“Tell me about the man who hurt you, Joshua.”
“What?”
“The man you loved so much, the man who left you.”
“Why the hell should I? You don’t care.”
“I care that you were hurt by him. What’s his name?”
“… Brendon.”
“How long were you together?”
“What difference does it make?” Joshua said. Then, “Fourteen months. The best fourteen months of my miserable life. I thought he loved me, but he was just another lying user like Kenneth.”
“Why did he leave?”
“Why do you think? He found somebody else. Came home one night, threw it in my face, packed his stuff, and moved out. Fuck him. I don’t want to talk about him.”
This tactic wasn’t going to work. It was only making Joshua more agitated, pushing him closer to the brink. Runyon had already discarded the idea of making an effort to disarm him; even standing, he would never make it across the room in time. What else? There had to be another way.
One, the only one he could think of that might work. Calculated high risk. But anything he said or did was a calculated high risk. He said a silent prayer, the first time he’d prayed since the early stages of Colleen’s illness. Unanswered prayer then, shattering what little faith he had. If there was a God, He’d better be listening now.
Runyon sat still, very still, with his hands flat on his thighs. “Joshua,” he said.
“What?”
“I’m as sick of this conversation as you are. If you’re going to splatter your brains all over the room, go ahead and do it.” The words burned in his throat; he had to force them out. “Get it over with.”
“I will. You can’t stop me.”
“I’m not going to try anymore.” He forced his eyes shut, squeezing the lids down tight. “But I won’t watch you do it, I won’t watch your head explode. And I won’t look at what’s left of you afterward. I’ll just get up and walk out of here and call nine-one-one from outside.”
“You don’t mean that—”
“I do mean it. I won’t give you the satisfaction.”
“Open your eyes.”
“No.”
“Open your goddamn eyes!”
“Not until I hear the gun go off, and then only after I stand up and turn my back.”
Silence again except for the rasp of Joshua’s breathing. The only other times Runyon had felt this helpless were in the hospital at Colleen’s bedside, and each of those times his eyes had been wide open. The strain of holding himself still quivered his nerves, set up a pounding ache in his temples. He could feel the accelerated beat of his pulse.
The crackling stillness seemed to go on and on and on. If the goddamn gun did go off, he didn’t know what he’d do. Go a little crazy, probably.
But it didn’t go off. There was a shift in the cadence of Joshua’s breathing, a faint shuffling as if he was moving in the chair. And then a low moan that morphed into tremulous words.
“I can’t. Oh God, I can’t!”
Runyon counted to five, opened one eye to a slit. Joshua was bent forward in the chair, head tilted down so his chin touched his chest, the automatic no longer pressed to his temple; both elbows on his knees, the weapon held loosely in his upturned hand. His body began to shake. A keening sound burst out of him, then a spate of sobs—an intense release of long-trapped emotion. The gun slid from his fingers; he made no effort to stop it from falling. The thump it made hitting the threadbare carpet was like a benediction.
Prayer answered, this time.
Runyon exhaled the breath he’d been holding. Both eyes open now, he shoved to his feet, crossed the room quickly on the balls of his feet, bent to pick up the gun. The grip was slick with Joshua’s sweat. He ejected the clip, dropped it into his coat pocket. There was a table a few feet away; he laid the empty automatic on it, came back to stand in front of the chair.
The sound of the heaving sobs was wrenching. The urge was strong in him to lean down and place a steadying arm around the hunched shoulders, say something calming, wipe away the tears, but he didn’t give in to it. He stayed where he was, watching, listening, waiting.
Gradually the puling eased, ended in a series of shuddering breaths. After a few seconds Joshua lifted his tearstained face, looked up at him. In a broken half whisper he said, “What … what are you going to do? Beat me? Turn me over to the police?”
“Neither.”
“What then?”
“Get you help. All the help you need.”
“Why? Why would you do that, after what I tried to do to you?”
“Because I care what happens to you,” Runyon said. “Because you’re my son.”
24
The idea I had was to see if I could manipulate Alice Cahill’s murderer into making incriminating statements on tape. I keep a state-of-the-art voice-activated recorder in the car, one sensitive enough to pick up whispers even when tucked away inside a coat pocket. I’ve used it before, to good advantage. Such a recording is inadmissible in court, but if there’s enough damning material contained on the tape it can be used to prod a perp into making a confession that is admissible.
I could have taken my collection of circumstantial evidence to Lieutenant Kowalski. It might have been enough to convince him to conduct an investigation, but I doubted it; he’d sounded pretty convinced on the phone that the guilty party was already in custody. Even if he gave my suspicions credence, he’d have had to admit he’d gotten them from me. And they’d have been angrily denied and likely to lead to a lawsuit for harassment. The one chance I had, or so I figured at the time, was the tape recorder ploy.
On the way to Lafayette, I worked out a series of questions and comments. Loaded ones, but none that could be construed as direct accusations. I had to be careful, very careful, in how I presented them.
The new cream-colored Lexus was parked where it had been on my last visit, in the long curving driveway. All right, good, Kendra Nesbitt was home. Now, if she was alone, all I had to do was talk my way inside.
I parked a short distance beyond the driveway, transferred the recorder from the glove compartment to my coat pocket. Locked the car, even though nobody was likely to bother it in a neighborhood like this, and trudged back to the Nesbitt property and up the drive to the front porch.
Some sort of chimes echoed inside when I pushed the bell. There was no one-way peephole in the door, just a fancy-colored fanlight that you could probably look through from inside if you stood up on your toes. Kendra Nesbitt didn’t do that. There was no chain on the door, either; a click and she opened right up.
Casually and immaculately dressed today in a caramel-colored blouse and black slacks. Short dark hair neatly combed. Rouge on her cheeks, mouth painted with the bright red lipstick she preferred. And a tight-lipped scowl when she recognized me.
“You again,” she said. “I told you not to bother me anymore.”
She would have shut the door in my face, except that I got a foot in the way and then a shoulder block. “I think you’d better talk to me, Mrs. Nesbitt.”
“Why should I? I have nothing more to say to you.”
“But I have some things to say to you.”
“What things?”
“About your sister’s murder.”
“James is in jail, in case you don’t already know it—”
“I know he is, yes. I also know he didn’t kill her.”
She tried again to shut the door, banging it hard against my foot and shoulder. When I didn’t back off, she snapped, “Do you want me to call the police and have you arrested for trespassing?”
“That’s your right,” I said, “but it won’t change the situation any.”
“What situation? What’re you talking about?”
“I have information that I believe exonerates James Cahill, points the finger elsewhere.”
Her control was good. Flicker of emotion in the brown eyes, a faint muscle twitch alongside the red-paint
ed mouth. “What information?”
“Suppose we talk inside. Or if you’re not alone, step out and we’ll talk here on the porch.”
“I don’t want you in my house.” She said it defiantly.
“I’m no threat to you, Mrs. Nesbitt. At least not physically.”
“… What is that supposed to mean?”
“Inside or outside, your choice.”
I watched her struggle with it. Put on a hard, narrow-eyed look to help her make up her mind. Concern that I did know something harmful to her won out. She said in glacial tones, “I’ll give you ten minutes,” and pulled the door inward.
I had my hand in my coat pocket as I stepped over the threshold. Now that the preliminary push was over and I was inside, I flipped on the recorder as I followed her.
Where she took me was into a formal living room off the vestibule. Lush pale blue carpeting, chintz curtains, modern rose-patterned couch and chairs, a kidney-shaped coffee table with a large blue-and-white vase in the middle of it. She went over by a blond-wood sideboard, stood facing me with arms folded across her heavy breasts. I stopped at the end of the couch, the coffee table between us.
“Well?” she said.
I said, “The day your sister disappeared, the day she was killed. You went to see her that morning about ten, to bring her a new prescription of Valium.”
She didn’t say anything.
“You told me previously that she and her husband had an argument before he left for work, that she was upset when you got there. Very upset. Is that right?”
“Yes, so?”
“Then why didn’t she take one or more of the Valium?”
“… What?”
“According to you, and to her husband, she’d run out. That’s why you brought her the new bottle. But it was never opened. How come, if she was so agitated?”
Caught her off guard, but not for long. “Alice hadn’t run out completely, only thought she had. She’d found a few in her bathroom drawer, taken two just before I got there. They take a while to work, you know.”
A lie, but a plausible one, dammit.
“How long did you stay with her?” I asked.
“Not long, if it matters. Until she calmed down.”
“Half an hour, longer?”
“I didn’t look at my watch.”
“Why didn’t she switch on the security alarm after you left?”
“She did. She always did.”
“So I’ve been told. Part of her phobia. But she didn’t that morning.”
“How do you know she didn’t?”
“The mailman came by around eleven-forty-five with a package of books for her. He rang the bell, but she didn’t answer, so he left the package on the porch. I talked to him earlier today. He remembers that the red light on the porch panel was turned off.”
“How can he be sure of that after nearly two weeks? His memory must be faulty.”
“He remembers it clearly because the light was always on whenever he had a delivery for her. Every time. Except that day. Why didn’t your sister arm the system after you left?”
“How should I know? She was agitated; she may have gotten distracted and forgotten.”
“She never forgot before.”
“You don’t know that. You didn’t know Alice.”
So far this was not working out as I’d hoped. And the room was overheated; she must have had the furnace turned up over seventy even though it was a clear, warmish spring day. I would have liked to shed my coat, but I did not want to take the chance with the recorder going in the pocket.
I said, “The woman who lives across the street, Mrs. Cappicotti, saw a car going into the Cahills’ garage around one o’clock—”
“Thought she saw a car. She’s old and her eyesight isn’t very good.”
“A white car with distinctive taillights, two red L-shaped strips. That identifies it as a new Lexus.”
“And I suppose you think it was mine she thought she saw. Well, it wasn’t. Thousands of people drive Lexus cars.”
“You didn’t go back to the Cahills’ that afternoon?”
“No. I had no reason to.”
“Where were you at one o’clock?”
“I don’t have to answer that, but I will. Nowhere near Shelter Hills. Out to lunch with a friend, if you must know.”
A good friend willing to lie for her, I thought. But I couldn’t say it because it constituted an accusation.
“If the Cappicotti woman did see a car,” she said, “it was Jim’s.”
“He doesn’t drive a Lexus.”
“I told you, her eyesight is poor. And he doesn’t have an alibi for one o’clock. Besides, he’s the only one who could have opened the garage door.”
“Not so,” I said. “There was a spare opener in a drawer in the kitchen. It’s gone now.”
“Well, I never saw it. You think I poke around in kitchen drawers? Besides, you only have his word there was a spare.”
“If your sister was still alive at one o’clock, why would he have driven into the garage instead of parking in the driveway or on the street?”
“How should I know? Maybe he didn’t kill Alice in a sudden rage; maybe he intended to murder her all along.”
“With a laptop computer? Pretty unusual murder weapon.”
No reaction to that. This wasn’t going well at all. And I was sweating now inside the damn coat.
“And after she was dead,” I said, “he allegedly wrapped up her body without removing her wedding ring and including the laptop, then put her in his car, drove her way over past Martinez, and dumped her more or less in plain sight.”
“He panicked. That’s what the police think.”
“Or the person who actually killed her wanted her to be found and identified so he’d be blamed. And when she wasn’t found right away, that person made the anonymous phone call to the police.”
“Oh, crap. What are you trying to say? That I’m that person?”
“Are you?”
“No! What reason would I have for killing my own sister?”
“She was having an affair with your husband.”
Kendra Nesbitt’s arms unfolded, her hands closed into fists; the dark eyes bulged. She stood as stiff as block of wood. Her mouth barely moved when she said in a low, savage voice, “You son of a bitch. Who told you that?”
“Fran Woodward.”
“It’s a goddamn lie.”
“She has no reason to lie. Did you know about the affair, Mrs. Nesbitt?”
“There was no affair.” She jabbed a fist in my direction, a movement like a hammer pounding a nail. “I don’t have to listen to any more of these ridiculous accusations.”
“I haven’t made any accusations—”
“I won’t stand for it, not from you, not from Fran, not from anybody.” Cold anger, as cold and sharp as a blade of ice.
I could have gone on with it. Confronted her with the rest of the little things: the plagiarism business, the telling comment she’d made to me on my first visit about goddamn cheating men, the lies about Cahill’s excessive drinking and aggressive attitude toward his wife, the red herring mention of the one-hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy. But what good would it do? She hadn’t cracked on any of the other points; she wouldn’t crack on those, either. She was clever and she had a quick mind; she hadn’t said much of anything at all to incriminate herself. Bad idea coming here. Foolish. Loss of perspective, neglect of proper procedure.
“Your ten minutes are up,” she said. “Get out of my house and don’t ever come back.”
The sourness in my gut kicked gas up into my throat. I couldn’t quite suppress the belch in time.
“You’re disgusting,” she said. “If you don’t leave right now, I will call the police.”
“Look, Mrs. Nesbitt—”
“I won’t tell you again. Get … out … of … my … house.”
“All right. With pleasure, lady.”
She took a step
toward me, and I backed up one in reflex, and all at once I felt dizzy. And then nauseous. And my left shoulder had begun to ache. I retreated another step, faltering, reaching out to the back of the couch with my right hand to steady myself. I tried to lift my left arm to flex it, and a lancet of pain shot all the way down to my fingertips.
Sudden fear surged through me—justified, because the next eruption of pain was excruciating, as if I’d been kicked in the chest. The force of it took my breath away.
It must have knocked me down. I don’t remember falling, but there were crashing sounds, a yell from Kendra Nesbitt … and I was on my ass on the floor, my body bent so that I was half-sitting with my head and shoulders against the side of the couch. I could not get enough air into my lungs, heard myself making little gasping sounds.
“You clumsy oaf! Look what you did to my antique delft vase!”
I could neither hear nor see clearly; there was a dull thrumming in my ears, a thin gray fuzz clouding my vision. Through the grayness I could make out the coffee table lying on its side, shattered pieces of the glass bowl that had been on it. I tried to lift myself up, but I had no strength; it was as if heavy weights had been attached to my arms or legs. The fear ripped at me again.
The woman’s white face came swimming out of the mist. I heard her say through the thrumming, “What’s the matter with you?”
“… Pain … chest, left arm…” I could barely get the words out.
“Sharp, dull, crushing?”
“… Like a hand … squeezing…”
“Hard to breathe?”
“… Yes.”
“Can you move, get up?”
I tried again. I might as well have been trying to lift a thousand-pound stone.
“Cardiac arrest. Heart attack.”
Oh, God, no, not now, not here!
Fingers groped at my wrist. “Rapid pulse.” Very calm now, the voice still cold but without the sharpness, matter-of-fact. “Skin all gray and dripping sweat, squeezing pain, difficulty breathing, unable to move. Severe coronary. Very severe.”
“… Call nine … one.…”
“The kind that will surely kill you if you don’t get immediate treatment.”
Endgame--A Nameless Detective Novel Page 18
