level. “You might. I wanted to let you know they’re getting pretty worked up-they feel they’re being left in the dark on purpose. Some of us got together a half hour ago, and I had the distinct impression that if I’d mentioned the words ‘Kimberly Harris,’ it would have been like dropping a match into a swimming pool full of gasoline. It gave me quite a sense of power.”
“Yeah, over my job. Try to control yourself, okay?”
“Seriously, Joe, Mrs. Morse especially is really on the warpath. She wants Brandt called before a special session, and Cutts and Pearly are starting to think about it. If Katz does make the jury connection, that’ll be the match. How are things going?”
“We’re digging. It’ll all hinge on getting some more forensic stuff out of Connecticut. There’s an expert down there that might help us out, but it’ll take a few days.”
She was quiet for a few moments. “God, I hate these things. I wish they’d leave you alone- we would leave you alone, I should say. I really feel like telling them off sometimes, and I’d do it if you and I weren’t… well, you know. It kind of ties my hands; I can’t be too partial.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Her voice was suddenly stronger. uddenlyWell, hell. I’m probably just being too sensitive anyway. Mrs. Morse is always stirring them up; now’s no different. She’s not going to get them to do anything for a few days at least, unless your friend in the mask pops up again. Then you will be in trouble, or at least Brandt will be.”
“I’ll let him know he’s walking on egg shells.”
“Oh, he knows that-that’s what phones are for. I shouldn’t even have bothered you about all this.”
“Hey, I appreciate it. Makes me feel good to have a spy on the board.”
“A lot of good I am.”
“Don’t let it get to you, Gail. That’s not why you’re there. We’re all big boys and girls.”
“I know that. There’s just something about all this that makes me nervous for some reason. A man in a mask, that whole Kimberly Harris thing cropping up again… It’s creepy. I had nightmares last night.”
I hoped to hell she wouldn’t find out what I’d almost had last night. “We’ll get to the bottom of it soon-not to worry.”
· · ·
My first stop of the day was the bank where Kimberly Harris had kept her account, at least according to the apartment manager. If true, I was in luck; it was the same bank Ellen had worked in when we’d met and where I’d maintained ties with people who were now high in the ranks. The head of Records, Peg Wilson, had been a bridesmaid at our wedding.
I found her in her office, standing on a chair watering a plant.
She looked up when I knocked and spilled some water on her desk. “Joe, look what you’ve made me do. There’re some Kleenexes in the top drawer.”
I mopped up the puddle and helped her off her perch. She put down the can and gave me a hug. “Gosh, it’s been a long time. I haven’t seen you in months. No… more; it’s been a year. It was last Christmas. You ought to be ashamed of yourself-a whole year. It’s enough to make a girl feel neglected.”
“What about Tom?”
She waved her hand. “He’s just a husband. I need a handsome bachelor on the side.”
“Well, I hope you find him.”
She held my face between her hands, as a mother might a child’s.
“You look pretty good to me, big boy.” The smile faded slowly. “Actually, you look like death warmed over. What’s wrong?”
I kissed her and sat on the edge of her desk. “I just missed a night’s sleep. I can’t pull it off like I used to.”
She settled back in her chair. “Ugh. Tell me about it. I have to spend half an hour every morning in front of the mirror just to look alive.”
“You do a great job.”
She patted my knee. “Flatterer. What do you. W alwant?”
“Did Kimberly Harris bank here?”
She looked at me for a full count of three. I could almost hear the files turning over in her head. “Yes.”
That I found refreshing. No comments about the murder, digging up dead bodies, or why-do-you-want-to- knows. Just a straightforward answer. Peg was one of my favorite bureaucrats. She also had a machinelike memory. “Are her records still available?”
“No court order, right?”
“Right.” She got up. “You’re a bad boy, Joe Gunther. Grab a magazine.” She left the room and I picked up an issue of something called Banker’s Quarterly. I had just gotten to the biography of BQ ’s Banker of the Year when Peg walked back in. She put a folder on her desk and said, “I have to go to the bathroom. I should be about ten minutes, so please do not touch anything on my desk, okay?”
“Got you.” She left, closing the door behind her. I picked up the file.
It was a computer printout, naturally, several sheets long. Kimberly Harris had banked here for a little over a year. She hadn’t made great use of her checkbook, opting instead to write checks for large sums of cash and then presumably working from a kitty. That was unfortunate, in that I couldn’t trace her daily activities, but it did show me someone who was in a good position to leave at the drop of a hat. Most people I know who are settled in a community don’t walk around with rolls of hundred-dollar bills in their pockets.
I was also able to identify four stages of her financial life. The first was brief and pretty skinny. It made me wonder why she’d bothered to open an account in the first place. Within a couple of months, however, regular income started pumping in-a biweekly transfer of funds from another account at the bank owned by Charlie’s Pharmacy-presumably a paycheck. The third period was a transition. Charlie’s paycheck was augmented by cash deposits of four thousand dollars a month for several months. Lastly, Charlie dropped out of the picture, leaving only the mysterious, and hefty, monthly allotments. These lasted until her death.
That was all. I closed the folder and sat back. What the hell was going on? I now knew for sure that Willy Kunkle’s sensitivities, not to mention Frank Murphy’s, James Dunn’s, the Board of Selectmen’s, and everyone else’s, were going to have to be abused, to Stan Katz’s delight. I was going to have to sneak a peek under the lid of this one and run the risk of blowing it off.
Peg walked back in. “Are you satisfied now?”
I surreptitiously slid the folder onto her desk. “I’m more informed; I can’t say I’m satisfied.”
She sat down and picked up the file, idly leafing through it.
“Do you remember if any cops came by for that after she died?”
She looked up, surprised. “Oh, yes. It was what’s-his-name-the rude one.”
“Kunkle?”
“That’s right.”
That was something. But it made me all the more anxious to find out what the official conclusions had been about the four-thousand-dollar payments.
I thanked Peg and left the bank. The day was as brilliant as it had started out-cold and sharp and brittle. The snow creaked underfoot. People marched about, laden with rejected Christmas presents, peeking out between scarves and wooly hats. Most of the pre-holiday tension had been replaced by the return of everyday life.
Charlie’s Pharmacy was around the corner on Elliot Street, only a hundred feet from the bank. It had a long, thin railroad car layout that made me wonder if somebody hadn’t just put a roof and two doors on an alleyway. It was pleasant and cheery, however, its first few feet cluttered with magazines and card racks, the rest given over to the usual hodgepodge that makes drug stores the next best thing to the old five-and-dimes. Muted classical music hovered overhead, a distinctive if trendy touch that reminded me of Hillstrom’s office.
The man behind the prescription counter, the only other person in the place, looked up. “Can I help you find something?”
“That might take the fun out of it.”
The pharmacist grinned. “I know what you mean. I bought this place for the same reason: I’ve always loved drug stores. Of course, they were a little different when I was a boy.”
I walked up to the counter. He was an older man, probably in his seventies, with more hair than I had and a
