Nobody Runs Forever

joked.

But good God, people like that weren’t supposed to come here. Looking past him at the dark blue Lexus parked on the wide part of the drive, she said, “What are you doing? We’re not supposed to know each other.”

“I’m here for the gun,” he said.

At first she really didn’t understand him. “What gun?”

“The one you shot Beckham with,” he said. “You want to talk about it out here, or in the house?”

“Shot—”

“Fine, I can talk out here.”

“No, no, come in. It’s all right, Rosita!” she called, and led him down the hall, past the front parlor, to the smaller rear parlor, where they sometimes watched television. “Sit down,” she said, “and tell me what wild idea you seem to have.”

Since the chairs all faced the television set, he half-turned one toward her before sitting down. Then he said, “A pro would throw the gun away right after, but you’re not a pro, and you are greedy, so you held on to it.”

“If you’re saying I shot Jake—”

“We’re past that,” he said. “You did it, and sooner or later a cop is gonna show up here, and you’ve got a license for that gun. They’ll want to see it. If you say you lost it, they’ll get a warrant and search the house and find it and match it to the bullet they’re gonna take out of Beckham.”

Being called greedy had overshadowed everything else he’d said. She said icily, “I really don’t see—”

“What happens to you, I don’t care,” he said. “But if they nail you as the shooter, the whole bank job comes undone. I don’t want it undone.”

“Why on Earth would I try to kill Jake Beckham!”

“You didn’t,” he said. “You tried to put him in the hospital. When I told you, at that highway place, that he planned to miss a meeting with his parole officer, so he’d be safely in the can when the job went down, you said there was no need for that, nobody’s gonna suspect Beckham anyway. But then, when he didn’t miss the meeting, you realized, if he does draw attention to himself, he’s also gonna draw attention to you. If he goes down, you go down. So you shot him, to put him on ice for a while, but you weren’t smart enough to get rid of the gun, so—”

The doorbell sounded again, at the other end of the house. Irritated, she said, “Now what?”

“Probably a cop.” He stood. “Where’s the gun?”

“I don’t see—”

Rosita was in the doorway: “Missus, a lady policeman here.”

Her heart leaped into her throat, and she stared at the robber, who didn’t even seem to have heard what Rosita said. As quietly as before, he said, “Where’s the gun?”

“Kitchen,” she said, suddenly breathy. “Top drawer, farthest right, near the door to the garage.”

He nodded, then said, “The car out front belongs to a guy gonna do some landscaping. He’s here to take measurements outside and then he’s going, he’s not coming into the house.” And he turned and left the room.

Elaine blinked at Rosita, then regained some control of herself. “That man was not here.”

“No, missus.”

“I’ll see the policeman in the front parlor.”

“Yes, missus.”

By the time she got to the front parlor, she was no longer visibly shaking, but she didn’t look forward to being questioned by a policeman, not even a lady policeman. If that man had so immediately understood that she was the one who had shot Jake, and why, who else might see it? And he’d even known she’d keep the gun; he’d just assumed it, that she would be so careless.

She had to be careful. Starting now, she had to be very careful.

The lady policeman didn’t look like a policeman at all, but was a very attractive blonde in her twenties, long- necked and slim-hipped, stylishly dressed in boots and slacks and a tan high-necked blouse. She was what Harvey would have called a thoroughbred. Why would such a person choose to be a policeman?

“I’m Mrs. Langen. May I help you?”

“Detective Second Grade Gwen Reversa,” the woman said, and showed a gold badge in a dark leather case. “I’m the investigating officer in the Jake Beckham shooting.”

“Oh, poor Jake,” Elaine said, praying she sounded innocent and shocked. “You don’t know yet who did it?”

“Not yet,” the detective said, and smiled. “But there’s always hope.”

“Yes, of course. Oh, I’m sorry, do sit down. That’s the most comfortable chair.”

“Thank you.”

They sat, Elaine on the sofa, the detective on the comfortable chair, and the detective first put her shoulder bag on her lap, then took a notebook and pen from it, saying, “You’ve known Jake Beckham for some years, I believe.”

Elaine was astonished to feel a blush rising into her cheeks, but then was pleased by it, too; that would be a proof of innocence, wouldn’t it, a blush? Cheeks hot, she said, “Oh, Jake and I were a scandal, years ago. The one time I strayed from my marriage. I’m not proud of it, I can tell you that.”