    I fought the urge to smile. I remembered Dr. ConradFletcher as a smug, conceited, privileged jerk. Somehow, seeing him up to his keister in bookie reptiles was at the very least amusing, at the very most downright pleasurable.
    “I tried to call you at the paper,” she continued. “Just to see if you had any advice. They told me you were no longer employed there.”
    “Diplomats. Actually, Rachel, I was fired. Booted out on my ass.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “I’m not.”
    “Anyway, someone on the desk gave me your phone number and address. I had no idea you’d become a—”
    “Private investigator?” I said, grinning. “Yeah, sounds a little goofy to me, too.”
    Rachel smiled back, the first real one she’d cracked since she sat down. “I decided to come see you in a professional capacity, rather than just an old friend asking for advice.”
    “What kind of letters and phone calls are we talking about here?”
    She opened up the purse again, took out a torn-open envelope. Cheap paper, available at any drugstore, electric typewriter, no return address, mailed from a downtown zip code. The note inside read:
    Fletcher:
Your account is seriously overdue. You’re going to settle up within 24 hours or we’re going to turn you over to our collections staff. You won’t find that very pleasant.
    Simple, straightforward, to the point. I’d written some articles in my time that had generated unhappy letters, a few of them threatening. The rule around the newspaper office was that the ones that ranted and raved and threatened to cut your gonads off were the ones you could laugh about over a beer. The calm, serious, understated ones were the ones you kept and reread over and over in your dreams, the ones that make you wake up in a cold sweat.
    This one was definitely a keeper.
    “The letter came in yesterday’s mail. I opened it by accident; Connie gets furious when I open his mail, but I just wasn’t paying attention.”
    “Have you shown it to him?”
    Her eyes rolled. “Oh, God, no. He’d throw a fit. He’s got a terrible temper, you know.”
    “And the phone calls?”
    “Just two. One about a week ago. One this