The Ninth Man by Dorien Grey Read Free Book Online Page A

dreams are made.
    “Good morning. Gary Miller here.”
    “Mr. Miller,” I responded, hoping my voice sounded one-tenth as intriguing as his. “Good morning. My name is Dick Hardesty, and I’m a private investigator. I’d like to talk to you about your friend Alan Rogers.”
    “Alan is dead.”
    “I know, and I’m sorry for your loss. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
    “Who do you represent?” The voice, while still sexy, had taken on a definite no-nonsense tone. “The insurance company? If so, you’ll have to contact Alan’s parents.”
    “No, it’s nothing like that, I assure you. I’m doing some work on a case for a client, and I have reason to believe you might know some of the people Mr. Rogers knew, who in turn are connected with the case. It all sounds pretty complicated over the phone, but it is rather important or I never would have bothered you. Is there any way we could get together for a few minutes, in person?”
    His sexy voice was considerably more relaxed.
    “Yes, I guess we could do that, though I can tell you now I didn’t know that many of Alan’s friends. We’re doing a shoot today at the beach, and I’ll probably be tied up until around nine tonight. If you want to come by then for a few minutes, it’s okay.”
    A shoot? At the beach? Interesting. But I pulled myself back to reality to say, “I really appreciate that. Twenty-seven Partridge Place, Apartment D?” I added, by way of verification. “I’ll look forward to seeing you. So long.” But before I could hang up, Miller’s voice caught me.
    “I hope you’re not trying to imply some sinister motivation behind Alan’s death, because I can assure you there was none.”
    “Not at all,” I lied, wondering how he could be so sure, “but we can talk about that when I see you. Okay?”
    “Okay,” he said and hung up.
    There was no listing for Mike Sibalitch, but Gene Harriman, the second victim, was in the book. I dialed, let the phone ring four times, and was just about to hang up when I heard the phone being picked up on the other end. A few second’s pause was followed by a very sleepy-sounding:
    “Yeah?”
    “Mike Sibalitch?”
    Another long pause, then an equally sleepy “Yeah.”
    “I’m sorry if I woke you. My name is Dick Hardesty. I’m a private investigator, and I’d like to talk to you about Gene Harriman.”
    “What about Gene?”
    “To be honest with you, Mr. Sibalitch, I’m not quite sure. I’m working on a case, and I think Mr. Harriman might possibly be connected.”
    From the pauses that loomed between my statements and his response, I got the feeling I was talking with someone on the other side of the moon, and that there was a built-in time delay.
    Finally, there was a reply.
    “Look, Mr. Hardesty, I work nights, and I’m in no condition to talk right now. I’d be very willing to talk to you about Gene but, frankly, right now I’m too zonked to even know my own name. Could you call back this afternoon about five? I should be pretty much together by then.”
    “Sure,” I said. “Again I’m sorry to have disturbed your sleep. I’ll give you a call la—”
    There was a click on the other end, then a dial tone. I took the hint and hung up.
    None of the Bells listed in the book had the address Tim had given me for Arthur Granger, and there was no Martin Bell listed, either. But there was an “M. Bell,” and I decided to take a chance on it.
    A woman’s voice answered.
    “Bell residence.”
    If a woman answers, hang up , I thought. But since I had her on the line…
    “Good morning,” I said. “Is Martin Bell in?”
    “No, sir, he’d be at work. I’m his housekeeper.”
    Phew! Lucked out!
    “Is there some way I might reach Mr. Bell at work?”
    “Oh, yes, sir. Mr. Bell’ll be at the gallery.”
    I waited for more information, and when it was not forthcoming, I felt it necessary to fill in the lull in the conversation.
    “Which gallery is that,