Rafferty's Rules: A Rafferty P.I. Mystery Read online

  George sounded like he was building a nest in his fancy case.

  “Okay,” I said. “They sold her. Tell me the rest of it.”

  “Yes,” he said behind the case. “To five men on motorcycles. She was missing for ten months.” He surfaced, still blinking, avoiding my eyes. He carefully selected files from the case and stacked them in the center of the table. The stack was extremely neat. “Eventually, they abandoned her in a state park near Daingerfield,” he said. “She was, uh, not well at the time.”

  A new voice said, “My husband finds this difficult to discuss, Mr Rafferty. You’ll have to forgive him.” Mrs Mollison slipped into the chair next to George and put her left hand over his. With her free hand, she ground a cigarette butt into the big ashtray like she wanted to push it through the table.

  “Hi,” I said. “Been a long time.”

  She nodded. “Thank you for coming.”

  Marge Mollison was tall and slender and vaguely antiseptic in her tennis whites. Her blue eyes were clear, and her sharp white teeth were perfect, and her skin was smooth for a woman of her age.

  Still, she was flawed. The problem wasn’t her component parts; it was the way the package was assembled. Her face was oddly narrow. It had too many angles and not enough flesh. She had no hips. Her feet were surprisingly large. And she wore her hair very short, like a brown furry helmet. The hair style didn’t suit her. Or then again, maybe it did.

  “Vivian was worse than ‘not well’,” Marge said calmly. “She was thirty pounds underweight, malnourished, and anemic. Her mind had been affected, probably by prolonged drug abuse. In addition, she had a raging case of gonorrhea and, we have since discovered, genital herpes.”

  “Well,” I said, “we’re finally getting to the point here. How is Vivian now?”

  Marge shrugged. “Physically, much better. Mentally, it appears she may never recover from the drug effects. Doctor Rogerson, her psychologist, is not optimistic, at any rate. Apparently, those men kept her high continually.”

  “Does she act normal? Or does she just sit around and drool?”

  George winced.

  “Look,” I said, “if you want dry medical watermelon talk, listen to her shrink. If you want maudlin sympathy, try the country club bar. You didn’t ask me here for that sort of thing.”

  Marge Mollison nodded. She squeezed her husband’s hand and said to me, “Vivian is lucid about a third of the time. Even then, she confuses dates and cannot remember if a specific event happened yesterday or five years ago. Her attention span is very short.” Marge sighed. “As you saw, her approach to life is disgustingly basic. When we first got her back, she ate with her hands and had to be reminded to change clothes. Her personal habits were horrible. She would urinate wherever she happened to be, rather than walk to a bathroom. Fortunately, she is almost back to normal in that respect.”

  “This Rogerson quack,” I said. “Does he think the mental and behavioral problems come from what those clowns did to her?”

  “Yes, he does,” said Marge. “George made a copy of his report. You may read it.”

  “I am easily bored by twelve syllable Latin derivatives. Tell me what you think it says.”

  She said, “Basically, Doctor Rogerson believes her self-esteem has been destroyed. Those men treated her as an object, a thing. After months of that treatment—while constantly drugged—Vivian has no feeling of self-worth. She considers herself valueless.”

  “Has she identified the men?”

  George cleared his throat and gestured at the stack of files. “It’s all in here,” he said.

  I puffed smoke at the sky and waited for them to ask.

  Rafferty’s Rule Number Eight: The client has to say out loud what he wants me to do.

  “I want you to find them, Rafferty,” George said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “When you do,” Marge said, “I want you to kill them.”

  “No. I don’t do that kind of work.”

  “Rafferty,” she said, “those men used Vivian. They infected her and they threw her away like a … like a used contraceptive. They stole her self-respect. They do not deserve to live.”

  “Probably not. Helluva shame I’m not in the vengeance business.”

  Marge folded her arms across her chest and glared at me. Somehow I managed to hold up under the pressure. I’m so tough it surprises me at times.

  “What makes you think you can find them?" asked George. “The police—”

  “The police won’t do much about a missing adult. You probably found that out when you first reported her missing. And if they couldn’t find her in ten months, they won’t find the men who had her. Not if she’s as lousy a witness as Marge says. And, when cops know they don’t have a solid court case, they tend to lose interest.”

  Marge fished a pack of Virginia Slims and a gold lighter out of her tennis skirt. She fired up and said, “And you can do these things better than the police?”

  “That’s why I’m so all-fired effective, ma’am.”

  “You’re not funny.”

  “Maybe not. But I’m good; the best you’ll find. If you want this done, you need me.”

  “I want it done,” she said, “and I want them dead, not out on bail because of some legal loophole. Dead!”

  “Here’s the best I can offer you,” I said. “If I can’t bring them in any other way, I’ll leave the bodies on the doorstep so you can gloat over them. Those I don’t have to kill—well, you have plenty of money. You can buy publicity and politicians. You can force the cops to take an active interest if I deliver the bikers on a platter.”

  George shook his head. “I don’t remember you being so … so sour.”

  “Long time ago. I was young then. I thought the system worked.” I knocked the ashes out of my pipe into the ashtray. Good ashtray, that one. Solid.

  Marge took a deep angry drag on her Virginia Slim. George spread his hands vaguely. “How much money do you want?” he asked. “Two hundred dollars a day? Isn’t that usual?”

  “You watch Magnum and The Rockford Files, do you? Sorry, but this isn’t a daily rate kind of job. Let’s say three thousand apiece. That’s fifteen for all five of them. Plus expenses. There might be some traveling involved.”

  Marge sniffed. “You don’t look as if you’ve ever seen fifteen thousand dollars at one time.”

  “Hope springs eternal,” I said. “Poor boy makes good. Besides, there’s Rafferty’s Rule Number Five: If a client can afford it, he—or she—pays top dollar.”

  George found a business card in his attache case, put it on top of the files, and pushed the stack toward me. “My attorney’s card,” he said. “He’ll give you a check for whatever you need.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Now, Vivian doesn’t sound like she can tell me much about those clowns, but I should talk to her.”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” Marge said. “She doesn’t relate to men very well.”

  “Violent?”

  “No. That would be better,” she said. “The problem is that Vivian was used as a sexual object for so long she now has a distorted view of relationships, however casual. She automatically offers herself to any man who approaches her.”

  George closed his eyes and turned his head away.

  “I’m a big boy, Marge,” I said. “I can be so honorable it hurts.”

  “It’s not that,” she said. “Meeting men puts Vivian back in her recovery. And it wouldn’t help you to talk to her, Rafferty, believe me. Even George can’t get anywhere with her. When he gave her a birthday present last month, she fondled him.”

  George lurched out of his chair and stumbled a dozen steps down his perfect lawn. He stood with his back to us and his head bowed.

  Marge showed me out.

  In the long circular driveway, my old Mustang leaned against the brick-edging and quietly rusted in the sunlight. I wondered idly if the neighborhood Mercedes and Volvos would come around later to sniff the gravel like territoria
l dogs.

  Marge fired up another cigarette while we stood on the front steps. She tilted her head and squinted through the smoke. “Why don’t we say five thousand apiece,” she said, “but only for the dead ones?”

  “No, thanks. By the way, did you know certain Indian tribes always gave their prisoners to the squaws? They thought the women were better at torture.”

  “I didn’t know that,” she said, “but it’s a wonderful idea.”

  Chapter 3

  I parked the Mustang in a lot on McKinney, locked Mollison’s files in the trunk, then walked two blocks up and one over, to the only antique shop I liked.

  Gardner’s Antiques had fifty feet of sidewalk frontage, plate glass windows on each side of the door and tasteful gold lettering with elaborate serifs. All the items in the display windows had four-figure price tags.

  A salesman spotted me three steps inside the front door and flounced over on an interception course. He had a purple silk shirt, no hips, and a supercilious look. “May I help you, sir?” he said. He didn’t seem overwhelmed by the idea.

  He caught me in front of a massive old sideboard. It was dark and heavy. It smelled of fresh polish. It had a maple top roughly the size of an aircraft carrier’s night deck. I thumped the glossy wood with my fist. The sideboard didn’t even tremble. Purple Shirt smiled nervously.

  “Yep,” I said. “This might do.”

  “Oh?” he said tentatively. “It is a beautiful piece, isn’t it? Early Victorian, of course, with a marvelous patina.”

  “If you say so. See, I need a new workbench for the garage. With storage space. I figure I could keep my tools in these drawers and put paint and stuff down below.”

  “Sir, this piece is—”

  I slapped the sideboard again, harder this time. Purple Shirt jumped. “Do you think it’s strong enough for me to bolt a vise on here?" I said. “And maybe put the bench grinder over there?” I whacked it again. My palm stung. “Hell, it’ll do, I suppose. Will you take fifty bucks for it?”

  His mouth twisted. “I get it now,” he said. “You‘re Rafferty. She warned me about you.”

  “And you’re new.” I formed my right hand into a mock pistol, flipped my thumb down, and shot him between the eyes. “Gotcha! Where’s Hilda?”

  “In the back.” He minced away.

  It was always fun when Hilda hired new salesmen.

  As Purple Shirt had promised, Hilda was in her office, plying the antique trade. In this case, the process consisted of frowning through half-moon reading glasses at an iridescent glass tumbler. Hilda compared the glass to glossy photos in a coffee-table-sized book. She didn’t notice me in the doorway.

  Hilda wore a severely tailored black suit; one of her hard-nosed business-lady outfits. Having some experience in the matter, I knew her underwear might be any color but would contrast sharply with the stark suit.

  Hilda was like that; full of fascinating contradictions. Generally, she was calm and self-assured, as laid-back as a sleepy cat. Even then you could sense her latent energy.

  Her driver’s license said late thirties; her pale clear skin hinted at twenty-two.

  Hilda’s eyes were dark; coal-black at first glance. Up close—breath-mingling close—there were tiny flecks of color visible. I could never pin down exactly what those colors were, but they were there.

  Hilda had a mop of errant dark hair that looked un-combed. It had been combed—she was enough of a lady to work at it—but she managed to do without those gawd-awful plastic curlers that populate the supermarkets.

  People who knew us both said I was lucky to be involved with Hilda. They were right.

  She frowned again, inverted the glass tumbler, and peered at the bottom of it.

  “McDonald’s, circa 1978,” I said. “Somebody put it in the dishwasher and the decals came off.”

  “Peasant,” she said. “What would you know?” She flipped the big book shut, carefully put the glass on a table near her desk, and stood up to be kissed.

  We made a proper job of it. When we finally broke, she grinned up at me. “You missed me,” she said.

  “You bet, gorgeous. How was your trip?”

  “Not bad,” she said. “I got a nice Victorian blanket chest in the furniture lot. And some fair glassware, including that tumbler. I’m sure it’s Tiffany, even though he didn’t sign it.”

  “Damned inconsiderate of old Louis Comfort.”

  “Well, well. You’re learning.”

  “I know a broad who’s in the business. She teaches me things.”

  “I see. Some old harridan, I suppose.”

  “No. She’s not a bad looker, now that I think about it. Black, black hair that fluffs out around her face. Great legs, too, and a cute little mole to the left of—”

  “Rafferty,” Hilda said sternly, “if you’re trying to turn me on, you’re out of luck. I cannot get away this afternoon. Honestly. Tonight, well, if you play your cards right …”

  “You won’t be able to miss me. I’ll be under a cold shower. Hey, babe, I’m working, too, for a change. I’ll be busy today myself.”

  “Are you walking around with that jewelery salesman again or is this something interesting?”

  “Sad is a better word than interesting, I think. I’ll tell you about it tonight.”

  “Okay,” said Hilda. She squeezed my hand. “I missed you, Ugly. It seemed like longer than five days.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It certainly did.”

  T. L. Dermott had a plush office near the top of Bryan Tower. He also had a florid, unhealthy complexion and a protective attitude about the Mollisons.

  “Mr Rafferty,” he said solemnly, “I must tell you I advised George and Margaret not to pursue such an ill-advised adventure.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes,” he went on, “it is. Unfortunately, they have decided not to heed that advice.”

  “Wow, that’s good news. I was terribly nervous for a minute there.”

  Dermott pursed his thick lips. “Mr Rafferty, understand me. I like to think I am a Mollison family friend as well as their attorney. They have been brutalized by Vivian’s experience. I simply do not believe prolonging that horror will help them.”

  I shrugged. “You may be right. Since your objection is philosophical, I assume you aren’t going to haggle about the money, then?”

  “Of course not. It’s their money. Besides, a few dollars for your expenses will hardly be missed.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said. “So where did Mollison make all his dough, anyway? Way back when, he wasn’t well heeled.”

  Dermott nodded. “True. George was—is—an electronics engineer, you know. Actually, that understates the case. The man is technically brilliant. He developed a super-efficient microchip.” Dermott shrugged dismissively. “Of course, new technology crops up fairly often these days. There is no shortage of gifted designers. But George went a step further. He developed a manufacturing process to produce his unique microchip. And—most important of all—that process was patentable. Today, seventy-four percent of all microprocessor manufacturers use the Mollison process.”

  “I read somewhere the bottom is falling out of the small computer market. Again.”

  “All markets fluctuate, Mr Rafferty. If one or two firms go out of business, well, so what? They will be replaced by others who will need the Mollison process. Or existing firms will absorb their share of the marketplace. Meanwhile, the Mollisons’ cash flow from royalty income is substantial.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Hmm? Oh, their home. I arranged a rather attractive short-term mortgage on that property. We shoved most of the interest into the first year. Nice income off-set while we structured the rest of the portfolio.”

  I said, “You’re the financial planning whiz kid, I assume.”

  Dermott smiled modestly. “I deserve some of the credit, yes. The Mollisons were rather unsophisticated, financially, but George had good instincts. He knew when
to rely on expert help. I assembled a very talented group of tax people and investment advisers. We then devised a program to continually roll the royalty income over into investments. Aside from the Highland Park home, the first acquisitions were evenly divided between long-range security and income-producing items, although lately, I have— Well, it’s no concern of yours, is it?”

  “No,” I said. “Poor old George. Must be a rough way to live.”

  Dermott said gently, “When you put Vivian’s condition into the equation, it is, in fact, a strange existence for them. They have a lovely home, a magnificent income, and an abundance of leisure time. Too much leisure time, really. George doesn’t have anything to take his mind off the problem.”

  “Ouch. Point taken. Sorry.”

  “No matter. Now, what can I do for you, Mr Rafferty, besides tell tales out of school?”

  “I need expense money. Say, two thousand for starters.”

  Dermott’s eyebrows went up, but he buzzed Miss Somebody on the intercom and told her to make out a check. Then he turned back to me and said, “I have no experience in these matters, but I assume the motorcycle gang will violently oppose you in this half-baked, um, quest.”

  “I’m a pretty violent guy myself, Counselor.”

  “Oh, really?”

  I smiled at him blandly. “It may not show right now. On the way over here, I kicked a couple of dogs and crippled a meter maid. I'll be fairly mellow until the high wears off.”

  Dermott rolled his eyes. We waited silently for Miss Whoosis to bring the check.

  Dermott’s check was written on a bank on Commerce Street, so I strolled over to cash it. The bank was one of those modern, streamlined places. Every surface was light and shiny. The air-conditioning was set ten degrees too low. The place had the ambience of a public urinal.

  The cash made a healthy stack, though, and it felt good to tuck crisp new hundreds in my wallet. Having Mollison’s money was one thing, of course. Earning it was another.

  I checked in with my answering service. There were no calls. Neither the girl on duty nor I were surprised. It didn’t matter. I was working again, Hilda was back, and summertime in downtown Dallas was great for girl-watching.