The Monkey's Raincoat by Robert Crais Read Free Book Online Page B

hair where it was wispy out from the knot. “I must look horrible.”
    â€œYou look better than yesterday. You look like someone who’s been working hard and had her mind off her troubles. You look okay.”
    She flushed some more and turned back toward the dining room. Half a sandwich was laid out on a paper towel on the table. It looked like a single slice of processed chicken loaf on whole wheat, cut diagonally. There was half a Fred Flintstone glass of skim milk beside it.
    She said, “I want to apologize to you for last night. And to thank you for what you did.”
    â€œForget it.”
    She looked away, picking at the knot that held the shirttails together. “Well, you came all the way out here and I was so silly.”
    â€œNo, you weren’t. You were upset. You had a right to be. It would have been smart to keep the cops but you didn’t and now it’s past, so forget it.”
    She nodded, again without looking at me. Habit. As if shehad never been quite strong enough to carry on a conversation in person. “Why did you let the police leave?”
    â€œYou wanted them to.”
    â€œBut you and Janet didn’t.”
    â€œI don’t work for Janet.” Ellen Lang went very red. “When you hire me I work for you. That means I’m on your side. I act in your behalf. I respect your confidences. My job doesn’t mean cribbing off what the cops dig up. So if you don’t want the cops then I’ll try to live by that.”
    She looked at me, then remembered herself and glanced away. “You’re the first private investigator I’ve ever met.”
    â€œThe others aren’t as good looking.”
    A little bit of a smile came to one side of her face, then left. Progress. She turned and handed me a small stack of white and green envelopes from the table. “I found these by Mort’s desk.” There were phone bills, some charge receipts from Bullocks and the Broadway and Visa, and some gas receipts from Mobil. All neatly sorted.
    â€œThere’s only two phone bills here,” I said.
    â€œThat’s all I found.”
    â€œI want everything for the last six months, and the checkbook and the passbooks and anything from your broker if you have one, including ILA accounts and things like that.”
    â€œWell, like I said—” The awkward look was back.
    â€œMort handled all the money.”
    â€œI’m so bad with figures. I’m sorry.”
    â€œUnh-huh.” I pointed at the sandwich. “Why don’t you fix me one of those, only put some food on mine, and when I come back we can talk.”
    I went back through the living room and down the hall to the master. The mattress had been pulled back onto the box spring. The clothes and personal items had been picked up and folded into neat piles on the bed, his and hers, outer garments and underwear, all waiting to go back into the drawers. The drawers were back in the chest and dresser, and the room, like the rest of the house, looked in order. She must have started at 3 A.M.
    Two shoe boxes and the Bekins box were on Mort’s desk, filled with envelopes and file folders and actors’ résumés and more of those glossy 8×10’s. On the back of each 8×10 someone had stamped The Morton Lang Agency in red ink. I went through his rolodex, pulled cards for the clients I recognized, and put them in my pocket. In the second shoebox I found registration papers for a Walther .32-caliber automatic pistol purchased in 1980. Well, well. I stood up and looked at the room but didn’t see the gun sticking out of any place conspicuous. Halfway down the Bekins box, under a three-year-old copy of
Playboy
, I found an unframed diploma from Kansas State University in Morton Keith Lang’s name. It was water-stained. The bills and receipts and bank stuff were near the bottom of the box. Grand total search time: eight minutes. Maybe the box had hidden