McNally's Risk by Lawrence Sanders Read Free Book Online

painter Silas Hawkin?”
    I hesitated for just the briefest. “Yes, I know him,” I said. “Matter of fact, I visited him at his studio this morning.”
    “Interesting,” Al said. “I think you better wheel your baby carriage back to his studio. Right now.”
    “Why on earth should I do that?”
    “Because the maid just found Silas with a knife stuck in his neck.”
    I swallowed. “Dead?”
    “Couldn’t be deader,” Rogoff said cheerfully.
    “But why pick on me, Al?”
    “Because your business card was on his desk. You coming or do I have to send a SWAT team after you?”
    “On my way,” I said.
    I paused long enough to take one sip of marc (a gulp would have demolished me) and bounced downstairs. I trotted out to the garage to board my pride and joy. It had been a sparkling day, and the night was still dulcet. As I drove, I admired Mother Nature while I pondered who might have stuck a shiv in the throat of Father Hawkin.
    People acquainted with my investigative career sometimes ask, “What was your first case?” To which I invariably reply, “A 1986 Haut Brion.” Actually, my first Discreet Inquiry that involved criminal behavior turned out to be a debacle because I hadn’t yet learned that in addition to lust, we all have murder in our hearts—or if not murder, at least larceny.
    So now I could easily come up with a Cast of Characters who might have put down Silas Hawkin, including wife, daughter, maid, gallery agent, and any of his clients. But, as in any homicide investigation, the prime question was Cui bono? Or who benefited from the artist’s death?
    When I arrived at the Villa Bile the studio building had already been festooned with crime scene tape. The bricked driveway was crowded with official vehicles including an ambulance, indicating they had not yet removed what Al Rogoff enjoys referring to as the corpus delicious.
    There was a uniformed officer standing guard at the studio door, inspecting the heavens and dreaming, no doubt, of Madonna.
    “Archy McNally,” I reported to this stalwart. “Sergeant Rogoff asked me to come over.”
    “Yeah?” he said, not very interested. “You stay here and I’ll go see.”
    I waited patiently, and in a few minutes the sergeant himself came trundling out, a cold cigar jutting from his meaty face. Al is built like an Ml-Al tank, and when he moves I always expect to hear the clanking of treads.
    “What were you doing here this morning?” he demanded, wasting no time on preliminaries.
    “Good evening, Al,” I said.
    “Good evening,” he said. “What were you doing here this morning? The maid, wife, and daughter don’t know—or maybe they do and aren’t saying.”
    “I’m doing a credit check on a man Hawkin knew,” I said. “I stopped by to get his opinion on the subject.”
    “And who is the subject?”
    I had calculated how much I could tell him and how much, in good conscience, I could withhold.
    “Hector Johnson,” I told him. “The father of one of the late artist’s customers.”
    “And why are you doing a credit check on him?”
    “At the request of a client of McNally and Son.”
    “What client?”
    “Nope,” I said. “Unethical. Confidentiality.”
    He looked at me. “You’re no lawyer and you know it.”
    “But I represent my father who is an attorney,” I pointed out. “And I can’t divulge the information you request without his permission.”
    “Son,” Al said heavily, “you’ve got more crap than a Christmas goose. All right, I won’t push it—for now. Let’s go up.”
    We entered through that oak and etched glass door. I glanced into the ground floor area. Mrs. Louise Hawkin was slumped at one end of a sailcloth-covered couch and Marcia Hawkin was at the other end, both as far apart as ever. We tramped up the cast-iron staircase and walked into the studio. The techs were busy.
    Rogoff stopped me. “Wife was out playing bridge. Daughter went to a movie. They say. Silas didn’t go over to the main