“So where do you get nicotine? Boil cigarettes?”
“I suppose you could, but I’m not sure. Hernandez said it’s sometimes used as a pesticide — especially on roses. I was just thinking that it would be easier to trace if it was a pesticide for something a little rarer than roses.”
“So he knew whoever killed him?”
“Most victims know their killers.”
“Hard for me to think of him as a victim.”
“I know what you mean. I’d say he probably did know the poisoner. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment kind of murder. It would take planning, knowledge of Hawkeyes’s habits, where he lived, when he’d be away long enough to gain access to his house to poison the after-shave. Maybe it was given as a gift, knowing sooner or later he’d use it. I don’t know what the level of nicotine was, but someone would probably not try it with a smoker except in a heavy dose — smokers sometimes develop a level of tolerance to nicotine. The poisoner also had to have some idea of his taste in after-shave. No use dosing something he’d never use.”
“Do you know who Hawkeyes was?” I asked.
“Yeah, they’ve identified him. He had a record. Even had a conviction on a prior use of the trick with the hot iron on the feet. His name was Alf Bryant. Very twisted kind of guy. Apparently somebody didn’t want him talking about his recent work on their behalf.”
He looked out the back-door screen, making me think about the possibility that this “twisted guy” had been in my house while I was taking a shower.
Frank looked over at me. “Don’t think about it anymore. Not today — I’ll quit bringing it up.”
“I’m okay. I’ll get my suit.”
WE LOCKED UP and drove over to the store. There was some fresh swordfish on sale, so we picked up a couple of steaks of it, a cold bottle of fume blanc, and salad fixings. After a brief hassle at the checkout stand, we agreed to split the bill.
It was starting to get dark by the time we got back to his house. While Frank opened the wine, I made a call to the paper to make sure the story about the nicotine poisoning had gotten out of the coroner’s office. They had heard about it and already had someone working on it.
We let the swordfish cook on the grill while we made the salad. We ate outside on the patio. The warm evening air was redolent with honeysuckle.
“Great dinner,” he said.
“My compliments to the co-chef.”
We finished the wine and cleaned up.
“We should wait awhile before sitting in that hot tub,” he said. He turned the radio on to a classical station. “This okay?”
“Fine.” I don’t know what it was, but it was gentle and soothing. I sat down on the couch next to him. He was rubbing his forehead. “Headache?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Lie down with your head in my lap.”
He gave me a look that said “What are you up to?” but he did it. A long time ago, a friend of mine taught me a few things about massage — the genuine article. One type of massage is great for headaches. Keeping in mind that he had some tender spots from the accident and that his concussion was probably causing the headaches, I very gently started rubbing his forehead, his neck and shoulders, and the area behind his ears.
“That feels great,” he said.
“Good. Let me know if I hurt you — I’m trying to avoid the bruises.”
“You’re doing fine.”
He closed his eyes, and within about two minutes was fast asleep.
“I knew you were worn out,” I whispered.
I watched him for a long time. After a while my feet started to tingle from lack of circulation, but I held off waking him.
He moved a little and I guess that woke him up. He seemed a little startled at first, then relaxed. “Well, I’m an exciting kind of guy to be around. You’ve probably spent more time around me asleep than awake this week.”
“You’re a guy who was in the hospital a couple of days ago. Why don’t you call it a night? The concussion, wine, and hot tub might not be such a great combination right now anyway.”
He reached up and traced my brow. “You’ll take a rain check?”
“It’s a deal.”
He dropped his hand to cover a yawn.
“In that case,” he said, “I’ll admit to being dead tired and a little achy and thank you for being understanding.”
We said goodnight and I left.
As I crawled into bed later that night, I thought about how I had made it through two days in a row in a fairly peaceful fashion. Cody jumped in with me and I snuggled close to him. I felt good all over. I don’t know how I could go from feeling so good to the nightmare, but that night I dreamed that someone was trying to cut off my hands and feet.
37
I WOKE UP IN DARKNESS, startled and drenched in sweat, after hearing myself cry out in my sleep. In those first few seconds, bordering between being asleep and awake, I wasn’t sure my hands and feet were still attached. As I reassured
