Spider’s Cage by Jim Nisbet Page A

Bdeniowitz, winked at him. Bdeniowitz shot a glance at the doctor and nurse. They excused themselves. “Give us a call if you feel sick or anything,” the nurse said. She glared at Bdeniowitz and followed the doctor out the door.
    Bdeniowitz stood over Windrow with his hands buried in the pockets of his pants. Gleason, dressed like his own idea of a detective, buried his hands in the pockets of his belted trench coat. He also wore a slouch hat, and, as always,a cigarette dangled off his lower lip. He liked to hold his head to one side and squint the lower eye against the smoke from the cigarette. Posed thus, he could pass himself off as a thinking man, until someone asked him a question.
    â€œFunny coincidence yesterday,” Bdeniowitz said, looking down at Windrow, “out to the Sea Cliff neighborhood.”
    â€œI could use a laugh,” Windrow said.
    â€œYou won’t see the humor,” Bdeniowitz said, scratching his chin. “First day I’m back from my vacation, I read in the Herb Caen about this ‘forcible entry’ out to the Sea Cliff. And who’s booked on it? Our old pal, the famous Marty Windrow.”
    Windrow knew Bdeniowitz would never forgive him for bringing the heat of publicity down on his office, years before, but it was the first he’d heard of the forcible entry. He smiled with the corner of his mouth less sore than the other one.
    â€œLook at it this way, Max,” he said. “If you can make me laugh, it’ll hurt. But as for the forcible entry, forget it. Go book a black Cadillac for voluntary attempted man slaughter.”
    Bdeniowitz scowled. “Don’t interrupt. It’s after I’m reading the front page I’m reading about you. The front page is interesting of its own accord. I’m just back from vacation, you understand.” He jerked a thumb toward Gleason. “Things around the office are quiet—too quiet. So I read the papers to find out what the criminal element is up to.” Bdeniowitz slid the room’s single chair close to the head of Windrow’s bed, straddled it and sat, folding his arms on its back. “Seems like the department is investigating a crime of passion, out to the Sea Cliff…” he paused. Windrow felt his heart sink. Had he killed someone in that house with his car? He tried his memory. He could remember holding on, and yellow and green aluminum lawn furniture, and thehedge. He couldn’t remember how he came to be thrown out of the car, or what happened after.
    Bdeniowitz watched him, gauging his reaction. Windrow said nothing. After a well-timed silence, Max continued. “So, according to the papers, about two blocks over and a hundred yards down from your story, there’s another story, a sadder one.” He shrugged. “It’s a sad world. Some people count more than others, even when they’re dead.”
    Another pause.
    Bdeniowitz sighed. “So this society broad, she turns up at the bottom of the cliff, right below her own house. Suicide, looks like.” Bdeniowitz spread his hands. “Name of Pamela Neil bounce with you, apple?”
    Windrow blinked. When his slits reopened, they were wider than before.
    Bdeniowitz was deadpan.
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œWhy don’t you tell us?”
    â€œIt’s your story. Finish it.”
    Bdeniowitz shrugged. “Quite a bit happening, by the look of things. First, the boys from homicide,” he pointed over his shoulder at Gleason, who cleared his throat, “they think it’s a suicide. There’s plenty of explanations for that. She had everything in the world she needed. Monthly divorce settlement, a new inheritance, big home, art, boyfriend, a yacht, and another home, maybe a little smaller, to rest from the big one in. So, it’s obvious, she probably couldn’t stand being alive. Like that. She even had plenty of cocaine. Now the cocaine, that’s something. Killing