“I know. Have you ever thought that one of them might want to speak to you through the wall?”
184
“No. I never have. And, God, I hope they never do.”
She shelled, he watched, and in time she said, “You need to go.”
By her tone, she meant that he could stay but understood that he needed to leave.
“Yes,” he said, and rose from his chair.
“You’re in trouble, aren’t you, Billy?”
“No.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Yes.”
“And that’s as much as you’ll tell me.”
He said nothing.
“You came here looking for something. Did you find it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Sometimes,” she said, “you can listen so hard for the faintest of sounds that you don’t even hear the louder ones.”
He thought about that for a moment and then said, “Will you see me to the door?”
“You know the way now.”
“You should lock up behind me.”
“The door latches when you close it.”
“That’s not good enough. Before dark, you should engage the deadbolts. And close those windows.”
“I’m not afraid of anything,” she said. “I never have been.”
“I always have been.”
“I know,” she said. “For twenty years.”
On his way out, Billy made less noise on the hardwood floors than he had done on his way in. He closed the front door, tested the latch, and followed the arbor-shaded walkway to the street, leaving Ivy Elgin with her tea and pistachios, with the watchful raven at her back, in the hush of the kitchen where the clock had no hands.
185
Steve Zillis rented a single-story house of no distinguishing architecture on a street where the bonding philosophy among the neighbors seemed to be neglect of property.
The only well-maintained residence was immediately north of Zillis’s place. Jackie O’Hara’s friend, Celia Reynolds, lived there. She claimed to have seen Zillis in a rage chopping chairs, watermelons, and mannequins in his backyard.
The attached garage stood on the south side of his house, out of Celia Reynolds’s line of sight. Having driven with frequent glances at his mirrors and having seen no tail, Billy parked boldly in the driveway. Between Zillis and his southern neighbor rose a wall of eighty-foot, untrimmed eucalyptus trees that provided privacy.
When Billy got out of the Explorer, the extent of his disguise was a blue baseball cap. He had pulled it low on his forehead.
His toolbox gave him legitimacy. A man with a toolbox, moving with purpose, is assumed to be a repairman, and excites no suspicion. As a bartender, Billy had a well-known face in certain circles. But he didn’t expect to be in the open for long.
He walked between the fragrant eucalyptus trees and the garage. As he hoped, he found a man-size side door.
In keeping with the property neglect and the cheap rent, only a simple lockset secured that entrance. No deadbolt.
Billy used his laminated driver’s license to loid the latch bolt. He took his toolbox into the hot garage and turned on a light.
On his way from Whispering Pines to Ivy Elgin’s house, he had driven past the tavern. Steve’s car had been parked in the lot.
Zillis lived alone. The way was clear.
Billy opened the garage, drove the SUV inside, closed the door. He proceeded casually, not as if in a hurry to get out of sight. Wednesday nights were usually busy at the tavern. Steve wouldn’t be home until after two o’clock Thursday morning.
186
Nevertheless, Billy couldn’t afford to take seven hours to get into the house and search it. Elsewhere, two dead bodies salted with evidence against him needed to be disposed of long before dawn.
Festooned with webs and dust, the garage was free of clutter. In ten minutes, he found spiders but no spare key to the inner door. He wanted to avoid signs of forced entry; however, picking a lock isn’t as easy as it appears to be in movies. Neither is seducing a woman or killing a man, or anything else.
