that broke into my house. I would have preferred it to be an ordinary, run-of-the-mill psycho, because anything that cop could find would be called evidence for whatever he thought I was involved in. He knew I had a gun. He knew I read. He also knew I had articles about all the murders up on the wall. I had to get rid of all of it. The articles got burned in the fireplace, along with any miscellany I had floating around—bills, receipts, old fake IDs I’d been holding on to. I knew the police had some way to make traces of blood glow in the dark with certain lights and chemicals, but there was no possible way for me to do a job on the house that would throw off such an inspection. If the cops did come under Van Buren’s insistence that I was behind every unsolved crime since the end of the war, they would certainly find blood in my house, and that wasn’t a good thing.
On the other hand, everything Van Buren had done thus far had been illegal. Not admissible. But would that matter if I was actually arrested for something? I’d still be behind bars for at least a little while.
If only the wolf had revealed to me its memories from the night my friend died. For all I knew, the wolf knew exactly what had happened that night, but it was not being forthcoming. I was in the dark, and I had no idea what to do. All I knew was that it wasn’t over, no matter what Van Buren’s crazy note said. There were still some variables floating around to help me get to the bottom of all this.
TWENTY-ONE
In the morning I drove out to the Pearce house with a fresh bouquet of flowers. I’d never been inside the house before, but I knew where it was. I’d driven by it a thousand times, and always slowed down when I did, just to make sure no one was snooping around outside when Pearce was at work.
The house was white, with dark blue shutters fastened to the frames of all the windows. A hedge encapsulated the house, and a weeping willow about twice as tall as the house overshadowed it from the left. I cleared my throat, then knocked on the door.
No one came, so I tried the bell.
I heard it echo inside the house, and then I heard footsteps come closer. Soon, the door opened, and there stood Martha, blue-purple bags under her puffy eyes, her hair matted, like she’d done nothing but sleep since the funeral. The sad fact that a dead body had been planted on her husband’s grave only made things worse.
Down the block, two plainclothes policemen sat in an unmarked car watching the Pearce household. Some probably thought the planted body of Betsy Ratner was a warning to Pearce’s widow. I could only imagine the sizes of the bricks they shit when I went up to her front door.
Martha wore a white, nappy robe, and slippers. Her belly came out so far, I could’ve reached out and touched it. “Mrs. Pearce,” I said.
“Hello,” she said, a tinge of anger to her voice.
“I, uh, just wanted to pay my respects. I got you these.”
I handed her the flowers. She took them, smelled them quick, and then lowered them to her side. She hesitated, then said, “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said. “I was wondering if I could come in for a minute, talk with you for a minute.”
“Now’s not a good time. I have people over, and …”
“I hate to be a pain, Mrs. Pearce. I know you’re not my biggest fan, but I know you’re alone right now. Yours is the only car parked out there, and the house is silent. Now, I can understand it if you don’t want me in your home, but … hell, I’m trying to be really sincere here, ma’am, and, uh, I just need a minute of your time. Truly.”
She cleared her throat, looked behind her, then out onto the street to make sure the cops were still there. “A minute,” she said. “No more.”
“That’s fine.”
She stepped aside and let me pass. I went into the living room and took a seat on the couch. The house was spacious and decorated with the intent of making the place look cozy. Big pillows all over the place, a huge kitchen. A big television. Everything made of oak. A true home. Up on the fireplace mantel was a picture of them at their wedding, a picture of her, and a picture of him, younger, in his dress uniform. I knew the other pictures were of their parents, because I remembered a memory of Pearce’s when they were decorating the place. I even knew what they kept in every drawer in the house. Mrs. Pearce came in and slowly lowered herself into a chair. She didn’t offer me anything to drink, nor did I expect her to. Danny and she usually kept at least a dozen different kinds of tea in the kitchen.
“What do you need?” she asked.
“I don’t need anything. I just wanted to talk a minute. I wanted to say that I’m sorry that you and I never got along well. Pearce was a great guy. I mean, that’s all they say on the TV, but for those of us who knew him, it really was true. He was too good a man to be a cop. And, uh, his partner, Van Buren, he’s kind of got a personal vendetta against me. I won’t get into it, but I’m wondering if he’s said anything to you about me … that kind of sounds like he suspects me of anything.”
“How can you come into my home and ask me a question like
this?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t want to upset you.”
“I think you should leave.”
“Please don’t say that.”
“Get out.”
“No, ma’am, this is important. More important than you know.”
“I want you out.”
She was crying now, and getting loud.
“Mrs. Pearce, please.”
“Out!”
“No. I will not get out. For the baby’s sake, don’t get yourself worked up. I’ll be out of your hair in no time.” I didn’t ever expect to yell at a pregnant woman. “Now, listen, you and I never got on, but your husband and I did, and he was a damn good judge of character, and I think you ought to respect that right now and hear what I have to say, if for no other reason than he would have. Okay?”
She got quiet.
“Okay.”
“This Van Buren guy is after me,” I said. “Has he talked to you about this?”
“Yes.”
“What has he said?”
“He thinks you got Danny into something bad, and maybe that it got him killed …” She broke down. “I told him Danny wasn’t like that. Danny would never involve himself in anything illegal. The job was his life, but his partner wouldn’t listen to me. He thinks I’m hysterical.”
“Why is he so concerned about Pearce’s reputation?”
Mrs. Pearce said, “The blue line at work,” and left it at that.
“On the night that the first girl died, do you know what Van Buren was doing, or where he was?”
“No, but he did call that night. They always talked at night. They laughed for a few minutes, talked about work, and that was it. Same as always. Why?”
“Don’t worry about the why of it. Uh, on the night that Danny died, do you know what he was doing up there at the Crowley property?”
She didn’t answer for a long time.
“He said if he was able to make this case, it would make his career, and … not only would he avenge all those poor girls, he’d do what the feds couldn’t do, maybe write a book about it. He said if he was able to catch this guy, we’d never have to worry about money for our little girl. He said we’d be set. And so he spent all these hours up at the scene, just … trying to put it all together in his head. He wanted this guy, Marlowe.”
“And what about Van Buren?”
“Van Buren,” she said hesitantly, “is not a good detective.
But …”
“But what?”
“But I know what you’re thinking, and you shouldn’t be. He has problems.”
“What kind?”
