The Blackmail Club by David Bishop Read Free Book Online Page B

an angry God orchestrated Rachel’s death to punish him for some of his past covert activities? He could not accept that the God he believed in would do so.
    For the second time, Jack let his fingers trace the curves of his love’s name, and then he walked into the lengthening eastward shadows.
    After dinner, a long walk, and a whiskey neat, Jack poured another and called Nora at home.
    “Did I wake you?”
    “No. I got back from a jog about two hours ago, and just got out of a candlelit soaking tub. It was heavenly. Is the Andujar case playing with your mind?”
    “Yeah. Kinda. You had any more thoughts?”
    “You know we have no proof that the quarter mil was ever in the bank.”
    “I can’t see any reason Chris would lie to his wife about that?”
    “I agree. So, let’s assume for now that the money did exist,” Nora said. “But Chris could’ve spent it lots of ways other than blackmail or, maybe no cash and no blackmail. Either way, Metro may have gotten it right—your friend put himself down without outside influence.”
    “They found no suicide note,” Jack said while rinsing out his glass over the sink.
    “That’s unusual,” Nora said, “but not probative.”

Chapter 9
     
    Jack’s alarm went off at six. He had suffered through another night of late drinks, old movies, and little sleep. He remembered watching Humphrey Bogart’s great portrayal of Sam Spade in the classic, The Maltese Falcon , and wished real cases were so easy and as filled with colorful characters.
    He sat on the edge of the bed dry-scrubbing his face with the palms of his hands, then went into the bathroom and brushed and flossed. That took the flannel out of his mouth, but did nothing for the pattern of red lines in his eyes that resembled something printed from an Internet mapping site.
    In the kitchen he recapped last night’s whiskey bottle, and poured a cup of black coffee. The coffee pot timer had come on before the alarm clock went off. God bless automation. For a while he sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and fooling around with the crossword puzzle in the morning paper. After a second cup he picked up the cordless phone and called Sarah Andujar.
    “I can meet you at the bank in an hour,” she said. “I am on the other line with Christopher’s medical doctor. I am going to try to add you in on the call. We do this sometimes in my book club. If I mess it up, I’ll call back.”
    He waited until Sarah came back on the line. “Jack, are you still there?”
    “Yes.”
    “We’re on the line with Christopher’s physician. Doctor, thank you for answering my questions, I will hang up now and let you and Mr. McCall talk.”
    When Jack got off the phone, he had learned something he had expected and something he had not.
    Jack had left the bank and was turning right onto Twenty-first to get back to MI when his cell rang. It was Nora. She had arranged a meeting with Chris Andujar’s psychiatrist buddy, Dr. Radnor, and had spoken to Chris’s former receptionist, Agnes Fuller.
    “Fuller told me,” Nora said. “‘I’ve put that sadness behind me. The police declared his death a suicide, so I don’t have to talk to you, and I won’t.’ Frankly, her attitude caught me by surprise, and I didn’t handle it very well. She stonewalled me, after having told Sarah she’d help any way she could. I’m going to call that woman back and find out why she’s playing both ends against the middle.”
    “Why don’t you hold that thought until after we talk with Radnor?”
    “If you say so. How’d it go at the bank with Sarah?”
    “The signature card for the box showed only Chris and Sarah. She had signed to gain entry only once, the day after Metro declared Chris’s death a suicide.”
    “What was in the box?”
    “Empty. Where are you?”
    “In the office.”
    Five minutes later Jack pulled into MI’s underground parking and saw Nora waiting next to his parking space. She opened the passenger’s door and leaned