Sinister Heights by Loren D. Estleman Page A

let’s face it, a third straight night of the cold shoulder because someone smiled the wrong way at the wrong spouse at the company picnic; pick your scenario, whatever it was it was going on under someone’s roof other than David Glendowning’s. It looked like Walton’s Mountain to me.
    I got out one of my cards, wrote a name and telephone number on the back of it, and made room on the coffee table to set it down. “Try not to lose this under a bottle. He doesn’t have a Viennese accent and he won’t make you lie on a couch. If he doesn’t hang up when you tell him who recommended him, he may be the man for you.” I stood.
    â€œThanks.” It’s a simple word, but there are ten thousand ways to say it. This sounded like one of the right ways, but I’d been there too long.
    â€œI don’t expect it to do a damn bit of good,” I said. “I think you’re a cracked block. A lost cause. But you can return the empty gesture by telling me what kind of car your wife drives.”
    â€œGray ninety-six Chrysler LeBaron, Ohio license GBX -121. It’s leaking fluid. Damned if I been able to find out from where. I don’t suppose them shelters let them stand out in the street.”
    â€œYou never know. They’re like any other place with too many secrets and not enough closet space.” I put away my notebook with Constance’s LeBaron in it. “Anyway I know most of the shelters between Battle Creek and Cincinnati. They can use the practice throwing me down the front steps all over again.”
    He lifted his bottle. Then he returned it to his knee. “I don’t guess I could hire you to report back when you find her.”
    â€œIt’d be my license if I did, and if it wouldn’t I still wouldn’t do it. Your wife’s a pretty woman, Glendowning. I’ve seen her picture. In the morgue she’d be just another puffy face with broken bones under it. The next time you might raise more than a welt.”
    â€œI’ll call your guy,” he said after a moment. “You think I won’t, but I will.” He started to raise the bottle again. He looked at it and his face turned the color it had turned when he’d been choking on an unexpected slug of water. He leaned forward, kicking the footrest back under the chair, and set the bottle down on the carpet with a thump.
    I said, “You can drop-kick it through the window if you like. It won’t stop you from buying another six-pack.”
    â€œI’ll call your guy.” He sounded petulant.
    I knew a curtain line when I heard one, but I was too soft a slab of ham to let him have it. “When I see her I’ll tell her what went on here,” I said at the door. “What she does with it is her business.”
    He screwed up his face to bawl again. I stepped outside and shut the door fast.

CHAPTER
NINE
    On my way out of town I stopped at the same Total station for a fill and a telephone call. This time Rayellen Stutch took it. She sounded out of breath.
    â€œI didn’t think people who employed housekeepers had to run to catch the phone,” I said.
    â€œI just got through pedaling around the city limits. Or don’t rich people get to sweat in the world you live in?”
    â€œIn the world I live in they don’t stay long enough to work one up. I thought that bit about you being on your bicycle was just a clever euphemism.”
    â€œNope. I figure if Leland could make a hundred and six on straight whiskey and T-bone steaks, I ought to have a shot at two hundred. Are you in Toledo?”
    â€œWholly. But not for long. I just had a talk with your granddaughter’s husband.”
    â€œShe’s Leland’s granddaughter, not mine. I’m not two hundred yet. You didn’t see Constance?”
    I backed up and brought her up to the post, beginning with Carla Witowski and finishing with Glendowning, editing for length;