The newspaper buried the story but he had seen it anyway. Ronald Pinkham, survived by no one, except the tattooed lady at the laundry and a few semi-stray dogs, was dead of what seemed to be “foul play.” The police had no comment but they were “following leads.”
“Leads,” he mused, tossing the paper down on the counter. “Such as some item that made them connect it back to you, Monsieur Sackett.”
Guillaume laughed high in his nose. “A trifle. They’ll never be able to find another piece of the puzzle. All they shall ever have is some hint the man knew me. So what? Many people know me. I am the manager of this complex.”
“Really? Did you stop to wonder where your esteemed sister placed the relevant weapon and where it might next be placed?”
“Is that some manner of threat, Mr. Wycliff?”
“Merely an observation. I also observe that though Pinkham was punished for passing all his work on to a lesser underling, that person has not been cleared away as well. It’s a nasty little loose end.”
“I did go over to the unit from which our man called Pinkham but he had already absconded. I saw no point in waiting for him to return.”
“Are you aware that there is another organization operating in the Court? Someone was arrested for dealing drugs yesterday.”
Guillaume took the paper back up and flipped through it, his face contorted in fury.
Wycliff shook his head. “You will not see it there just yet, Monsieur. I have it on good authority though. And then there is the matter of Mr. Westcott. We both know he has some evidence squirreled away that would be quite perilous to our organization and would be doubly damaging to you personally. Yet you seem to have entirely failed to locate and destroy said evidence.”
“I am not through with Mr. Westcott yet.”
“I know you prefer to act with some finesse but I feel the time for a light touch is gone. Your sister may have the better approach.”
“If you let her, she will ruin it all. She has no idea how to make people talk and she does not care. She will silence Mr. Westcott far too early. Let me finish it my way.”
“I give you one week, Monsieur. That is all.”
Wycliff slipped away, out the delivery entrance in the back office, out onto the beach. Guillaume watched him go and then tossed the newspaper into the recycling bin.
