She caught my fingers with her own. “Seriously, what’s up?”
I leaned back again and waved my hand. “I don’t know; it’s nothing specific. Feeling old, I guess.”
“I used to do that when I was thirty-five.”
I tapped the side of my head with a finger. “You and me both. No… Murphy asked me to quit and join him in some business in Florida. I turned him down.”
“What kind of business?”
“No kind-he had no idea. He just wanted the company. I felt badly because I owe him a lot.”
“You have your own life to lead.”
That made me smile. “That’s what they say.”
“What happens to you once he leaves? Captain?”
“Probably. The chief and I get along; I’m next in line.”
“Nervous?”
“Not from the command angle-I’m used to that. I just hope it doesn’t change me.”
“Like Frank?”
“You’re pretty good at this. Yeah, like Frank. I’m digging into something right now, and I get the feeling he wishes he was already in Florida. It bugs the hell out of me.”
“Does it tie into Phillips? A cover-up?”
I shook my head. “Nothing quite so glamorous, although Stan Katz will probably start along those lines soon. I think maybe it’s what they used to call OTJR-On The Job Retirement. Frank doesn’t want to get dirty this close to the end. He has a nice clean record and a clear conscience. I can’t blame him, but it’s sad to see. I just hope to hell it never happens to me.”
“What is it?”
I hesitated to tell her. “Your selectman hat could get us all into some trouble here.”
“I’m not wearing it.”
“You might start.”
She looked at me silently.
“It is connected to Phillips. What have you heard so far?”
“Just what’s been in the newspaper. Some of the screamers on the board have been making a few phone calls, trying to get information.”
“Mrs. Morse?”
“She’s convinced you tell me everything.”
“Don’t I?”
“You’re not now.”
It was silly to hedge with her. I didn’t tell her everything, but what I did she always treated confidentially- always had and always would. That was the nature of the woman.
“I’m digging into the Kimberly Harris murder.”
“Wow. We’re not talking parking meters here, are we? No wonder Frank’s nervous. You mean this shooting’s tied in to the Harris case?”
I hesitated a moment. Maybe Frank had a good point. This whole thing was a can of worms just waiting to be opened. She shoved me with her toe. “My lips are sealed.”
I took her at her word. “Someone in a ski mask has been setting up ex-members of that jury-five so far. I think to force us to reopen the investigation.”
“Bill Davis’s jury?”
“Right. Reitz and Phillips were on it. Since them, three others have been snared, none as permanently. Just last night a girl was molested by a masked man and led to believe he was someone who served with her on that jury.”
“All in two days. He doesn’t waste time.”
“No, he doesn’t. And he may have a valid point.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“I spent almost the whole day reading the trial transcripts and all the rest-years’ worth of legal back and forth. It was kind of weird. Perry Mason always got his man in half an hour. These guys took two years and didn’t come up with anything more than what they started with. If I’d have been Bill Davis, I would have been a basket case by the end of it. I mean, they pulled stunts like taking eight months to process the paperwork before the defense could get an appeal heard-it dragged on forever.”
“But wasn’t Davis guilty?”
“He was found guilty. We had a full plate of evidence against him, and the prosecution fed it to the jury one spoonful at a time-blonde, beautiful, young, pregnant girl found tied down and raped on her bed. The stuff of Hollywood dreams. Dunn played with the fantasy, building it up, filling in all the details. The struggle, the ripped clothes, the rope around the wrists and ankles, one final burst of resistance with a lamp and fingernails, then the rape, the semen in the mouth, the strangulation. It was a real performance.”
“But essentially true, or not?”
I couldn’t answer that. The question wasn’t relevant. What had occurred in that courtroom in the quaint county seat of Newfane hadn’t happened in a vacuum. Outside, in the street, in the bars, in the chance encounters of friends, the murmurs had floated-of outrage, of revenge, of racism. The supposed violent meeting between one of their own and a black flatlander junkie had stirred up a long-denied Yankee prejudice that rose slowly like a bubble in a tar pit.
“I remember at the time hearing that racist jokes were being kicked around between some of the jurors and the bailiff. It was hardly the most impartial of surroundings.”
I leaned forward and picked up my mug. The cocoa was cool now. “I’ll give Davis this much. He took it on the chin. Without saying a word, he told us all to take a long walk off a short pier.”
“So do you think he was guilty or not?” she asked again.
“As far as I know, he’s as guilty as he’s always been.”
“Then why are you digging into all this? The publicity’s already pretty hot without it.”
I rubbed my eyes with the palms of my hands. Why indeed. “Because I think things are going to force me to change my mind.”
8
I parked outside my home about ten that night. Gail wanted an early start the next morning. I spent the night with her every once in a while, usually on weekends or days when we didn’t have to tear off to some job at the crack of dawn. We were both old enough now that we wanted our time together rounded out and comfortable, including a good night’s sleep and a casual, stretched out breakfast. That hadn’t stopped us from making love on the couch before dinner tonight, but we hadn’t seen each other in a while.
Happier and whole again, I felt a little silly remembering the tape I’d placed across the apartment door that morning. It was something I’d seen James Bond do some twenty years earlier in a movie-a way for him to detect intruders while he was away. Of course he had used a hair, but I didn’t have enough left to start plastering them across doorways.
Why I had done it was another matter. The Plymouth Duster had definitely unsettled me, and the appearance of the masked avenger-or whatever he was-had hardly helped. Putting tape on the door had been an impulse but one that had made me feel a bit more in control, as if proving to the Plymouth’s driver that he wasn’t the only one taking notes.
But whatever confidence it had gained me quickly vanished. As I reached the top of the stairs, I could clearly see the tape was broken. I stood there for a moment, uncertain of what to do. Outside some stranger’s apartment, a similar setup was easy to deal with. You pulled a gun, organized your troops, knocked politely, and, if necessary, had the door broken down. It was scary but routine-at least on paper. This was not routine.
I stepped out of the way of the door, slipped my key in as quietly as possible, pulled my gun, and turned the lock. The door opened with a loud click. I waited a bit, breathing ha ^quird through my mouth. I felt terribly hot. I
