Frustrated, he finally had followed her out of bed, putting on a light summer robe left by her second husband, the narcotics-detective-turned-dealer. After mixing another drink for himself, he went out onto the deck while she busied herself in the kitchen, at what task he had no idea, since their dinner had come straight out of the refrigerator, ready to eat.
The deck was Lee’s pride and joy, built by herself and two other cops over the course of a weekend. It was exceedingly large for such a small house, taking up half the tiny backyard, which was boxed in by a tall, thick hedge. There were a number of redwood tubs on the deck, some hanging, some resting on the floor, each filled with either flowers or ferns. And there were wind chimes and a string of delicately colored Japanese lanterns, all of which reinforced Baird’s growing suspicion that though Lee talked tough and had a macho job and liked to dress like a man, she was thoroughly feminine at heart. And this worried him, in that it made her even more appealing to him. Against his better judgment, he had begun to think of her in the long term, as someone he would live with, or even marry. And he knew that was preposterous: the cop and the killer.
Finally she had come out and joined him on the swing, and now they sat there together, mostly in silence. In her hand was an open bottle of beer; in the little things at least, she was thoroughly macho.
“The nights are cool anyway,” she said. “It’s getting like goddamn California here.”
“You won’t say that in November.”
“You’re right about that.”
For a time they said nothing more, just sat there gazing out at the darkness. Baird put his arm around her, and she let it stay.
“Damn Slade,” she said. “He still hasn’t turned up. I guess maybe he did leave town after all. Which only figures. We finally got reason to haul him in, naturally he disappears.”
It was one of the few times she had mentioned the creep during the past weeks. As far as Baird knew, the police still wanted Slade only because of the recovered hair and semen samples, so he could be tested for a match.
“Don’t worry, he’ll turn up,” Baird said. “He’ll get arrested in Timbuktu or someplace and you’ll get to fly there and bring him back.”
“Lucky me,” she said.
“Lucky Slade.” Baird kissed her on the neck and she reached up and stroked the back of his head, letting him know that she was over her huff. He slipped his hand inside her robe, on her breast, and kissed her on the mouth. And she invaded his robe too, her hand warm.
“Old Faithful,” she said.
“That’s me.”
She smiled mischievously. “You think the neighbors can see us out here?”
“Through that hedge? Not a chance.”
She moved off the swing and onto her knees, pushing his robe farther apart and taking him in her hand again, then in her mouth. In the dimness, it looked to Baird as if an animal with curly black fur was burrowing into his lap. He sighed and called up the faith of his childhood.
“Oh God. Oh Jesus, that’s nice. You’re too good to me.”
She stopped and smiled up at him, covering him at the same time. “And don’t you forget it.”
She stood up and took him by the hand and led him back inside to the bedroom again, and this time he was more gentle and tried to be more playful too, though he wasn’t sure he succeeded.
When they were finished, they both lit cigarettes and lay there in the half-dark, silent and separate, as if someone had cleaved the bed with an ax.
“Is she ever awake when you come home?” Lee asked. “What does she say?”
“Ellen?”
“No, your cat.”
“No, she doesn’t say anything.”
“Just accepts it, huh?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“But no showdowns? No ‘I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore’?”
“Not in so many words.”
Lee laughed softly, ruefully. “I guess I should be grateful for that. It lets us go on as we are, without having to make any difficult decisions.”
“Like what?”
“Don’t play stupid. You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
“And you don’t want to make that kind of decision any more than I do.”
“Not right now, anyway.”
“Right. How could we?” She blew smoke at the ceiling. “God, listen to me. I must sound more like Ellen every day. Each of us wanting our little piece of you—when there just ain’t that much left over.”
“Left over from what?”
“Not from what—from who. From your beautiful little Kathy, that’s who. How can mere mortals like me and Ellen compete with all that?”
“Jesus, you’re really reaching tonight.” Baird got the remote off the bed table and turned on the television, which sat on a table just beyond the foot of the bed. “It’s eleven,” he said. “Let’s watch the news.”
“What do you mean, reaching? I’ve seen the two of you together, remember? And even that first time, I thought poor Mrs. Baird, with a gorgeous thing like that still at home, clinging to the old man, and the old man clinging right back. And why not? I almost got the hots for the kid myself.”
Baird looked at her. “What the hell is all this about anyway? Jesus, a few minutes ago we were…” At a loss, he shook his head and turned back to the television.
But Lee was not quite finished. She gave a sharp laugh and said, “You know what? I’ll bet Ellen was rooting for Slade!”
At that, Baird wanted to get up and leave or maybe even shove her out of bed, but what he was seeing on television not only riveted his attention, it almost stopped his heart. For there it all was, just as he had feared it inevitably would be: the steep green bluff and the battered old Chevy coming up out of the lake like some kind of local Loch Ness monster, spouting water from every orifice. Around it were scuba divers, both in the water and in tiny yellow rafts, giving it one last check and then pushing off as the tow-truck cable came taut and the Impala bumped backwards onto the shore and began to climb the hillside, trailing seaweed.
There were two cameras covering the scene, one from the road at the top of the bluff and the other from a hovering helicopter, both in daylight. Baird heard the voice-over as if a judge were passing sentence on him.
“The car was discovered late this afternoon by two Kirkland teenagers gig-fishing along the shoreline. And this was the scene just a few hours ago, when the sheriff’s police hauled the vehicle out of the water and up the hillside.”
Lee had sat up and pulled the sheet around her. Baird felt that she was looking not only at the TV now but at him too, probably sensing the change in him. He wanted to turn the infernal thing off, but he knew that wouldn’t change anything, that she would learn the truth soon enough whatever he did.
The picture went live now, cutting to a young Asian reporter standing on the lane in the floodlit darkness, with Slade’s car in the background, already in position to be towed away by the huge truck that had winched it up the hillside.
“And, Gary,” said the reporter, “it was only after they got the car up here and opened the trunk that they found the man’s body. Lieutenant Moore, with the county police, said that a positive I.D. on the victim is not possible at this time because of the condition of the body. However, the lieutenant did confirm that the victim had been shot once in the head—anywhere else, we’ll have to wait on the autopsy.”
Now the anchor got into the act. “Do they have any idea, Mark, how long the car—and the victim—were in the water?”
“The lieutenant said three or four weeks, though they won’t know for sure until they get the medical examiner’s report.”
“Thanks, Mark.” The anchor shook his handsome head. “And the beat goes on,” he said, turning to his pretty co-anchor just as the camera moved to her.
She smiled winsomely. “Well, moving on to some happier news…”
Baird turned off the TV and put the rem
ote back on the table. He got out of bed and started to put his clothes on, still not looking at Lee. When she spoke, her voice was soft, even wondering.
“Slade had a car like that, didn’t he? Early seventies Chevy Impala, isn’t that what he had?”
“Could be—I don’t know. An old heap anyway. Why?”
“Why? Because he’s been missing for weeks, that’s why. And that car, I remember it from the day I served him. How many twenty-year-old Impalas would have an orange door like that? And the rest of it—like camouflage.”
Baird tried to sound weary, indifferent. “Rust and paint primer, most likely.”
“Well, what do you think?”
“About what?”
“About what? Slade, for God’s sake! It could be him, you know.”
Baird forced a laugh. “Are you serious?”
“Well, a lot more than you are, it seems.”
“Lee, for Christ sake—the car could be anybody’s. What’s the big deal?”
“Bullshit. It’s Slade’s car. I know it is.”
Baird had sat back on the bed to put on his shoes. “Okay, then. It’s Slade’s car. And the body, that must be his too, huh?”
“It could be.”
“And it could not be too.”
“And you’re just not interested, one way or the other?”
“I’m not a cop, remember?”
She got out of bed and came around to his side, putting on her robe. “Jesus, but you’re the cool one,” she said.
“Yes, I’m the cool one,” he agreed.
She got a cigarette out of a pack in her robe and lit it, not once taking her eyes off him. “I just can’t figure you,” she said. “I’d think you’d be damn excited. This psycho who was stalking your kid—suddenly he could be dead and you don’t give a shit?”
“When I know it’s him, then I’ll give a shit.”
Because she was standing in the doorway, he had to sidle past her. She followed him into the living room.
“You’re just going to take off?” she asked. “You don’t want to talk about this? I could make phone calls, you know. I could find out if it’s him.”
“Feel free.” He kissed her on the forehead and started for the front door.
“Jack, you’re scaring me,” she said.
He stopped and turned, forcing a smile. “Me scare you? That’ll be the day.”
“No, you are. You really are. I tell you I can call and find out and you don’t care. I find that scary.”
“It’s because I’m out on my feet, Lee. My ass is dragging. And it’d probably take you hours to find out anyway—to find out it isn’t Slade.”
“I would still think you’d want to know. If it is him, you’ll be a suspect—have you thought about that?”
“Me and forty other guys. The man is a whore and a rapist and a drug dealer. Anybody wanting to kill him would have to stand in line. You know that.”
She had followed him to the front door. “Just do me one favor, all right?”
“Okay—what?”
“Just tell me you didn’t do it. That’s all I’m asking.”
Baird groaned. “Oh, come on, Lee—for Christ sake.”
“Please, Jack. Just look at me and tell me you didn’t do it.”
“What is this, some kind of kid’s game?”
She didn’t answer.
“Come on, Lee. Be serious.”
“You bastard,” she cried. “Tell me! Say it.”
“I’ll tell you what I will say. Fuck you. How’s that? Just fuck you, Detective Jeffers.”
She was staring at him now as if he had sprouted horns. Looking awed, even cowed, she stepped back from him. “I don’t know you, do I?” she said. “I don’t know you at all.”
He leaned against the doorjamb and sighed. “Jesus, Lee. Let’s see…how do I put this? Number one, if the stiff turns out to be Slade, I’m not the one who killed him. Number two, I don’t kill people. I wouldn’t even know how. And number three—good night!”
With that, he turned and left, letting the screen door slam behind him. He went down the stairs and was just starting down the front walk when she got in the last word, yelling it at him.
“Liar!”
Even though he was driving in the direction of his home, Baird knew he could not go there, not yet anyway. Ellen often watched the late news, and Kathy sometimes had her bedroom TV on as she got ready for bed. Though the KIRO report hadn’t identified Slade as the victim, Baird knew there was a chance that one of the other stations might have done so, simply on the basis of the car license or I.D. on the body.
But as he drove on, he realized that it hardly mattered whether or not his wife and daughter had seen the news story. The fact was, he simply could not bring himself to go home now, and maybe not ever. He felt literally heavy with fear, almost as if he were carrying Slade’s body on his shoulder. His pulse was fast. It seemed impossible to draw a normal breath. Even steering the car seemed a kind of feat. And all the while a voice in his head kept passing sentence upon him: You will be arrested. You will be tried. You will go to prison.
He drove east through the arboretum and pulled into the same park he had visited on the night after the killing, trying to sort through his feelings. This time he went on through the parking lot and over a small hill before stopping and getting out. Opening his briefcase, he took out the black kid’s .22 revolver, then walked the short distance to the lakeshore, which at that point was protected by a breakwater made of basalt boulders, some as large as refrigerators. Scattered haphazardly along the shoreline, they made for numerous convenient niches on which one could fish or sunbathe or just brood. The niche Baird chose was walled off on three sides and even partially covered on top. Though it wasn’t quite dry, he sat down anyway, drawing up his feet and slipping the gun into his belt. He leaned back against the rough stone and lit a cigarette, glad that he at least was smoking again. The sweet pang hitting his lungs seemed just about the only unalloyed pleasure he had left.
He was amazed that Lee had picked up on Slade’s car so readily. She apparently had seen the old Impala only once and certainly hadn’t ridden in it or spent time in it with Jimbo himself, as Baird had. He knew that the police were trained to know the makes and models of cars, but he was still impressed by how quickly she had identified the old heap. Her quick expertise only reinforced his suspicion that he was coming to the end of his rope. He was not sure what she had meant by calling him a liar, whether she actually believed he had done it or was only testing him, looking for his reaction. But then he knew it really didn’t matter. If she didn’t believe him guilty now, she would soon enough.
Worst of all, he figured she probably had already phoned Lucca to share the news, which meant that the dour sergeant would soon be coming after Baird like a hungry bloodhound. Judging by the TV story, it was the sheriff’s police that had jurisdiction, not the Seattle police or the Kirkland department. But Baird knew that would not deter Lucca. One way or another, the sergeant was going to make himself part of the investigation.
Considering how long the body had been in the water, Baird judged that they might have trouble pinpointing the time of death, maybe even the week of death. And he hoped that would make it difficult to build an airtight case against him. Still, he knew it was not inconceivable that they would accumulate enough evidence to bring him in for questioning, with the media probably reporting on his every move. Whether he eventually went to prison or not, his life would be ruined. He would lose his job and his house. His friends would either drop him or treat him like someone else, some disgusting vigilante hero.
And of course he would lose Ellen, or more accurately, would complete the job of losing her. Wondering how she would react—with pity or scorn—he decided it would be the latter, since she could reasonably conclude that he had thrown their lives away because of his unreasonable love of Kathy. For that matter, Baird didn’t expect much sympathy or understanding from his son either. He imagined that Kevin
would think his father had done the terrible deed with no thought of how it would affect his son’s life and career, which unhappily was quite true.
And that left Kathy. Baird hated even to think about how his daughter would react, learning that her doting old man had murdered for her, had shot a man dead rather than risk her safety. Would she feel revulsion? Would she turn away from him? Baird had no idea. And he imagined that frightened him most of all, the possibility that in trying to save her, he might have lost her.
He recognized that it was probably this thought that had brought him here, to sit in this canopy of black rocks with a stranger’s gun in his lap. In time he took a last drag on the cigarette and flipped it out into the water. He listened to the waves lapping peacefully about him, and he looked out at the lights of the Eastside shimmering on the lake’s surface, all running straight at him, there at the hub of the universe.
He took the gun out of his belt and looked at it, and it occurred to him that a more religious person might have concluded that the young black man had come to the Norsten parking lot not to rob Baird but to deliver the weapon, give him the means of his release. One of God’s little jokes.
For a minute or so he just sat there staring at it, wondering if he would eventually turn it and actually point it at himself, maybe even raise it to his temple. But it remained where it was, shaking in his hand.
Finally he got to his feet. And just as he had done on the other side of the lake, he drew back his arm and threw the weapon as far as he could. This time he heard it splash.
Fourteen
By the time Baird got home that night, Ellen and Kathy were both in bed, and he had no intention of waking them and telling them that Slade had been found murdered. He slept off and on during the night and did not get out of bed in the morning until the house was quiet, the women gone. In the kitchen he found the morning paper spread out on the table, opened to the first page of the local news section. Using a green felt-tip pen, Ellen or Kathy had circled the lead story as well as the photograph next to it, which showed Slade’s car being winched out of the lake. The headline and subhead read:
A Man's Game Page 23
