Murder Charge by Wade Miller

Author:Wade Miller [Miller, Wade]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4405-4057-8
Publisher: Prologue Books
Published: 1977-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 16

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 10:00 P.M.

He let himself into his suite and Rhea said, “Judas, I’m glad to see a living soul.” Locking the door behind him, Thursday grunted. Then the girl saw his haggard face and tittered. “Nothing’s that bad,” she said. “Have a long one with me.”

He shook his head. Rhea was stretched out on the divan with a two-bit love novel. A tray containing rye and 7-Up and a bowl of ice cubes was on the coffee table by her elbow. The bottle was over a third empty and she hardly showed it. She still wore the black glossy frock she’d put on for dinner but she had kicked off her pumps.

Thursday said, “Turn off that television.” She scowled but did it. She said, “You’re not in a stinking mood, oh no!”

“Sorry.” He discovered the television screen going blank and silent didn’t bring the peace he wanted. He headed into the bedroom.

“Where’s your other half?” Rhea wanted to know.

“Fletch? Down getting a room of his own.” Thursday shut himself into the bathroom, locked that door too as if locks would help, and sat down. He lit another cigarette and stared at the tile floor. For quite a while his thoughts didn’t come any clearer. He heard Rhea turn the television back on. He heard Fletch come in and collect his bags, exchanging practically no words with the girl.

With the third cigarette, Thursday’s thoughts became less the color of blood. He calmed himself down — you’re acting like a rookie cop after your first razor fight. Try to see this thing objectively. In some measure he succeeded. His stomach got back to normal.

Three men were dead. Two of the deaths — Kranz and Swede — he had ordered. By pure accident, of course, but he had tripped the switch that set the deadly Fletch to work. All it took was a hint from Harry Blue who had the power of life and death. He told himself that he wasn’t Harry Blue, but it was difficult to disconnect himself from the role. Three men dead, and he wondered what the district attorney would think about that.

He decided not to report the killings to Clapp immediately. For one thing, keeping them secret might possibly help him with his masquerade — a grisly trump. For another, no matter how objective he tried to be, he didn’t feel like talking about them, not tonight anyway. His energy was sapped by this first day of another man’s life; the strain and loneliness weighed on him. In that mood he could almost believe that he had killed all three by his own hand.

Thursday heard the television station go off the air. He got up and washed his face in cold water, deciding that he’d better keep the girl company. She was getting tight and he didn’t want to alienate her.

Rhea didn’t ask what he’d done earlier in the evening, not directly. She sloshed the ice cubes around in her rye and said, “Fletch is junky, isn’t he? I can tell.

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