“Why don’t I come along? Maybe you’ll have one, too.”
She led him into the kitchen. She walked with her arms stiff at her sides.
The booze was in a cabinet at eye level. She raised her arm to open it, self-conscious of how the gesture tautened her clothes against her back and shoulder. Should she scream? Run for the door? She doubted she would make it to the door before him, even allowing for the advantage of surprise. A scream, she thought, would alarm him, set him off. As long as they were talking, maintaining the pretense of civility, there was hope.
She said, facing the cabinet still, “How do you want it?”
“Neat. Make one for yourself too, Margaret.”
“I don’t drink it.”
“Alright, then. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
She poured his drink and handed it to him. Should she have thrown it in his eyes? Would it have worked?
“What do you want, Margaret?”
“I’m not thirsty.”
He laughed. “No, not to drink. What do you want, right now?”
“I want you to leave.”
“But I just got here.”
“It’s late. I want to go to bed.”
“Will you have me back another time?”
“Yes.”
“Now, why don’t I believe you?”
She started to say something, a lie to reassure him. She felt her lips move but no sound came. He had no weapon. At least he did not seem to. She could not be sure. In most of the Strangler cases there had been no weapon. The Strangler had used whatever heavy object came to hand to bash his victims, then improvised a garrotte from whatever he had found in their apartments-nylons, bathrobe sashes, scarves, sheets. But in a few of the cases there had been knife wounds, mutilation…
“Margaret?”
“It’s true. Another time you can come. It’s late.”
He turned his bruised face forty-five degrees and looked at her from an angle, skeptically. “What has Michael told you about me?”
“Michael?”
“Yes, Michael Daley. Your son.”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing about the Strangler?”
The air went out of her. The subject had now been introduced and would have to be addressed, finessed, if she was going to maneuver out of the situation. “No.”
Lindstrom offered no response, but something in his posture, a tensioning along his elastic spine, suggested he knew she was lying. They were on different terms now.
“He says,” Margaret elaborated, “there’s more than one strangler.”
“Yes, but one for the old ladies, isn’t that right?”
“I don’t, I don’t know. Most of them, yes, I suppose.”
“Not DeSalvo.”
“No.”
“Me.”
She did not answer.
“Oh, come on, Mrs. Daley. He’s told me as much.”
“I don’t know. I just…”
Lindstrom nodded. He already knew all the answers, knew she was lying, knew why she was lying. None of it mattered at this point. What would happen, would happen. “May I ask you something, Margaret? A personal question?”
Her eyes went to the floor. Sheet linoleum in a pebble pattern of browns and ochers, dull with age.
“Have you ever had it in the ass?”
Her rectum and buttocks contracted. The rest of her, shoulders, neck, backbone, all went slack. She was not really there-this simply could not be happening.
“Have you ever had it in the ass?”
“Oh my God,” she murmured.
“Have you?”
“Oh my God.”
“Well, either you have or you haven’t. It’s a yes-or-no question.”
Her head was bowed. She managed to rustle it back and forth: no.
“Why don’t you get those clothes off?”
“No…no…”
“It’s not so hard.”
“I can’t.”
“You want me to do it?” He put down his glass. “Come over there and do it for you?”
“No.”
“What do you want, then?”
“Want?”
“That’s right. We’re just a couple of old friends here having a chat. You can tell me anything.”
“Oh my God.”
“Just tell me, Margaret. Anything you desire.”
“I want you to please leave.”
“Leave? Just like that?”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“You mean, you know who the Strangler is, the Boston Strangler, but you’ll keep it to yourself? You, a policeman’s wife?”
“I don’t know anything. Some mixed-up kid in some kind of beef with one of my sons…”
He picked up the glass, sipped, and his mouth made a series of puckers as he considered. “Alright, then.”
“You’ll go?”
“On one condition: you tell your son Michael I came around to say goodbye.”
“Where are you going?”
“Parts unknown.”
“Okay. I’ll tell him.”
“One more thing and then I’ll go. I’d like a kiss.”
Her head craned forward slightly, as if she had not heard.
“That’s all. Just a kiss goodbye. Then I’ll go.”
She shook her head.
“Well, then it looks like I’m here for the duration. Shall we get back to our conversation?”
“Just a kiss?”
“A kiss and I’ll go.”
“I have your word?”
“Scout’s honor.”
“One kiss and you’ll go.”
“That’s right.”
She moved in front of him. Lindstrom was younger than Ricky, her youngest, by several years. Maybe it was just his appearance, smooth-skinned, ruddy. He might be half her age. Or less. He smelled of Scotch. She closed her eyes and tipped her head.
“No-no, you kiss me, Margaret. For a count of ten, let’s say. Get my money’s worth.”
She could knee him in the crotch, or run, or search for a weapon. But she would not. She knew she would not do any of those clever, resourceful things people did in movies. It was only a kiss.
