Lewis.”
I tried to stop it, but the image of Sally and Dwight Torcelli in bed came to me. It would come back to me, too. I was sure.
“We can work on it,” I said.
“You, me, Ronnie, and Catherine in bed together,” she said. “You don’t forget anything, Lew. I’ll bet you even know the name of your grade school gym teacher and exactly how he looked.”
“She,” I said, remembering. “Shirley Ann Stoffey. Her husband was Jerry Stoffey, a staff writer for the Chicago Tribune. Mrs. Stoffey had a small purple birthmark above her left wrist. She had a Baltimore accent and a tarnished tin whistle she always wore around her neck.”
“You see? You can’t forget and you can’t bring yourself to lie about your memories. You never forget,” Sally said.
I didn’t say anything. I should have, but I couldn’t. This was the moment for sincere, simple eloquence, but it wasn’t in me. Sally was right.
She sighed deeply and said, “I’ll tell you what. The job in Vermont is open-ended and I could always come back here. I might even get a raise. The kids would be happy if we stayed. I’ll tell you what. In Vermont, a year from today, we meet and see… Lewis, I’m leaving, not just you but my own memories.”
“You can’t run away from memories,” I said. “I tried. They follow you.”
“I’ve made my decision,” she said.
“I understand.”
And I did. Sally usually had coffee after dinner. Not this time. I said I would pay. She let me. She gave me a quick kiss and left me sitting there.
I paid in cash and left a big tip. I don’t know how much fifteen or even twenty percent is. I don’t know how much nine times seven is. I had counted on Catherine to do that. I had counted on Sally to do it, too.
Sally was right, right about everything.
I got in my Saturn, put on my cap, and drove to the place where I was reasonably sure of finding the evidence I needed to convince the police.
I parked a block away and walked back. At the window, I checked, double-checked, and checked again to be sure no one was inside. The next shot from the person who lived here would likely be up close and with a shotgun. The window wasn’t locked. I climbed in.
Less than ten minutes later, pocket flashlight in hand, I had found everything I needed. I left it all in place and left.
Tomorrow, it would be over.
It was about eleven at night when I climbed the long flight of stairs to my rooms. With Victor gone, I would be spending my first night alone here. I was looking forward to it. But first I had to deal with the visitor standing on the landing at the top of the stairs.
“Where have you been?” asked Greg Legerman. “No, wait. I take that back. It’s none of my business. What I should say is, How is the effort to save Ronnie going? That is my business.”
“It’ll be over tomorrow,” I said.
I opened the door, reached in to turn on the lights. He followed me inside. I closed the door and he moved to the chair behind my desk. I could have told him I didn’t want to talk. It would have been true, but I sat.
“Where’s Winn?” I asked.
“Home, I think. We don’t spend all our time together. Well, most, but not all. I’ve decided I’m going to Duke. So is Winn.”
I shifted my weight, took out my wallet and counted out cash, which I placed on the desk in front of Greg.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“What you paid me minus the time I spent working on your case.”
“Why?”
“Let’s say your mother and grandfather have paid me more than enough.”
“I don’t understand,” he said, looking at the money.
“You will tomorrow.”
“ ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps at a petty pace,’ ” he said. “That’s Shakespeare, sort of.”
“I know. Very poetic.”
He looked around the room wondering what to say or do next.
“Do you know the history of your semiprofession in the United States?”
“No.”
He got up, leaving the cash on the desk, and started to pace as he spoke.
“The first U.S. marshals were appointed by George Washington to serve subpoenas, summonses, writs, warrants, and other processes issued by the courts. They also arrested and handled all Federal prisoners.”
“I’m not a U.S. marshal. I’m a private contractor.”
“I know, I know. But you see the history, the connection. Our lives, our history, and the history of the entire country-the entire world-are connected by slender threads of seemingly random events.”
“Interesting,” I said. “Would you like a can of Coke?”
If he said yes I would have given him the caffeine-free variety. Greg Legerman needed no more stimulation.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I get carried away.”
“You have any idea who killed Blue Berrigan?”
“No, but I have to tell you something about him. Berrigan.”
“Tell.”
“I hired Blue Berrigan to lie to you, to tell you he had evidence that would clear Ronnie.”
“He tried.”
“He wanted more money from me. Said he’d tell the police I had killed Horvecki.”
“And you wouldn’t give it?”
“No,” he said. “I didn’t kill him. I don’t know who did, probably whoever killed Horvecki.”
“Maybe,” I said. “How did you know Berrigan?”
“He used to work for my grandfather on his infomercials and at his mall appearances. I’ve known him all my life. He always needed money. It was a bad idea.”
“Very bad.”
“I got him killed,” said Greg.
I didn’t say anything.
“What happened to the Chinese guy?” Greg asked. “His bedroll’s gone.”
“Went home. A place far away and exotic.”
“China?”
“Oswego, Illinois.”
“Cheng Ho, fifteenth century admiral, diplomat, explorer, son of a Muslim, descendent of Mongol kings, was the first real Chinese explorer extending his country’s influence throughout the regions bordering the Indian Ocean.”
“Greg,” I said, trying to slow him down as he paced, speaking so quickly that I missed some of the words.
“Fifteenth century,” he said. “Do you know how the Romans numbered the centuries before the Christian era?”
“Greg,” I said again as he paused in his pacing to glance at the dark Dalstrom paintings on my wall.
I thought he was going to shift from the Roman calendar to something about art, but he stayed with his history.
“Eleven months, a three-hundred-and-four-day year. But my question was a trick. Your answers to me have been tricks. The Romans didn’t number their years. When a new year came, they called it something like ‘The Year of the Counsels of Rome.’ They didn’t think of decades or centuries. Time meant something different to the Romans.”
