The Ninth Man by Dorien Grey Page B

good about laying on guilt.
    “But we hadn’t had a fight in days. I just can’t figure it out. I still don’t know where he got whatever it was that killed him. He didn’t use drugs, and I don’t think there was anything in the medicine cabinet that could be considered lethal. It wasn’t as though he drank a glass of Drano—I gather that’s a pretty messy way to die, and Alan would never have chosen a messy way to die.”
    He looked at me closely.
    “And now you show up, asking question. These other people you mentioned—who are they, and what do they have to do with Alan, exactly?”
    I drank before answering.
    “I don’t know for sure that they have anything to do with him,” I said, feeling certain I was lying and hating myself for it. “Alan’s name was just one of several, and I’m trying to find out if there’s any link at all between them, and if so, what it was.”
    Miller set his glass on the coffee table and sat back.
    “Okay, so run them past me. If Alan knew them, there’s a possibility I might have, too—unless they were tricks of his. He was thoughtful enough not to rub my nose in them.”
    “Gene Harriman.” I watched his face for any reaction. There was none.
    “Nothing.”
    “Arthur Granger.”
    “Nope.”
    “Clete Barker.”
    “Sorry.”
    “Arnold Klein.”
    “Bobby McDermott.”
    He shook his head.
    “Not doing too well, am I?” he said, apologetic.
    “Don’t worry about it.” Alan Rogers had been the first victim; just like the others, the police hadn’t gotten back to Miller after the other bodies were discovered.
    “Any more?” he asked.
    “That’s it. Back to the old drawing board, I guess.” I drained my glass down to the ice cubes, and when he pointed to it and raised an eyebrow, I shook my head.
    “No, thanks.”
    He looked disappointed, and I mentally kicked myself for passing up an opportunity to stay longer. I try never to mix business with pleasure, but I’m not a fanatic about it, and in Gary Miller’s case…
    “Was there anything at all out of the ordinary about the house that day—and especially the bedroom?” I asked.
    He shook his head.
    “Not a thing. The maid had been in the day before, and she always leaves the place spotless. It usually took us a couple of days to mess it up again.”
    “So nothing unusual?”
    “Afraid not. Except for the phone number.”
    “What phone number was that?”
    “Behind the nightstand, on the floor. I dropped my keys, and when I bent to look for them, I saw it. I have no idea of how it got there, unless it fell out of his wallet on the day he died. It couldn’t have been there the day before or the maid would have found it and picked it up.
    “It wasn’t like Alan to collect phone numbers—as I said, he tried not to rub my nose in his little adventures. Right after I came down with the clap, I laid down the law to him. I told him if I ever caught him tricking on me, I’d break both his arms and kick his ass out on the street. I’m sure it didn’t slow him down, but it made him very discreet.”
    “Did you keep the phone number?”
    “Yeah,” he said, hoisting his well-rounded buns off the sofa to reach into his back pocket for his wallet. He thumbed through it for a minute then came up with a folded piece of paper—a piece of bar napkin, it appeared. He handed it to me, and I opened it to read: Ed. 555-7897 .
    “Did you ever call it?” I asked.
    He shook his head. “No. I was tempted, but what good would it do? I don’t even know why I kept it. Must be my masochistic side.”
    I refolded the paper, having—I hoped—memorized the number, and handed it back to him.
    He waved it away.
    “Keep it,” he said, and I slipped it into my pocket without comment.
    “Did Alan keep a photo album?” I asked.
    “Not that I know of. He always looked down on photographs and photographers—which I always found kind of ironic, considering my line of work. To Alan, painting was the only valid form of