Edge of the Knife

by A. D. Miller

  “It might be very important, depending on your answer.”

  “I don’t know why I have to give you an answer. I don’t know why you’re so suspicious of Mr. and Mrs. Freed. They never did anything to you.”

  “Did you wash the car, Marcella?”

  She lowered her eyes and said in a reluctant voice: “Mr. Freed felt so bad about the Santa Barbara trip, he paid for me yesterday to get it cleaned. At a place in Boyle Heights.”

  “Inside and out?”

  “Yes. But it doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Thanks for your help, Marcella.”

  “Do you hear what I’m saying? It doesn’t mean anything.”

  Nyman turned and walked back to his car. Behind him, echoing inside the church, the choir was singing a hymn he didn’t recognize.

  * * *

  He drove to Skid Row. On San Pedro Street, at the spot where Eric Trujillo’s body had been found, the flowers and candles were gone but the cardboard sign was in the same place, its message still illegible.

  He parked in front of Central Community station, took the phone from his pocket, and made two calls.

  The first was to Valerie Bell. He told her where he’d been and where he was going next, and warned her that the police and the press would be contacting her soon, possibly that night.

  The second call was to the Surf House in Santa Barbara. The phone was answered by the same man he’d spoken to a day earlier.

  “The married couple I asked you about,” Nyman said. “Mr. and Mrs. Freed. You’re sure neither of them left the hotel that evening?”

  The man was sure. “I saw them having dinner in the restaurant, and one of our waiters took some champagne to their room afterward. It must’ve been close to midnight.”

  “And they weren’t acting strangely?”

  “Not at all. They seemed very much in love. It’s nice to see a married couple still so affectionate.”

  “And Mrs. Freed,” Nyman said. “How would you describe her?”

  “Physically, you mean? A very attractive woman. Tall and blonde—a good deal younger than Mr. Freed. A real California type, if you know what I mean.”

  Nyman thanked him and hung up.

  In the lobby of the station he stood for ten minutes in a line of people waiting to talk to the desk officer. Late in the day, the room was hot with streaming sunshine and sour with the smell of bodies. The officer beckoned him forward and looked at him expectantly.

  Nyman said that he needed to talk to Detective Timmons.

  “Sorry, but Timmons isn’t here. Is that all you wanted?”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “No, sir, and I have no way of getting in touch with him. Now can I do anything else for you?”

  “I have information about one of his cases. I think he’d be interested to hear it.”

  “If you have a tip, sir, you can call our tip line. The number’s there on the wall.”

  “There’s no way I can speak to him directly?”

  The desk officer said: “If it’s really this important, you can use the paper there to leave him a message.”

  Nyman moved off to the end of the counter and scribbled out a brief note that ended with the Freeds’ address in Los Feliz. The desk officer, after she’d read it, looked at him more closely.

  “You’re sure he’ll know what this is about?”

  “Yes,” Nyman said. “And if he comes, tell him to come armed.”

  Chapter 48

  It was after seven when he got to the bungalow in Los Feliz. The tufts of feather grass moved lazily in the front yard, stirred by the breeze. Climbing the steps of the front porch, Nyman went to the door and found streaks of fresh blood on the knob.

  He stood for a moment without moving, then looked back at the street. Aside from his own car, there were no cars in the street and no one on the sidewalks. Several houses away, a girl was playing basketball in a driveway. There was no sound apart from the bouncing of the ball.

  He cupped his hands and looked through the front window, but the view was blocked by curtains. Taking the handkerchief from his pocket, he gripped the doorknob and tried without success to turn it.

  Still with the handkerchief on his hand, he pressed the doorbell and listened to its dull ring. He looked at his watch, waited until a minute had passed, then left the porch and crossed to the driveway.

  On the concrete in front of the lowered garage door were two more drops of blood. He went past the driveway to the side of the house.

  A window stood midway along the wall. Stretching up on his toes, he looked through the glass and saw only a section of blank wall and ceiling. He stayed for half a minute beside the window, listening, and then moved on toward the backyard.

  It was enclosed by a pine fence. Putting his hands on the top edge, he scrambled awkwardly against the wood until he was perched on top of the fence and looking down at the azaleas that grew on the other side. Beyond the flowers was a short stretch of grass that ended at the patio, where a sliding glass door showed no sign of movement within.

  He dropped down and jogged to the patio. The door opened to his touch; he slipped into the house and left the door open behind him.

  He was standing in the kitchen. On the wall was a thick smear of blood, still so fresh that he could smell it.

  The bottle of Jack Daniels, with only a ring of whiskey at the bottom, stood on the table. On the counter was more blood, some of it mixed with water from the tap. In the sink, in a puddle of bloody water, was one of the knives from the block of wood. The blade caught the light of the bulb above the sink and glittered.

  He went from the kitchen to the living room. The drapes hung on their iron spears; the chairs stood just as they had on his last visit. Lined up beside the front door were two pairs of boys’ shoes.

  He went into the hallway. The first door opened into an empty, bloodless bathroom. The second door was closed. Using the handkerchief, he turned the knob, stepped through, and found himself in the boys’ bedroom.

  The boys were lying side by side on the floor. Piled around them were pillows and sheets from the beds, both of which had been stripped down to the mattresses.

  The older boy raised his head and looked at Nyman with frightened eyes. He held a book open in his hands; on the page was a drawing of a knight on a horse.

  “He was scared,” the boy said, nodding to his brother, “so I was reading to him.”

  The younger boy’s eyes were wide and red from crying.

  Nyman cleared his throat and said: “That was a good idea. What book did you pick?”

  The older boy showed him the cover.

  “That looks like a good one,” Nyman said.

  “It’s all right.”

  “Are your parents around? I can’t seem to find them.”

  “Mom had to go out,” the older boy said. “She told us to stay here and not answer the door.”

  The younger boy said: “We made a fort, but the dog knocked it down.”

  He pointed to the corner of the room, where the dog lay with its head between its paws, looking at Nyman sleepily.

  “Did your mom say where she was going?”

  The older boy shook his head. “Dad called a couple hours ago, and after that she had an accident, I think.”

  “With a knife?”

  “I think so. She wouldn’t let us come out of the room.”

  “What about your dad?”

  “He’s still at work, I think.”

  Nyman nodded. “Well, I’m sure they’ll be back soon. You mind if I go out in the hall and make a phone call? I’ll be back in a second.”

  The boys said they didn’t mind.

  He stepped out of the room, shut the door, and went quickly down the hallway, pausing to look into other rooms as he passed. The first was the study in which Michael Freed had locked himself the previous night. The second was the master bedroom: tidy and unmarked by blood.

  Taking the phone from his pocket, he ca
lled Marcella and asked her to come to the house. “The boys are here alone and I can’t find their parents.”

  “What?”

  He repeated what he’d said and told her to come as quickly as she could. “There’s blood all over the house.”

  “Blood?”

  “I need someone to look after the kids.”

  “Okay. Hold on. I’m leaving now.”

  Nyman hung up. He went back to the study and stood in the doorway, looking at the desk, the bookshelves, the framed diplomas on the wall. Going to the desk, he searched the drawers until he found a box of Michael Freed’s business cards.

  He called the number on the card. After five or six rings he heard the recorded message of the Department of Public Policy. He cursed and hung up. On the desk was the glass Freed had carried in the night before, still sticky with Jack Daniels.

  As he stood staring at the glass there was a rumbling noise at the front of the house.

  He left the study and went to the front room. Beyond the fireplace was a door leading into the garage. He stood beside the door, listening, and then opened it when he heard a car pulling in.

  A black B.M.W. stood in the nearer of the two spaces. Sarah Freed was visible through the windshield, her face partly obscured by her hair. Moving stiffly, she got out of the car and shut the door. Clasped in one hand was a paper sack with the logo of a pharmacy. Her eyes, when they came up to look at Nyman, were bloodshot and unfocused.

  “Oh,” she said. “Hi, Tom. Michael said you’d probably be here.”

  Nyman said: “I was worried about you.”

  “Really? About me?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s no reason to worry. Everything’s fine.”

  “You left the boys here alone.”

  “Did I? Yeah, I guess I did. Well, I’m back now.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Oh, that’s not important,” she said, and waved her left hand.

  Wrapped around the wrist was a bandage of bloody gauze.

  Chapter 49

  He offered to carry the paper sack for her, but she held it close to her chest and shook her head.

  “No thanks. It’s just something I picked up.”

  “Is your wrist all right?”

  “My wrist?”

  “There’s a bandage on it,” Nyman said. “And blood in the house. Your son said you had an accident.”

  “Yes,” she said, leading him inside, “it was an accident. It was very silly, actually. You made it sound so simple.”

  “Made what sound so simple?”

  She went ahead of him into the kitchen and didn’t seem to hear the question. Dropping the sack on the counter, she picked up the bottle of Jack Daniels and looked at the bourbon at the bottom, her mouth turned downward in distaste.

  “I’ve never liked whiskey. Such a man’s drink. What do you think about some vodka?”

  Nyman said he wasn’t in the mood for a drink.

  “No?” She looked at the clock on the wall. “It’s after five. You can have a drink if it’s after five.”

  She took a tumbler down from the cabinet and found a bottle of Stolichnaya in the cupboard. Unscrewing the cap, she filled the tumbler half-full and took a drink, wincing at it.

  “Christ, that’s harsh.”

  Nyman said: “How did the accident happen?”

  “What?”

  “Your wrist. How’d you cut it?”

  “Oh, that.” She looked down at her arm and took another drink. “That’s what I was saying—you made it sound so easy. It’s not easy at all.”

  “What’s not easy?”

  “Well, your wife, I mean,” Sarah said. “Slitting her throat like that. You made it sound simple, but it would’ve taken a lot of nerve. It took me hours to make the first tiny cut.”

  Nyman, pale and sweating, said: “You must’ve been pretty upset.”

  She made another dismissive gesture. “Please don’t waste any pity on me, Tom. I don’t deserve it.”

  “I think you do.”

  “That’s a nice thing to say, but you’re wrong. You can’t deserve anything until you’ve done something to deserve it. I’ve done nothing.”

  “Did you kill Alana Bell, Mrs. Freed?”

  She gave him a pained smile. “Of course I did. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “What about Eric Trujillo?”

  “I killed him,” she said, “almost exactly where you’re standing. The poor kid.”

  She lurched forward against the counter, her face crumpling as if she were going to cry; but no tears came. Instead she steadied herself on the countertop with an elbow and brought the drink to her mouth. She drank, winced, put the glass down, and nodded to the block of wood that held the knives.

  “That’s a new set. The old set’s in the trash somewhere. I don’t remember where.”

  “Trujillo came here to confront you?”

  “Me? Of course not me. He wanted Michael.”

  “But Michael wasn’t here?”

  “No, he’d already left for Santa Barbara.” She swung her glass toward the backyard. “Marcella was out there with the boys, and Michael had left for his supposed research trip. Of course I knew what it was all about.”

  “A weekend with Bridget Collinson?”

  “What else?” She grinned and drank. “Someone to comfort him in his grief. That’s always been Bridget’s role. The shoulder to cry on whenever he comes knocking.”

  “So your husband went to Santa Barbara with her,” Nyman said, “and you got left here.”

  “As usual. And that poor kid Trujillo. If he’d just gone away, like I told him to, he’d still be alive. But he wouldn’t listen. He’d been up all night, and he’d already been out to see Grace Salas. He was completely unreasonable.”

  “So you killed him.”

  “Well, I didn’t have much choice. He knew about the money and where it came from. He said he was going to make it all public, for Alana’s sake.”

  “The money, then, is all that mattered to you?”

  Ignoring the question, she pointed to the sack from the pharmacy. “Can you hand me that, Tom? It’s my medicine.”

  Nyman took an orange bottle out of the sack and looked at the label. “What kind of medicine?”

  “Nothing. Just something I needed to get filled.”

  “Tell me more about Trujillo.”

  “Give me the pills,” Sarah said, “and I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

  “He was a strong kid. Surely he would’ve tried to defend himself.”

  Exhaling, she said in a weary voice: “He never had a chance to defend himself. We were in the living room, arguing, and I said we should have a drink and talk things over like adults. I came into the kitchen, got the knife, and asked him to come in and help me with the glasses. Then I waited for him to come around the corner.”

  “And that was it?”

  “More or less. I thought there’d be a struggle, but all I remember is the blade going into the skin—like into a piece of fruit. I put it there,” she said, pointing to a spot on Nyman’s chest, “and the next thing I knew he was on the floor, looking up at me. It was probably ten minutes before I realized he was dead.”

  Nyman asked her why she’d waited until midnight to dump the body.

  “Did I wait that long?”

  “According to the witnesses on Skid Row.”

  “I don’t remember any of it very well, to be honest. I remember putting some sheets in Marcella’s car and dragging him out there. I had to be quiet, because she was still in the backyard with the boys. I asked her if she could stay the night, and then I drove around for a while, trying to think of where to put him. It was a lot harder than the first one.”

  “Alana, you mean?”

  She nodded. “Can I have the pills now, Tom?”

  “According to Bridget Collinson,” Nyman said, “your husband had decided to make a full confession to the Times. It would’ve meant the end
of his career.”

  “And the end of sixty thousand dollars,” she said. “Do you know what that would buy? Marcus is starting fifth-grade at Saint Anselm’s. That’s two full years of tuition.”

  “It was about the money, then.”

  “It was about the money,” Sarah said, “and the fact that she could sit there and talk about compassion and justice and meanwhile have sex with the father of my children. Does that strike you as particularly noble, Tom? Does that sound like the kind of person we should be venerating like some kind of saint?”

  “I don’t think she was a saint.”

  “No? What do you think she was?”

  “An ordinary person with ordinary problems.”

  Sarah squinted at him for a moment, then smiled and shrugged and made an expansive gesture with her glass. “You’re probably right. That’s probably exactly what she was.”

  Nyman, putting the pills back in the paper sack, asked her how she’d done it.

  “With the car, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that wasn’t very hard. Bridget called down here as soon as she got the email, asking Michael what to do. He was all over the place—packing for the Boston trip and giving her his spiel about admitting everything to the newspaper. All I had to do was get Alana’s number from his phone before he left for the airport.”

  “And you called her?”

  “Yes, the next day. Bright and early.”

  “Did you tell her who you were?”

  “Of course not. I said I was Bridget Collinson and I wanted to talk to her at my house as soon as possible. She said she couldn’t get there till that night, because she was going to see a private investigator. I said the later the better. Marcella fell asleep around ten o’clock, after the boys went to bed, so I took her car and went up early and waited by Bridget’s house.”

  “It sounds very simple.”

  “It was simple. That’s what no one tells you: that there’s no great moment of panic. You do what you need to do and it’s over before it starts.”

  “Like suicide,” Nyman said.

  “Yes. Precisely. Will you give me my medicine, Tom?”