“Out at the airport auditorium, when that policewoman or whatever she was paged you, I recognized your name. I’ve read how you’ve helped people in trouble. When they let me go I looked up where you live in the phone book and came up here to wait for you.”
“Why were you at the airport?’
“I had to get away. If I stayed here I knew that burglar would come back and kill me, if I didn’t kill myself first. And I was right! You were there, you saw-that man. that gunman standing a few feet from me and he called my name. Donna Greene, and I started to turn and he shot at me and hit the man next to me in the line. Oh, God, somebody, help me!” She broke again, terror and despair poured out of her, and Loren held her and made comforting sounds while his mind raced.
Yes. the two names, John Graham and Donna Greene, sounded just enough alike that in the crowded terminal, with noises assaulting the ears from every side, both of them might have thought their name was being called and turned. To Loren, less than a dozen feet away, the name had sounded like “Bonreem.” But which of the two
All the time he was soothing Donna Greene he fought with himself. “Don’t get involved again,” something inside told him. “The last time you saved someone he went out later and killed a bunch of innocent people. This time you’re already partly responsible for Wilt’s death. And for all you know this woman may be a raving paranoid.”
And then all at once he knew what to do. something that would reconcile the conflicting emotions within him and make his Christmas a lot brighter too. He waited until Donna was under control again before he explained.
“I’ve been thinking.” he said. “I don’t think I’m qualified to judge whether you’re right or wrong about being the target at the airport. But I know someone who is—a woman private detective up in Capital City named Val Tremaine. She’s fantastically good at her work. I’m going to ask her to come down and spend a couple of days on your case, getting to know you, talking with you, forming judgments. You’ll like her. Her husband died young too and she had to start life over.” He disengaged himself gently and rose to his feet. “I’ll make the call from my study. You’ll be all right?”
“I’m better now. I just needed someone I could open up to who wouldn’t treat me like a fool or a lunatic. Look, Mr. Mensing, I’m not a charity case. My lawyer is suing the estate of that other driver for three million dollars. He was rich, his attorneys already offered to settle for three-quarters of a million. I’m not asking you or your detective friend to work for nothing.”
“Don’t worry about money now,” Loren said, and went down the inner hall to the second bedroom that was fixed up as his study, closing the door behind him. He had to check his address book for the number of Val’s house, the lovely house nestled on the side of a mountain forty miles from the capital’s center, the house she had built as therapy after her husband had died. God, had it been that long since he’d called her? He wondered what had made their relationship taper off, his choice or hers or just the natural drifting of two people who cared deeply for each other but were hundreds of miles apart. He hoped she wouldn’t mind his calling in the middle of the night. He hoped very much that she’d be alone.
On the fourth ring she answered, her voice heavy with sleep and bewilderment and a touch of anger.
“Hi, Val, it’s me... Yes, much too long. I’ve missed you too. Want to make up for lost time?” He told her about his involvement in the airport murder which she’d heard reported on the evening’s TV newscasts, and about the riddle of the intended target which Donna Greene had dropped in his lap. “So if you haven’t any other plans for the holidays, why not spend Christmas here? Check her story, be her bodyguard if she needs one, help her start functioning again. Take her to the police with me if you believe she’s right.” He knew better than to hold out the prospect of a substantial fee. That wasn’t the way Val operated.
“You’ve got yourself a guest,” she said. “You know, I was going to invite you up to my place for Christmas but—well, I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“I’d have come,” he told her softly. If she had invited him he wouldn’t have been at the airport this afternoon, and maybe Frank Wilt would be alive and able to tell who had hired him, and maybe Donna Greene would be dead. Chance.
I’ll have to get someone to run the office and I’ll need an hour to pack. No way I can get a plane reservation this time of year, so I’ll drive. See you around, oh, say eight in the morning if I don’t get stuck in the snow.”
“I hope you like quiche for breakfast.” Loren said.
* * *
A soft rapping on the front door jerked him out of a doze on the blue couch. Sullen gray light filling the living room told him it was morning. His watch on the end table read 7:14. “Yes?” he called in the door’s direction.
“Me.” He recognized Val’s voice, undid the deadbolt and the chain lock. The second she was inside with her suitcase he kissed her. It was their first kiss in months and they both made it last. Then they just looked at each other. Val’s cheeks were red from the cold and her eyes showed the strain of a long drive through snow-haunted darkness. She was beautiful as ever.
“I missed you,” he whispered. “Mrs. Greene’s asleep in the bedroom.”
They talked quietly in the kitchen while they grated some cheddar, cut a strip of pepper and an onion and ham slices into bits, beat two eggs in cream and melted butter, poured the ingredients into a ready-made pie crust, seasoned them with salt and nutmeg, and popped the quiche into the oven. Loren reported on the murder and Donna’s story as the aroma of hot melted cheese filled the kitchen.
“The first step isn’t hard to figure,” Val said, cutting the quiche into thirds as Loren poured orange juice and coffee. “She’ll have to look at pictures of Wilt and tell us if he was her Monday-night burglar. If she identifies him we’ll know she was the target at the airport.”
“But if she can’t identify him,” Loren pointed out, “it’s not conclusive the other way. Maybe two guys were after her, maybe she didn’t get a good look at the burglar... We do make a delicious quiche, partner.”
“And I’m glad we saved a third of it for our client,” Val said, “because the minute she gets up I’m borrowing your bed. I can’t take sleepless nights the way I used to.”
They left Val asleep and drove downtown through the snow in Loren’s VW and entered the office of the homicide detail a little after eleven. Lieutenant Krauzer was in his cubicle, and from his rumpled red-eyed look he’d been working through the night. He was a balding soft-spoken overweight man in his fifties who never seemed to react to anything but. like a human sponge, absorbed whatever came before him.
The lieutenant listened to Loren’s story and to Donna Greene’s, then picked up his phone handset, and twirled the dial. “Gene, you still have the Wilt photos? Yeah, bring them in, please.”
“We’ve learned a bunch about Frank Wilt since you hung it up last night. Professor,” Krauzer said. “He spent most of his time in bars, one joint in particular that’s owned by a guy with mob connections. That could explain how he was hired for the hit if the target was John Graham, but it doesn’t explain why. Damn it, the mob just doesn’t pay washed-up vets to waste a top man on their hit list.
“Your story reads better on that score, Mrs. Greene. An amateur hires Wilt for a private killing. He messes it up at your house last week and runs. He follows you to the airport yesterday, tries again, and messes it up again, because the guy next to you in line happened to have a name that sounds a little like yours, turned faster than you did. and took the bullets meant for you. But, ma’am, you just can’t ask me to believe that there’s a plot to wipe out your family, because there’s no way on earth the freak accident that killed your husband and daughter could have been anything but—”
A knock sounded on the cubicle door and a woman entered. Loren recognized her as Sergeant Holt from last night. She placed a sheaf of photos on Krauzer’s desk and left after the lieutenant thanked her. Loren handed the pictures to Donna and watched her face as she squinted and studied the shots with intense deliberation. In the outer office phones were ringing constantly, voices rising and falling, doors slamming, and in the street Loren heard the wail of sirens. Violent crime seemed to thrive on holidays.
There was a hunted look in Donna Greene’s eyes when she handed the photos back to Krauzer. “I can’t tell.” she said in almost a whisper. “I think the burglar was taller but with that stocking mask he wore and in the dark I couldn’t see his face well enough to be sure. Oh, I’m sorry!” She began to cry again and Loren reached out for her. Krauzer lifted the phone and a minute later Sergeant Holt came back in, put her arm around the other woman, and led her away.
Leaving Loren alone with Krauzer and free to ask the lieutenant for a large
