cop who suspected him of murder. He must know…
'Fine.' Lucas looked around the kitchen as Bekker filled the cups with tap water, stuck them in a microwave and punched the control buttons. The kitchen was as carefully crafted as the rest of the house, with folksy, turn- of-the-century wallpaper, dark, perfectly matched wood, and touches of flagstone. While the rest of the house felt decorated, Lucas thought, the kitchen felt lived in.
Bekker turned back to Lucas as the microwave began to hum. 'I know nothing at all about cooking,' Bekker said. 'A little about wine, perhaps.'
'You're handling your wife's death pretty well,' Lucas said. He stepped up to a small framed photograph. Four women in long dark dresses and white aprons, standing around a butter churn. Old. 'Are these, what, ancestors?'
'Stephanie's great-grandmother and some friends. Sit down, Mr. Davenport,' Bekker said, nodding at a breakfast bar with stools. The microwave beeped, and he took out the cups, the coffee steaming hot, carried them to the bar and sat down opposite Lucas. 'You were saying?'
'Your wife's death…'
'I'll miss her, but to be honest, I didn't love my wife very much. I'd never hurt her-I know what the police think, Stephanie's idiot cousin-but the fact is, neither of us was much of a factor in the other's life. I suspected she was having an affair: I simply didn't care. I've had female friends of my own…' He looked for reaction in Lucas' face. There was none. The cop accepted the infidelity as routine… maybe.
'And that didn't bother her? Your other friends.' Lucas sipped at the coffee. Scalding.
'I don't believe so. She knew, of course, her friends would have seen to that. But she never spoke to me about it. And she was the type who would have, if she cared…' Bekker blew on his coffee. He was wearing a tweed jacket and whipcord pants, very English.
'So why not a divorce?' Lucas asked.
'Why should we? We got along reasonably well, and we had this'-he gestured at the house-'which we couldn't maintain if we split up. And there are other advantages for two people living together. You share maintenance chores, run errands for each other, one can take care of business when the other one is gone… There wasn't any passion, but we were quite well adapted to each other's habits. I'm not much interested in marriage, at my age. I have my work. She couldn't have children; her fallopian tubes were hopelessly tangled, and by the time in vitro came around, she was no longer thinking about children. I never wanted any, so there wasn't even that possibility.' He stopped and seemed to reflect, took a sip of the scalding coffee. 'I suppose other people wouldn't understand the way we were living, but it was convenient and comfortable.'
'Hmp.' Lucas sipped his own coffee and looked the other man straight in the eyes. Bekker gazed placidly back, not flinching, and Lucas knew then that he was lying, at least about part of it. Nobody looked that guiltless without deliberate effort. 'I suppose a prosecutor could argue that since you had no interest in each other, and it made no difference to you whether she lived or died, her death would be very… convenient. Instead of having half of this'- his gesture mimicked Bekker's-'you'd have all of it.'
'He could… if he were particularly stupid or particularly vicious,' Bekker said. He flashed a smile at Lucas, a thin rim of white teeth. 'I invited you for coffee because of the people you've killed, Mr. Davenport. I thought you'd likely know about death and murder. That would give us much in common. I study death as a scientist. I've studied murder, both the victims and the killers. There are several men who consider themselves my friends out at Stillwater prison, serving life sentences. From my research I've drawn two conclusions. First: Murder is stupid. In most cases, it will out, as somebody British once said. If you're going to commit murder, the worst thing you can do is plan it and commit it in league with another person. Conflicts arise, the investigators play one against another… I know how it works. No. Murder is stupid. Murder plotted with someone else is idiotic. Divorce, on the other hand, is merely annoying. A tragedy for some couples, perhaps, but if two people genuinely don't love each other, it's mostly routine legal procedure.'
Bekker shrugged and went at the coffee. When he extended his perfect pink lips to the cup, he looked like a leech, Lucas thought.
'What's the second thing you know about murder? You said there were two things,' Lucas asked.
'Ah. Yes.' Bekker smiled again, pleased that Lucas was paying attention. 'To plan and carry out a cold-blooded murder-well, only a madman could do it. Anyone remotely normal could not. Serial killers, hit men, men who plot and kill their wives: all crazy.'
Lucas nodded. 'I agree.'
'I'm glad you do,' Bekker said simply. 'And I'm not crazy.'
'Is that the real reason you invited me in? To tell me you're not nuts?'
Bekker nodded ruefully and said, 'Yes, I guess it is. Because I thought you might understand the totality of what I'm saying. Even if I had wanted to kill Stephanie-and I didn't-I wouldn't have. I'm simply too smart and too sane.' He reached forward and touched Lucas on the arm, and Lucas thought: The sucker is trying to seduce me. He wants me to like him… 'Your fellow officers have been all over the neighborhood, quite deliberately creating an impression. I can feel it in my neighbors. I'm sure Stephanie's crazy cousin, the dope addict, has told you that I had her killed to get this house, but if you ask her friends, you'll find that I never had much interest in it. The house or the furnishings…'
'You could sell it-'
'I was coming to that,' Bekker interrupted. He made a brushing motion with his free hand, as though batting away gnats. 'I'm not much interested in the house or its furnishings, but I'm not totally unappreciative, either. It is a very comfortable place to live. Success in academia is largely political, you know, and the house is a wonderful backdrop for social gatherings. For impressing those who must be impressed. I would keep it, but… I'm afraid Stephanie's crazy cousin may succeed in driving me out. If all my neighbors believe I killed her, remaining here would be intolerable. You might tell that to Del, when you see him. That if I sell, it will be only because he drove me out.'
'I will,' Lucas nodded. 'And if the other officers are creating problems for you… I have some pull at headquarters. I'll back them off.'
'Really?' Bekker seemed surprised. 'Would you?'
'Sure. I don't know whether you were involved in your wife's killing, but there's no reason you should be illegally harassed. I'll look into it.'
'That'd be wonderful,' Bekker said. Gratitude saturated his voice, but a spark of contempt flared in his eyes. 'I'm glad I asked you in: I had an intuition that you'd understand…'
They sat in silence for a moment, then Lucas said, 'She was killed here in the kitchen. Your wife.'
'Oh, yes… I suppose she was,' Bekker said, looking around vaguely.
Wrong reaction, asshole. Bekker had to know where she was killed. He must have thought about it, looked at the spot, carried the image in his head: anyone would, innocent or guilty, crazy or sane. And that business about a divorce being simply annoying. If you believe that, you're stupider than I think you are… Lucas waited, expecting more, but Bekker pushed off the barstool and dumped the last of his coffee into the kitchen sink.
'The men you killed, Lucas. Do you think they went anywhere?' His tone was casual.
'What do you mean?' Lucas asked. 'You mean, like, to heaven?'
'Or hell.' Bekker turned to study him. His voice was no longer casual.
'No. I don't think they went anywhere,' Lucas said, shaking his head. 'I used to be a Catholic, and when I first started police work, I worried about that. I saw a lot of people dead or dying for no apparent reason… not people I killed, just people. Little kids who'd drowned, people dying in auto accidents and with heart attacks and strokes. I saw a lineman burn to death, up on a pole, little bits and pieces, and nobody could help… I watched them go, screaming and crying and sometimes just lying there with their tongue stuck out, heaving, with all the screaming and hollering from friends and relatives… and I never saw anyone looking beyond. I think, Michael, I think they just blink out. That's all. I think they go where the words on a computer screen go, when you turn it off. One minute they exist, maybe they're even profound, maybe the result of a great deal of work. The next… Whiff. Gone.'
'Gone,' Bekker repeated. His white eyebrows went up. 'Nothing left?'
'Nothing but a shell, and that rots.'
'Hah.' Bekker turned away, suddenly shaken. 'Very sad. Well. I have to get to bed. I have work tomorrow.'
Lucas stood, drank the last of his coffee and left the cup on the bar. 'I wonder if I could ask something. I'm
