The Ticket Out by Helen Knode Read Free Book Online

beautiful.”
    I said, “Critics shouldn’t hang around with Industry people. It messes with your objectivity—”
    Lockwood wasn’t listening; he was off on a different track. “What kinds of parties are held at the house?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWho rents the house? For what occasions?”
    I gave him a rundown of the activity in the past six months. The people and occasions were so different that there was no short answer.
    He said, “Are there ever all-women parties?”
    â€œAll
women?”
    I saw right then where he was leading. I said, “You think I’m a dyke, don’t you? You think this is some kind of lesbian love-nest killing?”
    Lockwood gave me his standard look.
    I said, “I’m heterosexual, a fact you can easily check. Just because I called her ‘beautiful’ doesn’t mean I desired her.”
    â€œThere are other indications.”
    â€œDid ‘movie boys’ sound antimale?”
    â€œThe victim wore no makeup, brassiere, or jewelry, and neither do you. Her way of dressing was masculine, like yours. And she owned a man’s watch.”
    I laughed, and for one second didn’t feel tense. “Detective, you have quaint notions about the modern woman.”
    Lockwood closed his notebook. “You made Xerox copies of Miss Stenholm's personal papers, didn’t you?”
    The question caught me off guard. I hesitated—and knew instantly I’d lost. So I said, “Yes.”
    â€œWhere are they?”
    I was silent.
    He said, “Where are they?”
    â€œAt the house.”
    â€œWhere at the house?”
    He’d take everything if I didn’t make a last stand. I swallowed and said, “You’ll have to find them yourself.”
    Â 
    T HE YELLOW tape had been removed, and the crime-scene technicians were gone. A single patrol car was still parked in the driveway. Two uniformed cops were standing sentry—one at the mansion, one back at the pool house.
    The front sentry let us into the mansion. Lockwood asked to see the bedroom where I’d slept the night before. I led him upstairs to show him, and he pulled out a stopwatch. “I’m going to time you from the minute you woke up. Go.”
    He pressed the stem in. I said, “This isn’t necessary.”
    â€œGo.”
    I just stood there. Lockwood clicked off the stopwatch. “Maybe you gave the xeroxes to someone in the vicinity, or maybe you took time to remove other evidence.”
    I said, “I want Greta Stenholm’s story.”
    Lockwood reset the stopwatch. “I assumed that you did.”
    â€œIf I give you those copies, my last resource is gone! You’ll confiscate them like you confiscated my notes and my gun!”
    I was pleading for the piece now. I’d forgotten to worry about obstructing justice, evidence tampering, and jail. But the way Lockwood paused, I thought he was finally going to threaten me.
    He said, “Here’s how this works. I have no legal way to stop you from conducting your own investigation.”
    â€œ...You don’t?”
    He shook his head. “You’re a journalist. Because you’re a journalist, all I can do is ask for your voluntary cooperation. If you agree, I’ll guarantee you first shot at our information once my partner and I put a case together and make an arrest. In exchange for that, you’ll do exactly as I say.”
    It took no time to see the hole in that deal. “If ‘cooperation’ means sitting around doing nothing, I don’t want to cooperate.”
    â€œWe’d prefer that you do nothing.”
    â€œThat’s not going to happen, so tell me specifically what you
don’t
want me to do.”
    Lockwood ticked off his fingers. “Don’t talk to anybody who attended the party in any capacity. Don’t talk to anyone whose name you found in the victim’s address book or