Murder Miscalculated by Andrew MacRae

things go well?”
    “He’s the one who will write the report.”
    “History is written by the victor,” I quoted.
    “That’s for certain.”
    “So where does that leave us?” I asked as I finished my coffee. Cochran drained the last of his, too, grimacing at the grounds at the bottom.
    “Kid, that leaves you and me,” then he added, “and Lynn and Barbara as pawns on a chessboard in a game where none of us have any say in what happens.”
    We took leave of each other after that. Cochran melted back into the shady world of the wharves while I made my way to a bus stop. I decided to work the plaza for another hour or two. As I rode back toward downtown and to Knickerbocker Lane, I had a vision of the city and the blocks I was traversing with each block a square on a chessboard and all of us simply pieces being moved by outside forces.

 
     
     
Chapter Sixteen
     
     
    Any doubts I had about my return to a life of crime being believed were dispelled the next morning.
    I had settled into a routine of lifting a few wallets late every morning, heading to Sammie’s to get rid of them as quickly as possible, then heading home to The Book Nook and my real life of a respectable book store owner.
    That morning started the same as the others. Lynn and I woke, showered and dressed. We did this with our usual efficiency and with little competition for the shower and bathroom. After a year of marriage it still surprised me how easily we had settled into living together. We joined Barbara for breakfast downstairs about nine. It was my turn to cook that morning, so I scrambled some eggs in an old iron skillet, snipped some green onions with my kitchen scissors, sliced a few mushrooms and made toast in the oven. I’d given up on ever finding a toaster that actually toasts.
    Lynn, Barbara and I chatted about our plans for the day and the chores that needed doing. We traded ideas about dinner for the next few days with Barbara proposing a Mulligan stew for the next evening, the ingredients of which would depend on what she found at the farmers market that morning.
    After breakfast I gave Lynn a kiss and headed out to pick some pockets, feeling like the husband from a 1950s sitcom going off to the office. As I left I wondered how I would look in a fedora.
    By midmorning that day I had grabbed two wallets and a wristwatch from prosperous pedestrians. I was working Fremont Plaza in the heart of the financial district, named for that rogue John C. Fremont and a favorite stalking ground of mine in the old days.
    The sun had burned off all trace of morning fog and warmed the air. The sound of car and bus engines competed with raucous music from an impromptu band of street buskers. I recognized Molly, a street vendor setting up her cart of warm cinnamon buns, and in spite of my large breakfast, I went over to buy one.
    Molly was in her mid-sixties, and her weathered face testified to years of working on the street. When I was a young teen, hustling hard to survive, Molly used to let me have one or two of her leftovers for free at the end of her day. There were nights when they’d been all that kept me from going to bed hungry.
    Molly’s face lit up when she saw me. “Kid! How are you doing? I haven’t seen you in like forever!” She beamed a gap-toothed smile at me.
    “Hello, Molly. How’s business?” This was no idle question. Molly paid close attention to what she picked up from her customers’ conversations, and if the stories were true, she had built a comfortable nest egg for herself by acting on that information.
    Molly checked to see if anyone was within earshot before answering and pitched her voice low. “There’s going to be a take-over attempt on Trinity Corporation next week. Get some shares before Friday, and you could do well.”
    I shook my head. “Too rich a game for my blood, Molly, but I will buy one of those buns.” I reached into my pocket for some change.
    Molly smiled. “On the house, Kid, for old