“I’m retired, Mr. Janeway. I have no clock to answer to, so I sleep when I want, stay up all night if I feel like it, and drink tea whenever it pleases me.”
“I would love some tea at midnight.”
“Good. I’ll be right back.”
While she was gone I got up and looked around the room. She had books shelved everywhere, works on Eastern philosophy, on India and Egypt, Sufism and hypnosis; some poetry, some literature, a few fascinating individuals. The works of Rabindranath Tagore, the life of Gandhi, all the obvious books by and about Richard Burton. She had tacked a small framed quote from Tagore on the end of her bookcase:
“I read a lot.” She stood behind me, holding a tray with cups and a steaming pot.
“And you move like a cat.”
“It’s a solid house. Not many creaking boards. And I never wear shoes inside.”
I looked back at her books. “Interesting collection.”
“Does it tell you anything about its owner?”
“Sure. There are no better indicators of character than the books you have.”
“What do you look for when you go into a house and there are no books at all?”
“I don’t know. Whatever’s there, I guess. But I always feel a sense of…what’s the word I’m looking for?”
“Pity’s the word.”
“That’s a strong, judgmental word.” But I thought about it and said, “Yeah.”
“I couldn’t live without books. What amazes me is how many people can. I know
I not only believed it, I knew some of the same writer types. Glory seekers who want to make lots of money writing books but would never think of buying one.
“Come drink your tea before it gets cold.”
I took a sip and said, “What is this? It’s not tea.”
“It’s an herbal concoction. Do you like it?”
“Yeah, I think I do.”
“It’ll put hair on your chest.”
I laughed. “Never had that problem, actually.”
I asked her what kind of name Koko Bujak was.
“My father was what’s called a White Russian. My mother was from Baltimore.”
We looked at each other. “So what can I do for you?” she said.
I owed her the truth and I told it all: facts, suspicions, everything.
She didn’t say a word the whole time. She barely moved in the chair. Her eyes were riveted to mine, a compelling gaze that made me keenly aware of her hypnotic skills as I talked. She must have blinked during the half hour but I never saw her do it. After a while her eyes were like pinpoints of energy and the rest of her went out of focus. I wasn’t telling this story, she was pulling it out of me, but that was okay, none of it was against my will; I never had the feeling of going under or being out of my own control. If I wanted to I could get up any time, in the middle of a sentence, walk out, and fly back to Denver. It was almost pleasant except for the reality that someone had killed Denise and my sudden hunch that the killer might be in Baltimore, not Denver.
“That’s why I’m here at midnight,” I said as her face came into focus.
I didn’t know what I expected her to do with it. What I didn’t expect was how the conversation went from there.
“So you think I may be on someone’s list, is that what you’re saying?”
“I don’t know, Koko. That sounds pretty goofy, doesn’t it?”
“A week ago, maybe. Now, it doesn’t.” She took a deep breath, let it out through her nose. “I’ve had a feeling for the past week that someone’s been watching me.”
“Have you seen anybody?”
“I had a prowler last night. But I felt someone there long before that happened.”
“What kind of prowler? Noises?”
“No, not just a sound. Someone I actually saw in the yard behind the house.”
