She looked a little angry. A little sad. She hadn't wanted to take the pills-that was it. Or was it? He couldn't tell. 'Off you go,' he said, offering her his hand.
She said nothing. He had wounded her. Oh well, the Valium would improve things shortly.
He saw her to the front door. She hurried through the rain toward her car.
Tegg heard the idle chatter of his guests from behind him. Could he endure a meal with these people given his present state of anxiety? Did he have any choice?
Sitting behind the wheel of her Honda Prelude, taking notes by the limited light of a Shore Drive streetlamp in the Broadmoor Estates, Daphne heard a man's voice call out. She looked up in time to see Pamela Chase hurry through the rain and climb into her car.
Daphne felt impatient, isolated, angry, and even a little afraid.
Shoswitzs cut in manpower was going to cost Sharon her life.
That was the way it now seemed. The political pressures and responsibilities resulting from the Safeway killings had proved too much for him to bear. The one loser in all of this was Sharon. The frustration of being confined to a front seat, taking notes, drove Daphne into a rage. It was time to do something.
Pamela's car started. The lights went on, illuminating the thick landscape vegetation that separated the large, water-view homes from their neighbors. Tegg's house was rich with arched leadedglass windows, a full turret and a section of battlement along the roof to complete the look of a castle. It had a red slate roof, two chimneys and a weather vane. This wasn't the Volvo and Cherokee set, but the Beamers and Jags. Second homes on Decatur Northwest, twenty-year anniversaries, Ralph Lauren to wear for the Saturday chores, private clubs and political contributions. These were the people that as a cop you were careful with, the kind who knew how to make trouble.
Daphne faced a difficult decision: Pursue Pamela Chase or stay with Tegg? When Pamela had arrived here only minutes after she had, Daphne had felt an initial sense of accomplishment and success in her interrogation of the woman. This was the exact pressure she had hoped to effect: to send Pamela running to Tegg. Her notes carefully marked the time of the girl's arrival, duration of stay, and time of departure. The courts weren't going to catch Daphne on any technicalities. She intended to cover herself well. But now what?
Her impatience urged her to follow, to do something. She ignored it, staying with her earlier belief that not Pamela Chase but either Tegg or Maybeck would be responsible for holding Sharon hostage. Her hunch was that Tegg would insulate himself by using Maybeck; Boldt had that assignment, and she, had every confidence in him. Pamela had alerted Tegg; now perhaps Tegg would alert Maybeck, who in turn would lead Boldt to Sharon. Maybe they would get lucky. Maybe it was just too much of a long shot to hope for.
She checked her watch: in four hours, at midnight, it would be February 10, the day listed in the database for Sharon's harvest. Sometime in the morning seemed a more likely time for Tegg to do the harvest, given that a party was now under way in his house. She would fight to keep herself awake.
She wished like hell she had either her police radio or cellular phone-being out of communication was the hardest thing of all.
The taillights of Pamela Chase's car receded and then disappeared from view.
Daphne longingly watched them go, wondering whether along with them went Sharon Shaffer's only chance of survival.
Please pass the butter.' Tegg handed the butter dish to the woman with the showy breasts, still unable to recall her name. He had no idea what the table's present topic was and didn't care. Planning his escape occupied him fully. Peggy was happily yukking it up with Byron Endicott. She would do anything for this opera board seat. Strange how petty it all seemed to Tegg now. Why on earth had he ever given that kind of money away? What had possessed him to try to be the philanthropic veterinarian of King County? What an absurdity! All so that his wife would play in the right bridge circles? What did any of it matter? There was life and death at stake here. There was that package he had sent to Maybeck. The police!
Homicide? Had they traced the pit bull back to Tegg that quickly? He refused to believe it! He had taken such care to wipe down the cage, wear gloves, print everything on the HP printer, write nothing by hand, neither the collar, its batteries, or the wand had any kind of serial number. There was no paperwork with the delivery company; he had used one of those fly-by-night outfits in the International District, dropping it off with them to avoid a pickup. He has thought it through so carefully. 'Salt please.'
The salt was about six inches from this fool's hand! What did he want, someone to shake it for him? Losing his temper, Tegg did just that. He seized the shaker and sent salt flying all over this man's food. He caught himself, but too late. He apologized, poured the man some Pine Ridge Merlot and, empty bottle in hand, excused himself from the table. He didn't dare look at Peggy.
On his way into the kitchen, he sorted back through his brief but intense encounter with Pamela, searching for any possible mistakes he might have made.
He sat down at a stool in the kitchen. One of the kitchen help said something to him, but he waved him away. Then he thought better of it and asked for some more wine. 'And the table's out too,' he told no one in particular.
The Valiums were a hell of a good idea, he congratulated himself.
That dosage would knock her sideways. He decided that it might be a good idea to check up on her-to make sure she got home okay, to calm her down if the pills hadn't already done so. She wouldn't be feeling them for another few minutes; maybe she needed someone to talk to.
He took his wine with him into the garage, electing to use the cellular in the Isuzu because of his belief in the difficulty the police had listening in on such lines. He eased the seat back, dialed the number, and pushed SND. God, it felt good to be away from those hypocrites in there. He took a big swig of wine and felt his first sense of real relief in hours.
Her answering machine answered.This troubled him. His heart quickened. He thought himself stupid for forcing the Valium on her while she still had to drive home. He should have just given them to her for her to take once there. But, he recalled, he had wanted to ensure she had taken them. He didn't want her mucking about tonight, messing things up.
Had the cops gotten hold of her? He sat up and spilled some wine into his lap. In that condition she might tell them everything! What had he been thinking by giving her Valium? Another thirty minutes, she'd be a tongue- wagging wreck. He should have stuck with his plan to sedate her! He had wanted her out, not brain-impaired!
A voice from within told him to calm down. Control! She was probably just on the can and couldn't make it to the phone.
He dialed her number again. It rang four times and the machine answered. 'Shit,' he said into the receiver.
Maybe, his voice of reason argued, she was high already and had simply turned the phone off. Yes, that made some sense. Lying back with headphones on, or watching a movie on the tube. Valium behavior.
He sipped what was left of the wine, not feeling good about any of this. Slowly, his mind reconstructed a vivid memory of their final few minutes together. He could see her, could hear the conversation like a videotape playing inside his head. Had she ever spoken, ever opened her mouth after he had fed her those pills? Had she in fact swallowed them?'
What if she had not taken the Valium but tricked him into believing she had Where would she go What would she do?
The police? The farm!
A tic hit him so hard he heard his neck crack. The wineglass jumped from his hand, struck the gear shift and shattered.
The farm! He tripped the garage door automatic opener. It groaned open slowly. He couldn't believe how slowly. This thing had never run this slowly! What would he need? Had he forgotten anything?
The party! The garage door opened far enough to reveal four cars parked in the drive, more out on the road. Trapped?
The door to the kitchen opened. Peggy, in her red Japanese tea dress and her scarlet red face.
What could he say? At this point, what could he do?
Take control. There was a pretty good gap between the first parked car and the garage. Maybe just enough.
Tegg backed slowly across the wet lawn, the tires cutting deep ruts in the grass, his guests observing him
