“He said she was cheap. He couldn’t understand why Kenneth married her.”
“Did he ever call her ‘Al’ instead of ‘Alicia’?”
“No. Never.” Washburn paused. “Perhaps it was Kenneth who gave him the photo, for some reason.”
“Can you think of one?”
“No, I can’t. If only Leonard hadn’t been so private…”
“I’ll find out, Mr. Washburn,” I said. “I should be back on the job in a day or two.”
“So soon? But your partner said you had cracked ribs and a concussion…”
“They’re healing.”
“Aren’t you… I mean, you’re not afraid they’ll try to hurt you again?”
Yes, I thought, I’m afraid. You’re always a little afraid in this business-more than a little when something like Sunday night happens. But you learn to live with it. And right now what I was feeling was a great deal more rage and determination than fear.
I didn’t say any of that to Washburn; it was not the kind of thing I can articulate. I said only, “Don’t worry about that. You hired me to do a job; I intend to finish doing it.”
Kerry wasn’t in the living room when I went out there again. I heard her in the kitchen, bustling around, and I smelled meat frying. It made me hungry-much hungrier than I’d been earlier in the day. I took that as a positive sign. If I could eat with appetite I was capable of putting my pants on and facing the world again.
We had hamburger-“It’s about time you ate some solid food,” she said-and a spinach salad, and I drank a little beer with it. Afterward we sat in the living room and talked about neutral topics. At ten o’clock I chased her out. And when she was gone I was sorry about it, yet relieved at the same time. I wanted to be alone; I didn’t want to be alone. Ambivalence.
Christ, I thought, I need to get out of here.
Tomorrow, I thought. If I can walk in the morning I’m gone.
I went to bed. I was afraid I might have difficulty getting to sleep, because I had done so much sleeping the past three days, but it didn’t happen that way. I put the light out and I went out with it.
Dreams.
Faces, places-the same as before. And some new ones too: Alicia Purcell in the slinky, low-cut black gown, smiling. Danny Martinez’s son Roberto, smiling.
Voices, old and new. “Deadfall so sorry love Al once bitten whosoever toucheth fall how could you…”
All through the night, dreams.
Morning.
A little after seven, by the nightstand clock.
I lay in bed remembering the dreams and the voices, and I knew I was close. Don’t try to force it; it’ll come. I got up, donned my robe, went into the bathroom and had another look at myself.
Not too bad. The swelling was completely gone from my right eye and the lemon-brown discoloration around it had begun to fade; I could see as well as ever, except for a faint blurriness at the far periphery of my vision. Two other bruises were fading even more rapidly. The face might draw some looks, but nobody was going to be startled or frightened by it.
I flexed my body a little, testing my ribs. Still some of that tearing pain; I would have to be careful how I moved. My head didn’t hurt at all, but that might be a false sign. Head wounds, concussions, could be tricky. Still, my mind seemed perfectly clear… clear enough, anyhow.
Yeah, I thought, I’m ready.
But not right this minute; it was too early to expect to get anything done. I went into the kitchen, made some coffee and a couple of soft-boiled eggs and a piece of toast; ate at the table in there. Went back to bed with a second cup of coffee, to wait and to do some more thinking. Tried to sit up, but my ribs felt more constricted that way, so I stretched out and pulled the blankets over me.
Went to sleep again.
It was an odd sleep-deep and dreamless for a long while, then shallow and restless and heavy with more dreams, and finally not quite sleep at all, just that kind of drifting doze where you’re poised on the edge of wakefulness and dreams and reality intermingle.
Photographs, I thought or dreamed.
Love, Al.
His name is Roberto, he’s a nice little boy.
Photographs.
Deadfall.
So sorry.
Fall how could you…
Love, Al.
Photographs.
Danny Martinez.
Crucifixes.
Roberto.
Lumber, remember the lumber?
I woke up. Sat up so fast that pain ripped through my side and I had to jam my teeth together to keep from crying out. I was soaked in sweat, panting as if I had run a long distance-and in a way, that was just what I’d done.
I had it now… some of it, maybe even most of it. And I knew where to look for the rest. Bad, worse than I’d thought, uglier than I’d thought. Simpler than I’d thought, too. That was why it had taken me this long to figure it out. Too many complications, and most of them false trails, miscalculations, red herrings. The forest for the trees.
What time was it? I looked at the clock, and the hands read 1:03. I stared at them; I had slept another five hours, slept away half of the day. Thursday-another Thursday. Everything of any magnitude on this case seemed to happen on Thursday, including its beginning and now maybe its ending.
I got out of bed, stripped off my pajamas in the bathroom-they smelled medicinal and sweaty, and so did I- and took a careful shower. Then I got dressed, went back to the bedroom. My notebook was on the dresser; Kerry had rescued it from what was left of the suit jacket I’d been wearing Sunday night. My car keys were there too, thanks to her and Eberhardt having retrieved the car. When I checked through the notebook I found that I hadn’t copied down Claudia Mitchell’s telephone number. I could call the office, get it from Eberhardt if he was in, but I did not want to talk to Eberhardt right now. So I dialed 411 instead. There was only one Claudia Mitchell listed-the right one, as it turned out.
Her sister wasn’t there, but she gave me a number where Ruth Mitchell could be reached. The former Mrs. Leonard Purcell did not want to talk to me at first, not about anything so personal as what I was asking; but I convinced her it was important, that it would help bring Leonard’s murderer to justice. She answered my questions finally. And they were the right answers, the ones I had expected to hear.
One more thing to check out, one very important thing. I did not have to go do it myself, I did not want to go do it myself; it would require work, the kind I was in no shape for-hard work, bad work. Call Ben Klein, I thought, lay it out for him, let him take it from here. But I couldn’t do that. It was my case now, mine to finish unraveling, mine to put an end to one way or another. Personally.
You sound like Mike Hammer, for Christ’s sake, I thought. What’s the matter with you?
I watched a man die, I thought, I felt him die. And they beat me up, they hurt me bad. That’s what’s the matter with me.
I got the car keys off the dresser, put on my old tweed overcoat to guard against a chill, and went out. Wishing I owned a gun to take with me, and damned glad I didn’t.
Chapter Twenty-two
The car didn’t handle right. When the trap car rammed it on Sunday night the impact had done more than just
