“You both did. He could’ve bought it all for a hundred dollars. She might’ve given it to him just for hauling it out of there.”
He looked ready to cry. He didn’t want to ask, didn’t dare ask, but in the end he had to.
“What the hell are we talking about?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“No,” he said dryly. “I probably don’t.”
“So Murdock came and went. Was that the last time you saw him?”
“Saw him, yes.”
“But you heard from him again.”
“He called me about ten days ago. He had been drinking, I could tell that immediately. He was babbling.”
“About what?”
“He was raving about some limited series of Grayson books that I had missed in my bibliography. He seemed to think Grayson had made a special set, just a few copies of each title, at least since the midfifties.”
“What did you tell him?”
“To find a good hangover cure and go to bed.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“They’re all dead. That’s what he said, they’re all dead, all five of ‘em.”
“What did you make of that?”
“Nothing. He was hallucinating.”
“Was that the end of it?”
“Just about. He rambled on for a while longer. Talked about getting himself together, becoming a real bookman again. Said he was going to write the real story of Darryl Grayson: said it had never been told but he was going to tell it, and when he did, the book world would sit up and take notice. It was all drunken balderdash.”
He looked weary, suddenly older. “If you want to chase down a drunk’s pink elephants, be my guest. Archie Moon and the Rigbys might know something. Otto said he’d gone out to North Bend and talked to them about it.”
“What did he say?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t take any more.”
He was ready to leave now. As he pushed back his chair, I said, “By the way, did you know Murdock was dead?”
He blinked once and said, “No, I didn’t know that.”
“I’m sure it’s been on the news by now.”
“I don’t read newspapers and I never watch anything but network news on television. I can’t stand these local fools.”
“Anyway, he’s dead.”
“How?…What happened?”
“Murder.”
He blinked again. “What the hell’s happening here?”
“Good question, Mr. Huggins. I don’t know, but I’m gonna find out.”
47
A my Harper had brushed out her long red hair and put on her one good dress. She looked less all the time like the doe-eyed schoolgirl I had rescued from Belltown. She had found someone to stay with her children overnight: a good thing, because this was going to run late.
She wouldn’t be doing any lifting and toting today. She was going to sit in a chair and supervise while a billionaire’s handyman did the work for her.
We zipped along 1-90 in the Nash and I told her what the game plan was. Somewhere on the road, ahead of us or just behind, Scofield and Kenney were heading for the same destination: I had called them from Amy’s room and told them where to go. She listened to what I was telling her and demanded nothing. She had a Spartan nature, patient and gutsy and uncomplaining, and I liked her better every time I saw her.
A kind of muted excitement filled the car as we flew past Issaquah for the run into North Bend. I was anxious without being nervous. I knew what we had: I knew the power it would hold over Scofield, and even Amy felt the strength of it as the day gained momentum. I had taken on the role of Amy’s guardian, her agent, in the talks to come. But a murder case was also on the fire: the fate of another woman I cared about greatly was still in doubt.
