Holland Taylor Trilogy by David Housewright Read Free Book Online Page B

nothing to block my path.
    Behind the door was a small office, a temporary affair decorated with a government-gray metal desk and chairs and a dozen or more boxes and stacks of campaign posters and stickers. “Ms. Senske said to wait here,” the young receptionist informed me and left.
    I waited alone for fifteen minutes, searching the office to pass the time. There was nothing personal in it, no photographs, no mementos. Finally, the woman entered the room, startling me.
    â€œMr. Taylor, I’m Marion Senske,” she said, closing the door behind her. Her manner was brusque, bordering on open hostility. I didn’t mind. I make my living visiting other people’s lives. I visit them at the worst possible times, when they are strung out on fear and doubt. I don’t expect good manners.
    â€œMiss Monroe will join us in a moment.”
    â€œThank you,” I said, without being sure what I was thankful for.
    â€œMay I see your identification, please?”
    She examined it like she was searching for some telltale sign of counterfeiting, actually holding it up to the light. “How long have you been a private investigator?” she asked, tapping the laminated card on her thumb. She had no intention of returning it.
    â€œFour years,” I admitted. She didn’t applaud. “Would it help that I was a police officer for ten years?”
    â€œIn St. Paul?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œExcuse me a moment,” Marion said and withdrew from the office with my business ID. She returned ten minutes later and handed back my property.
    â€œI verified your credentials with my friend in the police department,” she said. “Apparently, you’re well thought of.”
    â€œBy whom?”
    â€œLieutenant Anne Scalasi,” she replied, emphasizing lieutenant.
    â€œAnne Scalasi?” I repeated, trying hard to mask my absolute astonishment. I don’t think I did a very good job of it. Marion double-clutched before settling into her chair.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” she asked after a brief pause.
    â€œI’m looking for a man named Joseph Sherman.”
    â€œWho’s Joseph Sherman?”
    â€œMurder suspect.”
    Marion leaned toward me. “Who did he kill?”
    â€œI think he killed a man named John Brown.”
    â€œNever heard of him.”
    â€œâ€˜John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in his grave’?” I recited. Marion was not amused.
    â€œWhat has this to do with us?”
    â€œHas Sherman contacted Miss Monroe?”
    â€œCertainly not.”
    â€œMind if I ask her that?”
    â€œYes, I do.”
    â€œTough,” I said.
    Marion sprang to her feet. I flinched, gripping the arm of the chair, feeling like the spectators around the lion cage who take a step backward whenever a big cat approaches the bars—safe but stupid.
    â€œCarol Catherine Monroe is a gubernatorial candidate,” Marion intoned carefully, as if the words could conjure a magic spell.
    â€œI can ask her in private or I can ask her in public,” I said.
    â€œYou still haven’t told me what Sherman has to do with us,” Marion said, reclaiming her seat if not her composure.
    â€œIf Joseph Sherman had not killed Terrance Friedlander, C. C. Monroe might still be working for the Department of Transportation.”
    â€œOh God, now I remember,” Marion muttered to herself, then said aloud, “If Sirhan Sirhan had not killed Bobby Kennedy, Richard Nixon might be working for the Department of Transportation. Now, for the last time, what has this to do with us?”
    â€œDamned if I know,” I admitted, recalling the receptionist’s reaction to Sherman’s name.
    Marion Senske settled back into her chair and brushed the tiny hairs above her upper lip with an index finger, studying me like a chess player regarding an unexpected move. “Lieutenant Scalasi didn’t send you, did she?”
    â€œWe