He Done Her Wrong: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Eight) (Toby Peters Mysteries) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Read Free Book Online Page A

case, life, and future.
    “No,” whispered Shelly coming even closer. “In your office, now. Clean suit. Been waiting almost an hour. Guy was here when I opened up.”
    I took off my hat, clenched my fist at the kid to encourage him, and took the three steps to my office as Shelly went to work with the weapon in hand.
    Clients almost never came to my office. I discouraged it. When someone called, I usually went to him or her or arranged to meet at the drugstore at the corner or Manny’s taco stand on Flower Street, depending on how high-class the potential client was. This guy was a little hard to place. He looked up at me from the papers on his lap as I closed the door.
    “Peters,” I said.
    He put the papers into his briefcase, stood, and held out his hand. I took it. His shake was firm and his eyes on mine.
    “Winning, Dr. Robert Winning,” he said. Winning was about five ten, average build, and well but conservatively dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and dark blue tie with thin angular stripes of a slightly lighter blue. The lighter blue matched his eyes. I guessed he was somewhere in his fifties. His hair was dark brown without a touch of gray, and his skin had that smooth clearness that comes with heredity or illness. He sat straight and watched as I moved behind my desk, unbuttoned my own blue jacket carefully to keep the button that was on its last thread from falling off, and looked at him.
    “I’m looking for a man and I want you to help me find him,” Winning said. His voice was calm like a radio announcer’s. “His name is Jeffrey Ressner.”
    There are coincidences in the world and there is magic. I believe in both, but only after all other explanations have been exhausted. My eyes must have showed something because Winning smiled.
    “I know,” he said. “I’ve been trying to find Ressner for a week. I checked some of his old known contacts and talked this morning to Howard Lachtman, of the Engineer’s Thumbs. He told me that you had asked about Ressner, and he gave me your address. I decided that it would be best if I could discover why you are seeking Ressner and to enlist your aid in that effort.”
    I glanced down at my mail. There were three items. One was a postcard from a clothing store in Van Nuys announcing spring wardrobe suggestions. The second was an official-looking letter with a government return address. It looked like one of the notices to register for ration cards. I threw it in the trash can under my desk. The other mail was a square envelope. I recognized the writing and wanted to open it, but I had business. Instead I picked it up and played with it as I talked.
    “Why do you want Ressner?” I asked.
    Winning pulled some papers from his briefcase, glanced at them, and looked at me.
    “I’m a psychiatrist,” he said softly. “Head of the Winning Institute near Clovis, just beyond Fresno. Mr. Ressner, until April fifteenth of this year, was a patient in our institute and had been for more than four years. He escaped dressed rather ingeniously as a nurse.”
    “What was he in for?” I asked trying not to look at the envelope, which had definitely been addressed by my ex-wife, Anne.
    Winning blew out a little puff of air and shook his head. He could either make this long or short, and I had the feeling that he had given the long version before.
    “Simply put,” he began, “Jeffrey Ressner is obsessed with famous people. He believes that fame was denied him as a young man when he had a promising acting career. In fact, he seems to have been a reasonably competent and perhaps even gifted actor, but as you know, talent is not always enough. He began to harass movie producers, actors, directors, and others for jobs, and the police were called in several times. It grew increasingly worse to the point where his wife and daughter left him. Subsequently, both the wife and daughter showed some understanding and agreed to have him taken in for treatment. Fortunately,