by S. J. Rozan
“Wednesday night he went looking for you. Marie would probably tell us, if we asked. Maybe he closed up early, maybe he just left her in charge. He was on his way to the quarry, I think. I’d told him you were there; I wanted him to know you were safe.
“But he saw your truck, on the road. He followed it. He didn’t know it was Frank and Ginny; how would he know that? He thought it was you.
“He followed them to Eve Colgate’s shed. He stayed back, to see what was going on. He’s lucky he did that; Frank would have killed him. But what he saw was two people going into the shed, one coming out. Re member how dark it was that night, Jimmy, right before it rained.
“The truck drove away, but Tony stayed. Frank must’ve driven right by Tony’s car, never saw him. I checked that road up from the valley. You could pull off and hide in the dark, lots of places.
“Tony went to the shed. The lock had been cut through; it was easy to get in.
“And he found Ginny, in a pool of blood on the floor. Your glove beside her. Your truck driving away.
“He bought this frame, too. Just like the other one.”
“He thought I did that?” Jimmy spoke slowly. “Ginny, like that? He thought I did that?”
I waited before I went on.
“He took her body to his car. Her body, and the glove. He tried to clean up the blood, but there was too much. So he did something else: He covered it up. With paint, which Eve—which she stores there. With anything else he could find. That mess in the shed? It was only the floor. The windows weren’t broken, the walls weren’t scrawled on. Only the floor.
“But just as he started—probably even before he moved the body—I came along. He heard me coming; he couldn’t let anyone see. Couldn’t let anyone know what you’d done. So he waited, and he hit me, knocked me out.”
“No, man,” Jimmy said. “Uh-uh. If that was Tony, even if he thought it was me, he’d’ve told you. You, man. You saved my butt that other time, he knew that.”
“I also gave your keys to MacGregor. Tony and I had fought about that. He didn’t trust me to protect you, Jimmy. Not when it came to hiding a murder, a fifteen-year-old kid.”
Jimmy started to speak, but I stopped him.
“Just before he left he came back to check on me. To make sure I was alive. There was paint on my chin, on my neck, when Eve found me.”
“No!” Jimmy burst out. “This is crazy! Tony don’t even like me! Why the hell would he do this? He thought I did something like that? Hide her body and shit? And you, man, he wouldn’t hurt you. You’re his best buddy, man.”
“Someone called Eve Colgate that night to tell her I was in trouble. And Tony called her place in the morning.” I said quietly. “Looking for me, to tell me nothing: I’d gotten a phone call, someone wanted me. He said he’d closed up, gone to my place to find me; when I wasn’t there he started calling places I might be. Eighteen years I’ve been getting phone calls at the bar, Jimmy. When I come in Tony hands me scraps of paper. Did you ever know him to go looking for me before?”
Jimmy shook his head, back and forth, back and forth. “No, man. You’re crazy. You coulda died out there. Tony wouldn’t do that shit to you.”
“I’d’ve been all right, if it hadn’t rained. Tony called Eve; then he went up to the quarry, to dump Ginny’s body. He may have seen your light; anyway he knew you were there, but probably the last thing in the world he wanted was to talk to you.
“And then what could he do? He couldn’t come back and find me. What would he have said? All he could do was wait, and wonder if I was all right. And think about you, and what he thought you’d done. It must have been a hell of a night.”
Jimmy stood motionless. His right arm started a gesture, abandoned it, fell back by his side. “I . . .” he said, sounding choked; he didn’t finish.
I turned, climbed into the cab of Eve Colgate’s pickup. I put the key in the ignition. As the engine roared to life I leaned out the window, said, “He’s in room three-oh-nine, the new wing. Go see him.”
I backed the truck around, rolled slowly out of Antonelli’s lot. I drove with great care; I was very tired.
23
THE WIND WAS picking up as I turned the truck up Eve’s chestnut-bordered drive. Hard dark clouds pushed through the sky from the north.
I pulled in front of the house, silenced the engine. The front door opened and Leo bounded onto the porch, left Eve framed in the doorway. She waited until I jumped from the cab, then came forward slowly, walked down the steps and around the back of the truck. She looked at the crate. With her eyes still on it, she asked me, “Are they all right?”
“I didn’t open it.”
Together we pulled the crate from the truck bed, carried it inside the house, Leo wriggling through the vestibule along with us. The house had a soft, sweet smell, vanilla and brown sugar.
We laid the crate on the dining table. I waited while Eve brought a screwdriver. She unscrewed the cover, dropped each screw in the wooden bowl on the cedar chest before going on to the next one. When she was finished she used the screwdriver to pry the cover loose. We each took an edge then, lifted the cover, leaned it on the wall.
The canvases were stacked facedown. Eve touched the top one, pulled her hand back as though it were hot to the touch. She stared a moment longer; then, suddenly, she hefted the painting out of the crate, stood it on the floor against the chair without looking directly at it. She repeated the action, her mouth set in a hard, determined line, like a diver forcing herself over and over into icy water to search for something lost.
Then all six paintings were out, spread around the room, and Eve was standing as still as I was, in the center of the storm.
Like other powerful storms, this one was violent, frightening, and heartbreakingly beautiful.
Thin razor-sharp wires of color were stretched across canvas, pulled so taut they broke apart; or, released, they bunched together in choking knots. These were colors other painters never found, colors you recognized instantly from the dreams you could never remember.
But unlike the Eva Nouvels I’d seen before, these paintings were not dark. The colors twisted, tangled, pierced each other, bled; but the field they were on was luminous, and the color wires glowed against it like lightning against the sun.
I was without words, looking from canvas to canvas as the storm raged around me. From the canvases I looked to Eve. She stood silent, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest. Her crystal eyes swept each painting, moved to the next. Then she covered her mouth with one hand and began silently to cry.
I took two quick steps, gathered her into my arms. Her shoulders felt sharp and thin, made of glass. She pressed hard against me. I held her more tightly. At first she wept noiselessly; then came great wracking sobs that shook her again and again. I rocked her, smoothed her hair, whispered useless, meaningless words as the storm pounded and battered her.
Finally, like other storms, it ended. I held her as long as she wanted, after the sobbing stopped, until she softened, pulled away. She turned without looking at me, stepped out of the circle of canvases, walked to the bathroom under the stairs. The door closed and the water ran for a long, long time.
I felt a pressure against my leg. I looked down to see Leo sitting, looking up. He whined, lifted a paw anxiously. I crouched, scratched his ears. “It’s okay, boy,” I told him. “It’s okay.”
When Eve came out her eyes were pink-rimmed, her lined face pale. She hesitated outside the circle I still stood within, then stepped to my side. “Will you help me?” she asked.
We repacked the crate, each canvas facedown, and we tightened the cover. We carried the crate together out the back door, around into the storeroom, which had a new, heavy padlock and hasp. My eyebrows lifted at our destination; Eve saw that and shrugged. She gave me a small, tired smile. “It’s where they go,” she said.
We went back inside. Eve poured coffee, asked me to put some music on. “If you’d like,” she added. I found Hay
dn, string quartets. Eve sliced a pound cake, brought me a piece. It was warm, rich, with a brown sugar glaze. She sipped her coffee, and the music calmed the air.
After a while I said, “They’re beautiful, you know.”
She shook her head.
“You’ll probably never see it,” I said. “But they are.”
There was more music, more peace. She asked, “Bill, where were they?”
I looked into my coffee, watched the deep blackness release steam, which wandered out of the mug, lost itself in the open air. “They were at Tony’s, in the basement,” I said. At the look in her eyes, I added, “Tony didn’t know.”
She held my eyes with hers, searched my face. I couldn’t tell what she found, but finally she nodded, released me.
I left soon after. Leo ran excited circles around us on the driveway as Eve and I walked the short distance to where she’d put my car. It was very cold now, as day edged reluctantly into night. Thick clouds rode the wind. Eve asked, “Will you go back to the city soon?”
“Lydia will be able to leave the hospital in a day or two,” I said. “I’ll wait and take her home.”
She was silent again. The wind gusted icily; there seemed nothing more to say. I opened the car door. “When you come back,” she said suddenly, “will you come see me?”
“It might be a long time, Eve.”
She took my hand. In the depths of her eyes I thought I saw the jewels sparkle, but I couldn’t be sure. She said, “I’ll be here.”
I held her close again, this time briefly. Then we separated. I slipped into my car, started it up, began to move slowly down the drive, away from the house. My headlights caught the trunks of the chestnut trees; I heard Eve, behind me, calling Leo.
I drove back south through a fast-fading twilight. I passed Antonelli’s, lit now, cars on the gravel, the tin sign dancing in the gusting wind. Fallen leaves skidded ahead of me across the blacktop as the wind changed direction. My lights picked out what was in front of me; everything else was hidden.
By the time I reached the road down to my cabin, it had started to snow.
Coming soon from S.J. Rozan:
BLOOD TIES
Some crimes strike too close to home . . .
Private detective Bill Smith is hurtled headlong into the most provocative – and personal – case of his career when he receives a chilling late night telephone call from the NYPD. They’re holding his fifteen-year-old nephew Gary. But before he can find out what’s going on, Gary escapes Bill’s custody and disappears into the dark and unfamiliar streets . . .
With his partner, Lydia Chin, Bill tries to find the missing teen and uncover what it is that has led him so far from home. Their search takes them to Gary’s family in a small town in New Jersey, where they discover that one of Gary’s classmates was murdered. Bill and Lydia delve into the crime-only to find it eerily similar to a decades-old murder-suicide . . .
The situation is not helped by Bill’s long term estrangement from his sister. But now, with his nephew’s future at stake, Bill must unravel a long-buried crime and confront the darkness of his own past . . .
Praise for this series:
‘One of my favourite writers’ Dennis Lehane
‘Wonderful’ Robert Crais
‘Chilling’ Linda Fairstein
‘Terrific’ Washington Post
Acknowledgements
my agent, Steve Axelrod
my editor, Keith Kahla
what a pair
Emily Horowitz, who first told me I was writing a novel
the experts
David Dubal, Joe Karas, Pat Picciarelli, Carl Stein
and Harvey Stoddard
the critics
Betsy Harding, Royal Huber, Barbara Martin,
Jamie Scott (and her damn owls),
and, on this one, Becca Armstrong and Steve Landau
the family
Steve Blier, Hillary Brown, Max Rudin, Jim Russell,
and Amy Schatz
the muse
Richard Wilcox
the genius
Deb Peters
and
the goils
Nancy Ennis and Helen Hester
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First published as Stone Quarry in 1999 in the US by St. Martin’s Press
This edition published in 2012 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing, A Random House Group Company
Copyright © 1999 by S.J. Rozan
S.J. Rozan has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
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