“I can’t be held accountable for your silly hunches.”
“Hal, please. I know you’re much the superior being here, but do I really look that stupid?” I cleared my throat. “Obviously I do. It’s amazing, dense as I am, how I picked right up on that crack in your story.”
“What crack? You’re talking in riddles.”
“Are you still trying to tell me that what you were going to say was you have no interest in my little old lady or her
We stared at each other.
“Oops,” I said.
He went on, blindly stonewalling. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Could it be you were about to say my little old lady and her
“You should be the one writing fiction, Janeway. My interest is purely academic.
“Even though you’re not doing Burton.”
“Yes! Jesus Christ, do we have to go
“Then maybe we can work out a deal.”
“I don’t even know what you’ve got to deal with. Why should I
“Bluster all you want, Hal, but these questions won’t go away. What are you doing with the Treadwells? Don’t you know how suspicious this is, given the history of that bookstore and its double-dealing with Mrs. Gallant’s books? Don’t you realize how far beyond chance it is that you went looking for a rare-book dealer and just happened to stumble over Dean Treadwell, six hundred miles away, at exactly this moment in time?”
“What double-dealing? What coincidence?”
“Are you actually trying to tell me you don’t know about the Treadwells? You don’t know how Josephine was robbed of those books eighty years ago?“
He tried an artificial laugh but it came out shrill, like a hyena’s bark. “Eighty years ago! Jesus, you
“Do you really think you’re fooling anybody with this bluff? I didn’t kick your door down, you’re the one who brought me up here. If you want to talk, talk, but don’t try feeding me any more of that bullshit about Dean looking for rare books on your behalf. Do I look like I just leaped out of some bookstore in far left field? What rare books? What books do you need that only Dean Treadwell can find for you? Old Dean must be a killer bookman. I saw him in action this morning and I didn’t think he could find his own cock in a pissing contest, but hey, maybe I was wrong. Give me the titles of a few books he’s finding for you. I’m prepared to be knocked out by Dean’s brilliance, so go ahead, give me his best shot.”
“I don’t have to give you anything.”
“Tell me just two titles you’ve been looking for and only Dean can find them.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Just
“This conversation is over.”
“Have we been having a conversation? I couldn’t tell.”
“Get the hell out of here! Get out now or I’ll call hotel security.”
“I’ve got to improve my manners, I’m getting thrown out of everywhere these days.” I tried for a look of contriteness. “Can I finish my drink first?”
The room went suddenly quiet, and only in its void did I realize how completely I had been thinking and acting like a cop again. It had started last week with Whiteside, with Denise, and it wasn’t just the nature of my questions or my interrogative manner, it was part of my heartbeat. A good cop suspects everybody of everything.
In that minute the case swirled through my mind and I saw them all: Josephine, Ralston, the Treadwells, and Denise, carried out of her bedroom on a coroner’s stretcher. The thought I’d just had was so farfetched it had come only as an impression, lacking even the words to give it substance, but almost at once it became specific. I thought of the kid who had seen a fleeting white man leaving Ral-ston’s house. Archer was a white man. So were the Treadwells. So was Dante. And Denise had had Josephine’s Burton: for one night only, but who would have known that?
What if these sons of bitches had been following Josephine? What if they knew she’d died at Ralston’s? What if they’d killed Denise?
I leaned forward on the bed and riddled Archer with my eyes. “Where were you this time last week?”
