Three Deuces Down. Keith Donnelly

sleep. I was up at six and in the lounge of the Residence Inn getting that first cup of elixir and devouring the sports pages. Tennessee was a six-point underdog against Georgia. The game was in Athens. Both teams were ranked in the top ten and Georgia considered it their biggest game in years. Big Bob and I were going to the game and I felt nervous already.

      I went back to my room, hooked up my laptop and went online to check the market. I went through my various portfolios surveying the winners and losers. My luck—intuition, gift, or whatever it was—was holding. I made one purchase and one sell, checked all my e-mail and logged off. It seemed as if I had been online maybe a half hour. Actually it was two. I shaved, showered and dressed in a fresh shirt and different tie and checked the time. It was after nine.

      I called the lovely Emily. “Tom Slack Investigations,” she said answering the phone in a very businesslike voice. Not the voice she had used on me the night before.

      “Good morning,” I said, curious to see if she recognized my voice. I have been told I have a rather distinctive voice. I would guess it is because of my southern upbringing and my northern schooling and the fact that I worked hard to lose some of the drawl that caused me to be unmercifully teased in my freshman year at UConn.

      “Hi, Don,” she answered. “Is this a personal call or business?”

      “Both,” I answered truthfully. The market had taught me always to keep my options open.

      “I have something for you.”

      “Shoot.”

      “Ed’s ex-wife is Mary Sanders. They divorced six months before Ed was killed. She lives in the Green Tree Apartments off Sutherland Avenue. Telephone [phone]. Two kids, both in college at Wake Forest.”

      “Hold it,” I said. “Is one of the kids named Jimmy?”

      “Yes. How did you know?”

      “He’s an All-ACC quarterback. Might make All-America this year.”

      “The only football I follow is UT,” Emily said, scoring points with me. “Anyway, the other kid is Susan. She’s a couple of years younger than Jimmy. Plays basketball. Anything else you need?”

      I had a bunch of smart remarks for that question, but I decided to play it straight. “Did Mary Sanders know that Ed was working for Tom Slack?” I asked.

      “Yes, she knew.”

      “Would she remember you?”

      “Maybe.”

      “Ask Tom if you can call her and arrange an interview for me. Tell her that I’m a private investigator working on an old case that Ed might have worked on and that I would like to ask her some questions. Be as vague as you can.”

      I was beginning to understand the art of investigation. Ask a question and get an answer that leads to two more questions. Follow a lead down a single path and the path invariably forks. This case was getting too geometric. The questions and leads were piling up and I could see at least two opposite directions to take. A lot of the leads would probably prove to be a waste of time. So be it. I still didn’t like the coincidence that Ed Sanders died so soon after investigating Ronnie Fairchild. I figured I had at least another week of work before I exhausted all my leads. I also figured that, unless they found me, I was not going to find Ronnie and Sarah Ann Fleet Fairchild. People who work hard at not being found are very hard to find, and the Fairchilds had nearly three million reasons not to be found. My philosophic daydream ended when the phone rang.

      “Youngblood.”

      “Mary Sanders has agreed to see you. She will meet you in the lounge of the Residence Inn at one-thirty,” Emily said.

      “Thanks, you’ve been a big help.”

      “When are you leaving?”

      “Right after I talk to Mary Sanders.”

      “When are you coming back?”

      I didn’t know how to answer that one. I had a strong urge to see Emily again but I had an unspoken commitment in Mountain Center. I gave Emily the best answer I could.

      “I don’t know, but I hope I see you again sometime,” I said.

      “Call me if you need anything, Don,” Emily purred.

      At one-thirty I was in a corner of the Residence Inn lounge that I had staked out fifteen minutes earlier. Mary Sanders had not yet made an appearance. The Pathfinder was in the parking lot, packed for the drive back to Mountain Center. The vision of Emily Wright was shoved into a back corner of my mind and I was ready to go home and ravage the lovely Sandy Smith. As I was about to pursue this carnal fantasy, I was interrupted by reality.

      A tall, attractive blond woman walked into the lobby and paused at the registration desk looking around. Mary Sanders. She was not at all what I expected. She turned, spotted me and approached with an air of confidence and purpose. She was in the uniform of her profession and her nameplate confirmed who she was. Mary Sanders was a cop.

      “Officer,” I stood and nodded offering her a chair and handing her my card.

      “Mary,” she smiled.

      “Don,” I countered.

      She looked much younger than I had expected. With a son who had to be near twenty-two, Mary was probably no younger than forty but I would have guessed thirty to thirty-five. She was close to six feet tall and even the uniform could not hide all of her very attractive assets. She had clear blue eyes that stared straight into mine. This was not a lady to be messed with.

      “Thank you for taking the time to see me.”

      “I was curious,” she countered. “What are you working on?”

      I told her about the disappearance of Ronnie and Sarah Ann Fairchild and about the fact that her ex-husband had checked out Ronnie Fairchild’s background a few days before he died.

      “You think there is a connection between Ed’s death and this case?”

      The question surprised me. “You don’t think Ed’s death was an accident?”

      “Never have, never will,” she said shaking her head. “Ed was an alcoholic, but he would never drive drunk. He would take a cab, call me, call a friend but never drink and drive. I knew him almost all my life and I am sure of it.”

      Her stare was intense. Her sincerity was compelling. It didn’t jive with what Tom Slack had said, but maybe he was just guessing.

      “So, who do you think killed him?”

      “I don’t know. Ed and I had not lived together for two years before the divorce. He drank a lot and might have been into some things he shouldn’t have been into. Drugs maybe.” She paused as if trying to decide whether to tell me more. “I’ve never told anyone this, and if you repeat it I’ll deny it, but I have this feeling I can trust you.” Mary moved closer and lowered her voice although there was no one else in sight. “A few days before he was killed, Ed mailed me a package with a note saying it was some money for the kids to help with college. The note said to put it in a safe place and that there probably would be more money later. There wasn’t.”

      “How much money?”

      “Ten thousand dollars,” Mary said slowly. “No way he comes up with that kind of money unless he is into something wrong.”

      “Did you ask him about it?”

      “Never had the chance.”

      The look on Mary’s face was a blend of sadness and anger. I let her words hang for a moment and then asked, “What did you do with the money?”

      “I was going to give it back, but before I could Ed was killed. I didn’t know what to do with it so I bought each of the kids a five thousand dollar CD and put them in my safety deposit box. They are still there.”

      “You did the right thing,” I assured