Don't Lie to Me by Donald E. Westlake Page A

said.
    â€œI know.”
    He put his hands in his pants pockets and stood flatfooted, looking at me. “While we’re getting names straight,” he said, “let me see do I have yours. Mitchell Tobin?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œAny record?”
    â€œThat’s a hell of a question,” I said. “What do you want to be offensive for?”
    â€œI’m doing my job,” he said. “No reason my job should offend you. Isn’t that right?”
    I looked at Grinella. “I was always lucky in my partners,” I said.
    He chuckled, but he said, “Me, too. See you around.”
    I walked them to the door. They’d let themselves in with skeleton keys, opening all three locks, but had only bothered to relock one of them. I opened it, let them out, fastened the three locks, walked back to the office, put the basement key back on the rack, started off on another tour of the display area. And all the time the last thing I’d said to Grinella kept circling in my head: “I was always lucky in my partners.” I’d said it fast, without thinking, aiming a shaft at Hargerson in a way he couldn’t respond to directly, and only after it was out of my mouth had I realized what I’d done, and what I’d said. Yes, I was always lucky in my partners, but my partners weren’t always lucky in me. Jock Sheehan wasn’t lucky to be my partner, I didn’t bring him any luck at all.
    I knew Hargerson would be looking into my history now, not because he thought for one second that I’d had anything to do with the dead John Doe, but because he was irritable and I was within range. He would look into my background, and he would find it all there, and I would be seeing Hargerson again. And he would have something to say to me about partners and luck.
    Miserable, I completed my uneventful round, and went to sit again in the office. If only the killer had left his John Doe somewhere else. If only I had found another agency to work for. If only Linda had picked a different night to come ask me her favor.
    But the “if only” song could begin much, much further back than that. Silently I sat there in the office and sang it.

5
    T HE NEXT DAY WAS Saturday, first of my three days off. Starting early last spring, and continuing all through the summer, Kate and I had been taking long weekend trips together, driving up into New England or over to Pennsylvania or down as far as the Carolinas. Our marriage hadn’t come to an end at the time of my disgrace, but it hadn’t really gone on either; it had fallen into a kind of suspended animation, as though it had been flash-frozen—which is, I suppose, a pretty accurate description of what in truth did happen—and ceased to have any meaningful existence after that for more than two years. The trips had been Kate’s idea, and it was a good one; they helped a lot in the thawing process. Bill is old enough now to be left alone for a few days, so each weekend we just get into the car and start driving, sometimes with no specific destination at all in mind.
    This time we drove up to Lake Champlain; Plattsburg, Dannemora, that area up near the Canadian border. It was October and many places were already closed for the winter, but up in the mountains the leaves had changed their colors and were really beautiful to look at. And it was pleasant not to be surrounded by so many tourists as in the summer.
    We came back late Monday night—I drove the last three hundred miles with Kate asleep in the back seat—and there was a note on the kitchen table from Bill, saying that Allied had called and wanted me to call the office first thing in the morning.
    The result was, I only got four hours’ sleep, since I’d expected to be able to stay in bed till noon, to readjust myself to the late schedule of a working night. I got up a little after eight, and was reasonably conscious and functional by