The Desperate Game: (InterMix) (13 page)

There was an element in Zac’s voice that made Guinevere peer around the curtain. He was standing on the red bathroom rug, staring intently at the newspaper in his hand. She had a sudden, uneasy premonition.

“Zac?”

He glanced up, his eyes not quite focusing on her as he followed some internal path of logic that only he could see. “The paper says some hikers found his body at the bottom of a ravine in the Cascades. Apparently he tried to do some rock climbing on his own not far from the highway.”

“Oh, my God.” The shower water seemed to have gone cold. Guinevere stood still, the curtain clutched in her fist, and stared at Zac’s brooding face. Then her mind went to work on the implications. “Rock climbing? Cal? I didn’t know he was into it. And aren’t climbers supposed to go with a companion? Cal’s closest companion was Larry.”

“I think we’d better just have dry cereal after all, Gwen. I’ve got a lot of things to do this morning.” Zac turned and started out the bathroom door.

“Zac, wait! What are you going to do?”

“Make some calls. Talk to some people.” He gave her a wry smile. “It’s what you do in this line of work.”

“Are you going to contact Hampton Starr?”

“I don’t think so. Not right away. There are some other questions I want answered first.”

Guinevere thought about that. Then she said very softly, “I take it you don’t think Cal’s death was an accident?”

“Like I said, there are some questions that need answering. Don’t stand too long in the shower. Your cereal will get soggy.”

Chapter Seven

The news about the unfortunate climber who had met his death in the mountains got only a brief spot on the radio that morning. The body had been discovered late the previous afternoon and had made the late-evening broadcasts in more detail. Guinevere poured herself another cup of coffee and listened to the radio spot alone. Zac was long gone. He’d wolfed down a few bites of cereal, kissed her in an absent yet possessive manner that should have annoyed her, and let himself out the front door. When the door closed, Guinevere was very much alone. The apartment, which usually seemed so cozy, felt unaccountably empty this morning.

It was obvious that whatever the night had meant to Zac, the morning had brought something more interesting: a new angle to the case on which he had been working. Apparently the call to work ranked higher than a discussion of an embryonic “relationship.”

People to see, questions to ask. Business as usual.

Guinevere considered the folly of letting stray frogs spend the night, and then she started paying more attention to the radio. It would be, the announcer said soberly, several hours before the crew sent to retrieve the body would have it freed from the deep ravine. Initial identification had been made when a climber had scrambled down the jagged rock face and found Cal’s wallet.

Guinevere raised the miniblinds again so that she could look across the street into the artist’s studio and wondered about Cal Bender.

The man had been a loner as far as she knew. Larry had said he had no close family. It seemed that Larry had been Cal’s only real friend, and that relationship had been primarily a business partnership. Bender hadn’t been as outgoing or communicative as Larry was, so he hadn’t enjoyed the easy, chatty friendship Larry had with the rest of the staff. But their joint interests and ambitions had drawn the two young men together, and their ability to communicate with computers had become the important factor in their association.

Guinevere thought of Larry and wondered if he’d heard the news. On a burst of empathy she reached for the phone and dialed his number. There was no answer. He’d probably spent the night working on Elf Hunt and had unplugged the phone so he could sleep in this morning.

The phone burbled just as Guinevere replaced the receiver, and she picked it up again. Her sister’s voice greeted her.

“Hi, Carla, how are you feeling this morning?” Instantly she regretted the automatic words. That was always a risky question around Carla.

“All right, I guess.” The lack of drama behind the response was surprising. Carla sounded almost uninterested in an inquiry she normally reacted to with grim detail. “I called to see if you’ve been to the office.”

“I hardly recognized it.” Guinevere smiled. “You’ve really made some changes. I’ve never seen the place so organized.”

“It’s a mess.” Carla was adamant.

“It is?”

“There’s a lot more to be done there, Gwen. If you don’t get a handle on those client files, you’re going to screw things up for yourself at income tax time.”

Guinevere shifted uneasily in her chair and reached for her coffee mug. That sort of threat always had a traumatic impact on a small businessperson. “I thought I had everything in order.”

“The whole setup is inefficient and amateurish.”

For some reason that struck Guinevere to the quick. “Amateurish! I worked for hours setting up those files.”

“Well, you should have hired a professional.”

“A professional what? Professional file setter-upper? I didn’t know there was such a being.” Guinevere realized she was starting to get defensive.

“Calm down, Gwen. I’m only telling you this for your own good.”

In a blinding flash of light Guinevere suddenly acknowledged what an about-face this was. She had been the one giving Carla lectures “for her own good” for months. Now the tables were reversed. “I appreciate the advice, Carla,” she said stiffly, “but I don’t see what—”

“Look, if you want, I can start going into the office on a regular basis for a few days. I could at least put things in order for you and show you how to run a good filing system.”

Guinevere wondered if she was hearing correctly. “You could?”

“It’s not as if I have a lot else to do.”

“No, I guess not.” Guinevere felt taken aback. “Well, I would certainly appreciate your help. I know I’ve let things get behind this past week while I’ve been handling that job at StarrTech.”

“Gwen, that office was in trouble long before you went to work at StarrTech. We’re not talking about a few unfiled items here. We’re talking a basically poor filing system design. Filing is fundamental to a well-run office, Gwen. You’re a decent typist, and you can answer phones, but that’s about your limit. Filing is an art.”

“I hadn’t realized—”

“It’s time you did.”

“Yes.” Guinevere felt humble. “It’s very nice of you to offer to help, Carla.”

“I’ll start Monday.”

“Uh, thanks.”

It was only after Carla hung up the phone that Guinevere realized they hadn’t discussed Valium deprivation or Dr. Estabrook’s inadequacies.

Carla’s words had left a load of worry and an odd form of guilt on Guinevere’s shoulders. Or perhaps she was just feeling restless because she’d been abandoned by her lover before eight o’clock in the morning. Sometimes it was hard to identify the source of one’s unease, Guinevere decided. Sometimes one didn’t want to identify the source. Too many questions arose, questions such as whether or not last night had been a one-night stand or the start of a relationship.

Feeling pressed, with a need to do something,
anything
, Guinevere made the decision to go on into the office. After she’d dressed in a pair of jeans and a pumpkin-colored pullover sweater, she dialed Larry Hixon’s number one more time. Still no answer.

At various points in the morning Guinevere continued to try Larry’s number. She didn’t know just when she actually began to worry about the lack of response, but sometime after lunch she sat back in her swivel chair and drummed her nails on the desk.

Perhaps Larry had already heard the news about Cal and had gone off by himself to think for a while. Or perhaps he was up but back at work on Elf Hunt and had forgotten to plug in his phone. Maybe he’d had a date the previous evening and had decided to spend the night. Heaven knew there were men these days who were not above wheedling their way between a woman’s clean sheets and then blithely taking off in the morning without anything more than an absentminded farewell kiss. Back to business as usual.

It occurred to Guinevere that she was personalizing the issue.

She spun her chair around so that she could look out the window. The offices across the street on First Avenue were dark and silent this morning. Everyone else in the neighborhood appeared to be home enjoying the weekend.

Maybe Larry had taken off somewhere for the weekend. She wondered if he would have mentioned such a trip to Carla. Out of curiosity she dialed her sister’s number. Carla answered on the second ring.

“Larry? No, I haven’t talked to him since yesterday morning. He called to see how I was doing running Camelot Services for you. Sweet guy.”

Guinevere blinked at the implication that her sister had been doing anything more for Camelot Services than simply baby-sitting the phone. Then she forced herself to calm down. She had been on the verge of getting defensive again. “I just wondered if he’d said anything to you about going out of town this weekend.”

“Nope. As a matter of fact, we talked about getting together Sunday afternoon for a picnic. It depends on whether Larry can finish playing that game of his. He seems totally committed to getting through it. I think it’s become a challenge or something.”

Or something. “Thanks, Carla. I’ll talk to you later.” Guinevere hung up the phone thoughtfully.

Carla was right. All indications were that Larry Hixon wouldn’t abandon his computer until he’d hammered his way through the altered version of Elf Hunt. So why wasn’t he answering his phone?

And what if Cal’s death were something other than an accident?

Cal and Larry had been partners.

The vague disquiet that had been floating around the edges of her mind all morning drove Guinevere restlessly to her feet. She paced the small office once and then dialed Zac’s number. It was no surprise that there wasn’t an answer. After all, she thought irritably, he had questions to ask and people to see. The big-time investigator hot on the trail of discovery.

Reaching for her red wool jacket, Guinevere made up her mind. She stalked out of the office, locked the door carefully, and then went out onto First Avenue. Striding briskly through Pioneer Square, she sidestepped a few panhandlers and made her way into her apartment garage. She fished the Laser’s keys out of her purse. It was a short drive to the Wallingford district, and she knew she would feel better if she actually saw Larry sitting hunched over his computer with his cell phone beside him.

Just as she had on her first visit, Guinevere parked her car in front of Larry’s house, and just as on her first visit she got the impression as she went up the walk that there was no one home.

She reminded herself of how her imagination had gone into overtime on her first visit and how ridiculous she’d felt when she’d walked through Larry’s silent house and found him sleeping on the bed. Tentatively she knocked on the front door. There was no response.

Guinevere walked along the porch a few steps and tried to peer in through the window. The aging drapes had been drawn shut, however, and she couldn’t catch even a glimpse of the interior. Guinevere trotted down the porch steps and went around to the back of the house. Her nerves were coming alive exactly as they had that evening she’d gone into Cal Bender’s house, and she felt the adrenaline surge through her veins. She was also beginning to feel distinctly scared.

There were a hundred logical explanations for Larry’s absence. But there had been a hundred logical explanations for Cal’s absence too. And the answer in that case had been the one illogical explanation nobody had considered: death.

Guinevere shivered and stood on tiptoe to peek into the bathroom window. This sort of thing could get her arrested. Looking at your artistic neighbor across the street from a second-story window was one thing. Peeping into a man’s bathroom window out in a quiet residential neighborhood was another.

She couldn’t see any shadows moving behind the fogged glass. Guinevere continued around the house. The back door was also locked, but Guinevere remembered how Zac had almost used a credit card to open Cal Bender’s back door. She wondered how tricky an operation that was.

She flipped open her shoulder bag and dug out her prized charge card. It read “Camelot Services” in impressive gold letters. Guinevere hoped the bank wouldn’t revoke it if it found out she was using the card in such a devious fashion. Glancing over her shoulder to make certain no one could see her, she slipped the card into the crack between the door and its frame.

After a few anxious minutes of jiggling and prodding she gave up. Whatever the trick with the credit card was, apparently it wasn’t something you could pick up on your own in the field. It took some training and expertise.

With a sigh of defeat Guinevere started back around the house. She was crossing in front of the kitchen window when she realized it was partially open. She halted abruptly and wondered if it was also locked. It didn’t appear to be.

Once again Guinevere glanced furtively over her shoulder, and then she tentatively tried to raise the kitchen window. It gave easily. For a moment she simply stood staring at it. All she had to do was crawl through the opening and she would be inside Larry’s house.

The urge for answers overcame her usually sound judgment. Guinevere hoisted herself up onto the ledge and then fumbled her way through the window. A moment later she found herself on the counter beside the kitchen sink.

“Larry?”

The house seemed unnaturally dark. She supposed computer types throve in darkness. It was better for reading computer screens. She wandered down the hall into the living room. In the gloom caused by the drawn drapes she could see that there was no sign of anyone’s being home. The place was cave-dark.

She stepped over to the computer and glanced down at the desk as she flipped on the light. The surface was much less neat than she remembered it. Larry had apparently spilled a little tea or cola and hadn’t bothered to wipe it up before it dried. Not only had it stained the wood, but it had also spotted several sheets of paper and a magazine.

It took a few seconds before Guinevere realized that the stains on the desk weren’t quite the right color for tea.

Her stomach tightened as she traced a fingertip over one dried pool. It wasn’t sticky the way cola would be.

It didn’t take a great deal of intuition to realize exactly what had caused the stains.

Women saw a lot of blood over the course of their lives. They cut themselves shaving their legs; they dealt with the monthly changes in their bodies; they patched up the wounds of little kids who fell out of trees. They knew blood when they saw it.

***

Zac took another swallow of the weak metallic-tasting coffee the waitress was pouring with a lavish hand and watched Russ Elfstrom work his way energetically through a moat of french fries that surrounded a hamburger. Zac thought fleetingly of the large breakfast he’d planned on enjoying with Guinevere before the news of Bender’s death had intruded. So far he hadn’t had a bite. He wondered what Gwen had done all morning. She’d probably had both breakfast and lunch by now.

“So everyone’s convinced it really is just an accident?” Elfstrom paused to spread more mustard on his burger. A half-smoked cigarette smoldered in the ashtray beside his plate. “No signs of what the media likes to call foul play?”

“According to what I can find out, the authorities are treating it as exactly what it looks like: a climbing accident. They’ll know more when they get the body out of the ravine and into a coroner’s lab, but no one I talked to is expecting to find anything suspicious.”