W Is for Wasted (39 page)

I leaned forward. “He can prove he was out of town?”

“No question. And please remember, this is coming out of left field, so he’s had no time to prepare.”

“Okay, so the gun is his, but he was gone. Now what?”

“There’s a kicker.”

“I hope it’s good.”

“I don’t know how good it is, but it’s interesting. I take that back—it’s good and it’s interesting.”

I made that rolling-hand gesture hoping to speed him along.

“Once we tell him the semiautomatic in the drawer might be the one used in a shooting death, he’s practically begging us to get the damn thing out of his house. We bag and tag and go back to the station, where we run the serial numbers. And you know what we find?”

“The gun’s not registered.”

“It is registered. You want to guess who to?”

“Cheney, would you quit this? Either tell me or don’t tell me, but don’t play games. Whose gun was it?”

“Pete Wolinsky’s.”

•   •   •

I told Cheney I’d walk home. He had to get back to work and I needed the air. Nothing made sense. How had Pete’s Glock 17 ended up in some stranger’s bed table drawer? What was
that
about? We’d gone through the story a second time. Once the gun was identified as Pete’s, the Wrays were invited downtown for further conversation and they couldn’t have been more cooperative. Both agreed to have their prints rolled. Sanford Wray didn’t know Pete Wolinsky. He’d never even heard the name. Nor had his wife, Gail. Neither had a criminal history. Both husband and wife were out of state the night Pete was killed. Their home security system had been activated and there were no reports of an alarm. Jonah asked them to make a list of everyone who’d had access to the house in their absence and they’d given it to him on the spot. Not that many, as it turned out. House cleaners, Wray’s personal assistant, a couple of family members who were coming in at Jonah’s request. In the meantime, Ballistics was now in possession of both the Ruger and the Glock 17, and they’d determine which slugs had been fired from which gun.

It was almost dark by the time I reached home. I’d left lights on for myself, but Henry’s place was dark. I figured he was up at Rosie’s, so I did a turnabout and walked the half block. I was itchy with anxiety, but I wasn’t up to a social visit unless we could talk in private. Rosie’s front windows were plastered with the usual beer and liquor ads, but a quick peek revealed Anna sitting at the table with Henry. Except for the boobs, I wasn’t jealous of her, but she was getting on my nerves.

Walking back to my place, I passed an unfamiliar turquoise Thunderbird, which I imagined was one of Rosie’s patrons taking up valuable parking space. I let myself into my studio and flipped off the porch light. I sat down at my desk, gathered my index cards, secured them with a rubber band, and tossed them into my bottom drawer. With Cheney and Jonah on it, my notes were beside the point. The sole remaining keepsake, if you want to think of it as such, was Pete’s cardboard box that I was using as a footrest. I still believed I was right. Given my particular personality disorder, once I get on a thought track, I have trouble getting off.

I felt a nearly irresistible urge to create another, better explanation for Pete’s death, but I resisted. Once I’m convinced B follows A and that Y precedes Z, it doesn’t matter what I’m looking at, that’s what I see. I’d developed a theory about Pete’s relationship to Linton Reed and I made sure everything fit . . . which, I realized now, was much the same thing Linton Reed was doing with his data trimming, only without the loss of life.

I wondered (belatedly, I grant you) if I’d been using this entire enterprise as a way of avoiding anxiety about the sudden drop in business. I’d been thinking of these past weeks as unpaid vacation time, immersing myself in the issues of Dace’s last will and testament so I could feel busy and productive when in fact I had no money coming in. I was not without ample savings, but I didn’t want to go through my rainy-day funds. I’m cheap. I grew up in pinched circumstances. Financial excess is good. Penury is not.

I lifted my head and realized I was hearing a steady stream of cat talk outside. Ed had probably been chatting for some time, but I hadn’t been tuned in. I went to the door and peered out the porthole, angling my gaze so I could see the doormat. Sure enough, Ed was sitting there, the two rows of potted marigolds forming a runway on either side of him.

I flipped on the porch light and opened the door, saying, “How do you manage this? I know Henry didn’t leave you out.”

He said something that I didn’t get. He came in, possibly to inspect the premises. He began a leisurely tour, making sure all was in order.

“Hang on,” I said.

Maybe Anna had been careless. More likely, the cat had some secret means of ingress and egress.

I grabbed Henry’s keys, picked Ed up, and tucked him under one arm, flipping the thumb lock to the unlocked position before I closed the door behind me. My personal escort service might have been his scheme all along since he immediately began to purr. I unlocked Henry’s back door and dropped the cat inside. I returned to my place, crossing the patio, which was washed in weak light from my porch lamp. I turned the doorknob and discovered that I’d locked myself out. Well, that was irritating. I must have locked the door when I thought I was unlocking it. My handbag and keys were inside and I was stuck outside. I assessed the situation and realized it was a minor inconvenience easily remedied. I could either let myself into Henry’s kitchen and snag his spare keys, which included one for my door, or I could trot up to Rosie’s, suffer Anna’s company, and have him buy me a glass of wine. I opted for the wine.

It wasn’t until I turned to leave that I realized Linton Reed was standing in the shadow of the driveway. He wore a dark overcoat. He looked completely out of place in the midst of such familiar sights. The Adirondack chair and the aluminum lawn chair were still pulled close together, as though William and I hadn’t finished talking. There was a trowel on Henry’s potting bench that he might have left there two minutes ago instead of the hours it had probably been. Clay pots of marigolds awaited placement around the edges of the patio.

Linton Reed had his hands in his coat pockets and he was completely still. This seemed odd to me. Charming people, like great white sharks, are always in motion. Their charm depends on sleight of hand; a smile, a tone, anything to suggest they have an active inner life that fuels the public image. They depend on motion to give them breath. It’s because they’re dead inside that they work so hard to maintain the illusion that they have souls.

“Hi, Dr. Reed,” I said. “Anna said you might stop by.” I moved toward him, showing what a friendly little thing I was.

His reply was late in coming by two beats. “Did she now.” His tone wasn’t accusatory. It was thoughtful, as though he were contemplating the possibility.

“She said you wanted to pick up that bottle of pills.”

Again, the slow response. “When we spoke, you didn’t tell me you had them.”

“Because I didn’t at that point. After you talked about the danger of unidentified medications in circulation, I asked a couple of Dace’s friends if they knew what he’d done with his pills. As it happens, he’d given them to a homeless fellow, who turned them over to me. I threw them in the trash. I hope that was all right.” He’d triggered the chatty side of my nature, which often comes to the fore when I’m worried I’ll wet my pants.

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh. Well, good. Because the point is, I don’t have the pills. If I did, I’d give them to you. I certainly have no use for them myself.”

“You led me to believe you had a simple query about a family member when all the time you sat there convinced I’d done something bad. I didn’t come here asking about the pills. You jumped to the subject yourself because you’re guilty of such deceit.”

“I have no reason to feel guilty.”

He ignored that comment. “I received a call from Eloise Cantrell, who says you accosted her on the street, asking questions about me.”

“I didn’t
accost
her. How ridiculous. I ran into her at St. Terry’s as she was leaving for the day. I knew she worked on the CCU because she’d called me months ago when Dace was admitted. I asked if she knew you and she said she did. That’s all it was. I’d talked to you earlier and it just seemed like a happy coincidence.”

I watched his face cloud over.

He shook his head, frowning. “Something’s off. Let’s go back. You came to my office unannounced hoping to catch me off guard. You presented yourself in a false light, gathering information for reasons known only to yourself.”

“I probably should have been more forthcoming,” I said. “Here’s what happened. I’m sure you know Terrence Dace was suspicious and confused. His behavior was erratic and he harbored paranoid fantasies. I thought I should look into it. It had nothing to do with you personally. I got involved because he’d drawn up a will in which he disinherited his children and left everything to me. I was concerned about a legal challenge, so I was doing my due diligence . . .”

Wincing, he pressed the flat of his hand to the side of his face, like a child with a painful ear infection. “You keep talking and talking. You use talk as a cover for something else, but I don’t know what it is.”

“Really, I don’t. I think you’ve misunderstood.”

“No, I have not. You’re devious. I don’t know how else to describe your behavior.”

“I haven’t meant to be devious.”

“But it’s your nature, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think so. I wouldn’t say that about myself.”

“Do you have any idea how perilous your position is?”

“Perilous?”

“I have you to thank for what’s happening. It’s as simple as that. When we spoke in my office, I didn’t grasp your agenda. I was at fault there for not being quicker off the mark. My apologies.”

In a situation like this, it’s of little comfort knowing you’re right. I was right about Linton Reed. I’d been right all along, but who was I going to tell?

“I don’t have an agenda,” I said.

“Yes, you do. You talk to people about me. You write things down. You think about things that are none of your concern.”

“I haven’t done anything to you. I asked a few questions, but only to determine Dace’s state of mind when he changed the will.”

Dr. Reed was exasperated. “You’re lying again. You’ve undercut whatever credibility you had. I was offering you a chance to explain yourself and you’re throwing off all this smoke.”

I had a quick little chat with myself, saying: Here’s a tip, Self. Do not argue with a lunatic. Arguing with a lunatic simply ensures that you’ll climb into his craziness with him when what you want to do is take a big step back.

He held up his right hand. “Do you see this?”

His fingertips were black.

“The police insisted on taking my prints. Can you imagine my humiliation? My wife was there and they took hers as well. The detective was polite, but I hated the way he looked at me. He was taking my measure. He weighed every word I said. I’ve never been treated like that in my life, but I had to maintain control of myself because I knew he’d be writing things down.”

I was getting cold standing out on the patio in the half-light. A thought popped to mind, one of those insights that comes too late to be of any use. This felt like that game show where the contestants are given an answer and asked to frame the relevant question. I said, “Who is Sanford Wray?”

“He’s my father-in-law.”

I nodded, my mouth suddenly too dry to form a response.

I caught motion on the drive. I looked over and spotted Anna just as she spotted me. She turned on her heel. Linton glanced in that direction. “Who are you looking at?”

I cleared my throat and tried again. “Neighborhood dog. He’s always wandering into the yard.”

He closed his eyes, testing the truth value of the statement. For once I was lying outright and Linton missed it, so maybe he wasn’t as smart as he thought. Maybe I wasn’t that smart either because Anna might have helped me if I hadn’t read her the riot act.

I said, “You know what? Why don’t we forget all this and start from scratch? Somehow I gave you the wrong impression and I apologize.”

“Impression? We’re not talking about
impressions
. We’re talking about the truth of what’s going on.”

“Which is what? I’m not getting this.”

“You’re ruining my life. You’re tearing down everything I worked so hard to achieve.”

I shook my head, saying, “I’m not. I wouldn’t do that.”

He smiled slightly. “Well. Perhaps you’re right. I suppose there’s no point in arguing since it won’t change anything.”

For a moment, I was quiet. Linton Reed was about to declare himself. Then again, so was I. “You know what your problem is?”

He fixed his attention on me. He’d been in that strange little twisted world of his where he was the king. “What’s that?”

“You don’t know a Ruger from a Glock.”

His smile faded and his eyes went dead. He removed a flat silver case from his coat pocket and triggered the lid.

I couldn’t bring myself to look. I kept my eyes locked on his. Was there anyone alive in there? My heart had started to bang as though I’d just climbed a flight of stairs.

“Look what I brought for you,” he said.

I looked down. The interior was lined with black velvet. In the center was a scalpel. A jolt of ice moved down my spine, chilling every nerve it touched. The effect was odd, like that spritzy jangle you feel when you contact a hot wire.

“This was my specialty. My first love,” he said.

He plucked the scalpel from its velvet bed, snapped the case shut, and returned it to his coat pocket. He held the surgical instrument so it caught the light. “I call him ‘the Biter.’ He’s quick and sharp. This blade is my favorite. A number twelve. You see how this portion curves. That’s his music. A sweet high note you’ll hear when he whistles through your flesh.”

His eyes met mine. “No need to be apprehensive. You won’t suffer. He’ll see to that. A burning sensation, but so brief. Think of it as lightning, illuminating your soul. A starburst followed by quiet.”