The Prettiest Feathers (8 page)

Any other man might run, but for me the risk is part of the attraction. It is peaking now, and I find it exhilarating. It has never been better than it is now, with Sarah.

W
hen I opened my door and found Robert standing there, I didn’t say a word, not even “Go away.”

“It’s business, Sarah. May I come in?”

I sighed. “Sure. Why not?”

He looked wonderful, and I said so—instantly wishing that I hadn’t. Now that he didn’t have me, Robert behaved just as I used to wish he would: interested, appreciative, flirtatious. I didn’t want to give him any encouragement. I had no interest in replaying that old sad song that had been our marriage.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” he said.

Searching for a way to change the subject, I asked if he wanted something to drink.

“What I want is some information. You were there at the shooting yesterday,” he said.

“Wrong. I was across the street from it, headed up to the massage parlor.”

“Tell me what you saw.”

“Nothing. I heard three shots. That’s it.”

Robert flipped open his pocket-sized notebook and wrote a couple of words in it. “The shots,” he said. “Were they one right after the other, or was there some time between them?”

“They weren’t boom-boom-boom. But there wasn’t much time in between. Maybe a little more time between the second and third shots.”

“About how long?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. When that kind of thing happens, time is different. It slows down. I thought someone was shooting at
me.
Sorry I’m not much help. But there is something you might find interesting. Those guys came into the shop the other day. I think they were going to rob us, but there was a customer in there, a man. He picked up on the body language right away. He pulled a gun.”

“Who
did—the customer or one of the dead guys?”

“The customer. It was all over in a matter of seconds. The two punks just backed on out of the store. End of problem.”

“Who’s the customer?”

“I’m wondering the same thing. He said his name is John Wolf and he lives in Landgrove, but there isn’t any phone listing in his name.”

Robert’s eyes narrowed. I knew that look; knew what it meant. “You tried to call him? Is this guy a boyfriend of yours?”

“Jesus, Robert. Do you think I get involved with every guy I meet? I was trying to reach the guy so I could ask him to contact
you.
I thought maybe he’d remember something about those two guys that I don’t.”

Robert looked truly apologetic. “Sorry …”

“Forget it.”

“If this Wolf character comes into the shop again, ask him to call me.”

“Of course.”

•  •  •

John Wolf called me the next day at work.

“I tried reaching you the other day,” I said. “Didn’t you say you live in Landgrove?”

He paused before responding. “Yes. But I don’t have a phone. I know that’s unheard of in this day and age, but I love the peace. That’s why I moved to Landgrove—to get away from the world. But I already told you all that, didn’t I? How I hate the city, I mean.”

So that was it. Directory information had never heard of him because he didn’t have a phone. For the hundredth time I thought what an interesting, exceptional man John Wolf was.

“My ex wants to talk to you,” I said.

He laughed. “Wants to discuss my intentions regarding you, I suppose.”

“No, it’s nothing like that.”

“Well, I don’t mind telling him. I have important plans for you, Sarah Sinclair.”

I felt the heat rise in my face.

“So what does he want?” John asked, returning to the topic of Robert.

“There was a shooting in the alley across the street a couple of days ago—two guys shot dead. I think they’re the same ones who came into the shop that day you were here.”

“I see
.”

“I told Robert about it—about how you got rid of them by showing them your gun. He wants to see if you remember anything I didn’t.”

“Okay.”

“Would you mind calling him?”

“Certainly I’ll call him. What’s the number?”

I gave it to him, thinking how odd it felt bringing those two men, my past and my future, together.

“Oh, there’s one other thing,” I said. “The other day you mentioned a psychiatrist—the one you went to see when you were going through your divorce. Dr. Street?”

“Streeter,” he said. “You aren’t looking for a shrink, are
you? I wouldn’t recommend him. Besides, you can always talk to me.”

E and R. What a big difference two little letters can make. It explained everything.

As soon as I awakened on the eleventh (which—since I had taken the day off—wasn’t very early), I phoned Robert at his office. My purpose, without being obvious about it, was to confirm what time he would be visiting Liza’s grave. I didn’t want our paths to cross. I didn’t mention that I, too, would be going to the cemetery. For all I knew, I would chicken out, and I didn’t want Robert giving me grief about it. Since the day of the burial, he’d been trying to get me to go out there.

“You owe it to her,” he had said. Not: “It’ll do you good.” He made it a responsibility, a requirement—implying that my refusal to go was proof of my failure as a mother; proof that I was the one who killed her. If I didn’t go through with the birthday visit, I didn’t want him to have that knowledge, that weapon.

“Sinclair,” he said when he picked up his phone.

“Ditto,” I said.

“Thanks for calling me back so soon.”

I glanced down at my answering machine and, for the first time, saw the message light blinking. I’d had the bell turned off, so I didn’t know that any calls had come in while I was sleeping. I decided to let Robert go on thinking that I was returning his call.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“I wanted to thank you for passing my message along to your friend. I also thought I ought to let you know that he doesn’t really live in Landgrove.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he’s playing a game with you, Sarah. The story he gave you and the story I got don’t match.”

“What are you saying?”

“You figure it out. Maybe he’s married. I don’t know.”

“You always expect the worst from people. He happens to be divorced.”

“Look,” Robert said, “his lies are between you and him. Let him set the story straight.” “That’s what I love about you.” “What?”

“You drop hints. Get me interested. Then tell me to go fuck myself. You never change, do you, Robert?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. After a pause, he added, “You know what today is.”

“Yes …”

“And you know how it gets to me.”

“Are you going over to see her?”

“Yeah. In a few minutes.”

“Give her my love.”

“Right.”

After a long silence, I said, “Well, I’ve gotta run.”

“Me, too.”

Then I remembered. “Oh, wait. There’s something I keep forgetting to tell you. Remember that woman we were talking about—the one in the cemetery, who was murdered?”

“Maxine Harris.”

“Yes. She came in the shop once with some used books she wanted to sell. Harry bought a couple, but there was one that was too beat up to put on the shelves. I bought it from her.”

“How do you know it was Maxine Harris?”

“I was reading the book just the other night. There’s a sticker on the inside front cover with her name written on it.”

“You’re kidding.”

“It’s a collection of Rimbaud’s work. I don’t know how helpful that is, but at least you know she had good taste in poetry.”

“Rambo’s a poet?”

I remembered all over again how far apart Robert and I are in our tastes. His idea of great literature is
Soldier of Fortune
magazine.

“It looks like she used the book a lot. There’s one section that she highlighted in yellow. I’ll show it to you the next time you’re out at the house.”

“Is that an invitation?”

I paused for a moment, considering my options. I knew if I said no, I’d be contradicting my willingness to show him the book. And if I said yes, it might sound like I was offering more than I really was.

“Take it any way you want,” I said.

I
presented my papers to the desk sergeant at the precinct house, a ruddy-faced cop waiting for his heart attack to happen. He glanced at me and made a call.

Sinclair was there in less than two minutes, a reasonable time for a city employee to keep a courier from the British embassy waiting.

“Alan Carver,” I announced, extending my hand.

“I was expecting John Wolf,” Sinclair said, shaking my hand.

“The undersecretary is in Washington,” I told him. “He asked me to deliver this package to you, and to be prepared to answer any questions you might have. I’m sure you can appreciate the delicate nature of the situation.”

“Of course,” Sinclair said, as he accepted the small parcel bearing the seal of the United Kingdom.

The detective escorted me to a conference room on the same floor. It was a large room, sparsely furnished with a single, chipped Formica table and three vinyl chairs. He sat. I remained standing. He read.

“I think you’ll find the information complete. The weapon in question is there—all the necessary papers. The undersecretary does acknowledge his indiscretion, and apologizes. He asked me to assure you that his moving about your city without the proper escort will not happen again.”

Sinclair was nodding. He examined the .32 caliber revolver, the license, and the gun’s registration certificate. “This all appears to be in order,” he said. “Mr. Wolf’s letter contains most of the information I need, but—”

“He has briefed me thoroughly, Detective,” I said, and waited.

Sinclair scanned the letter again. “His purpose for being in that neighborhood—”

“The undersecretary is an antiquarian book collector. As you can see, the book he purchased that day is included in the package.”

Sinclair flipped through the pages of
The Swiss Family Robinson.
He was thinking. In the reality I had shaped for him, he would know that this call was a courtesy, that John Wolf was insulated by diplomatic immunity. He also knew that it was a dead kid’s birthday, and he had a grave to visit. He couldn’t waste the whole day sparring with an absent undersecretary.

“Were you planning to take this material back with you?” he asked.

“On the contrary,” I said. “We wish to be of assistance, just not involved. When you have finished with it, please leave a message at the embassy for me. I’ll return and pick it up.”

I handed him Alan Carver’s card. He stared at it.

“The night of the shooting,” he began.

I nodded at the letter.

“He was at a reception with the mayor?” Sinclair asked.

“Easily and, I hope, discreetly verified,” I said.

“Sure.”

I glanced at my Rolex. “If there’s nothing more,” I said.

“I’ll check all this out,” he said, standing. “I’ll probably have some questions later.”

The man was seething.

I’ve always been a collector of other people’s business cards. With the cards, plus the information I glean from my computer, and an occasional visit to a bank, convention, or embassy, I’ve been able to assume whatever identities I’ve needed. I’ve also educated myself so that I can step into a man’s professional life and live it, passably, for as long as I wish.

Later, as I drove toward the cemetery to meet Sarah, I knew that her ex-husband would be tied up for the next several days in bureaucracy, on both the local and the international level. The embassy would accept a message for their courier, Mr. Carver, but they wouldn’t tell Sinclair that Alan Carver was on holiday with his wife in the British Virgin Islands.

Nor would they tell him that they had no undersecretary named John Wolf. They would assume, as they had when I called, that he wanted to speak with Jeremy Wolf, and they would provide him with the number at his office in Washington. When I called that number, I was politely given a telephone appointment for the middle of November, nearly a month away—an expedited time frame because I had claimed to be an investigator for the Department of the Treasury with an urgent need for information.