"I might. What's in it for me?"
"The delight of betraying his confidence?"
Weymond laughed, the "I'm with it too, buddy" noise you hear in bars.
She said, "How about a trade, then?"
"What for what'?"
"The carefully hidden location of Walter's gun collection in exchange for what you have on him."
"What I have on him?"
"In his office that day, when he asked me to leave. You've got something that gives you leverage over him, and I want to know what that something is."
I gestured around the room. "This isn't enough leverage for you?"
Weymond shook her head hard enough to free a swath of hair.
She looked like a bad impersonation of a World War II pinup girl. "There's no such thing as enough leverage. I get the run of Walter's house because I pump him up, in a lot of ways."
"Isn't that kind of sexist?"
"Only if you take it out of context. This place is closer to school than my apartment, and I like nice surroundings. Walter's ego needs somebody young and attractive on his arm. That's some leverage. Young, attractive and smart, that's more leverage. See how it works?"
"Where're the guns?"
"We have a deal?"
"We have a deal."
Weymond bounded to her feet, the breasts jouncing in reaction to the rest of her body. "Come with me to the treasure trove."
I followed Kimberly up a flight of steps. She'd nicked herself behind the right knee shaving her legs. Under the circumstances, I wasn't about to mention it.
We went into what from dimensions must have been the master bedroom. Mahogany wainscoting applied halfway up the walls on all sides except for another fireplace. Velvet drapes, a Dhurrie rug, two easy chairs.
Weymond jumped into the bed as though it were a pool, an image of the athletic preteen she must have been not so long ago.
It was a pool, by the way. Sort of.
On her back, Kimberly laced fingers behind her head in a modified sit-up. "Walter must have read somewhere that water beds were 'where it's at'." She gave me a sly smile. "Do I have that right?"
"What right?"
"The expression. 'Where it's at'?"
"As I recall. How about the guns?"
"Let's play a game."
"I don't like games, Kimberly."
"No. It makes sense. You'll see."
"Make it a short game."
"Okay. Now, move back toward the door like you're a burglar or something."
I sighed but retraced my steps to the threshold. "All right?"
Weymond hunched toward the headboard on her elbows. "One more step back."
I complied.
"Now come at me."
My eyes went around the room for a camera or even a lens, but there were enough furnishings to hide it.
"Come on, like you were going to attack me."
I started forward. On my second step Weymond hit a panel in the wainscoting behind her. A handgun shot out on an accordion device, like the boxing glove from a Three Stooges movie. She grabbed the weapon, an automatic, on what must have been a magnetic pad and leveled it at me.
Standing stock-still, I said, "Bad game, Kimberly."
Weymond kept the automatic at serious for a count of five, then let her arm weigh down with it to the comforter. "I don't think so. He calls it Walter's Walther. One of his brighter lights, to tell you the truth."
I walked toward her. She let me take the gun. A Walther PPK all right. I tested the action. Loaded, one shell jacked into the chamber. Safety off, ready for firing. Christ.
I made it safe. "Any more secret panels'?"
Weymond swam out of bed, tapping a taller, recessed section of wainscoting on the other side of the bed. An AR-15, the civilian version of the Colt M-16 assault rifle, nosed out.
I moved to the Colt, bringing it to "present arms," and sniffing. Fired not too long ago, freshly cleaned and oiled. Locked and loaded, a slick weapon for home defense. But I'd heard M-16s often enough on city streets in Saigon. They make more of a popping noise than the flat crack of the day before.
I said, "Any others?"
"A shotgun in the hall closet downstairs. Not so melodramatic, though."
"No more rifles?"
"In the closet in the study. Walter's got a strongbox or something anchored below the floorboards. But they're a pain to get to, and anyway I don't have a key to that."
"Just to the front door."
The sly smile again. "And the back. Walter's at some conference. He won't be home for hours." Weymond casually showed a lot of leg. "Maybe you could use a little pumping up?"
"Thanks, but I'm afraid I'd keep reaching for my wallet, looking for a fifty to stuff somewhere."
The smile evaporated. "That's a sexist remark."
"Only if taken out of context."
I turned to go.
Weymond yelled after me. "Hey, what about our deal?"
"Should have gotten it in writing, counselor."
I went downstairs and out before she could pump up Walter's Walther.
26
“ NOW WE'RE IN THE MIDDLE OF MARCH, YOU'RE PROBABLY THINKING you can shuck that Gore-Tex suit, start training in the kind of clothes you'll be wearing the day of the race. Forget it. Weather around here stays bad so long, it's better to keep warm when you run. Less chance of getting some kind of bug, knock you for a loop. Also more chance of losing a couple more pounds, which'll help your knees and ankles for the longer mileage this next month. So, stay with winter clothes for a while yet.
“ Another thing. You've got to start focusing on your diet more. Backtrack from race day. Morning of the marathon, real early like six in the A.M., eat a banana for potassium. And toast, no butter, for carbohydrates. Some of the world-classers, they carbo-deprive from about race minus ten days to race minus three days, then carboload for seventy-two hours. They know what their bodies can take; you don't. So instead, eat maybe sixty percent carbohydrates for about a week before the marathon. Carbos give you energy, and they also store water a lot better than proteins or fats. Forget anything with alcohol or caffeine for that week. They're diuretics, and you'd be peeing away water that you'll be needing during the race.
"Running the marathon, whether she's a warm day or cold, be sure to start drinking water early, even before you're thirsty. The water you drink at mile two is the water your body's using at mile twelve, and so on. Your system can't just absorb and benefit from water like a shot of adrenaline.
"One more thing for today. You'll be running as a bandit, not a qualyfier. Since the officials'll force you to the back of the pack anyway, take my advice and go way to the back, like the last two or three rows. It'll be slower for you at first, but then as things start to open up, you'll be passing people instead of being passed. Sounds like a little thing now, but that'll psych you up, make you feel like you're winning rather than losing. Feeling like you're losing can sap you,
wear you down mentally. And you just can't afford that over twenty-six miles, three hundred eighty-five yards."
***
You look like you did back in high school, John.
Smiling in becoming modesty, I laid Mrs. Feeney's St. Patrick's Day carnations crossways to her, the dipped-green flower heads slanting down toward the foggy harbor.
Well, maybe more like college.
"I have to admit, Beth, I feel pretty good physically. I thought I'd get rickety running almost every day, but I feel better, more relaxed even, than I have in years."
And Nancy. What does she think?
"She still thinks I'm stupid even to try it."
Really?
"That's what she says."
Oh, John. Always dense as a post that way.
"What do you mean?"
Don't you see that Nancy's opinion might be her way of supporting you?
"Frank1y, no."
Then think about it some more. Are you still working on that case for the law professor?
&nb
sp; "Not much in the month since the shooting. I talked with everybody who seemed connected with guns."
What about the police?
"Ballistics couldn't do a lot with the slugs. Based on the alloy, they think it was older ammunition, though."
Older?
"Yes."
Is that helpful?
"Depends. If we can come up with another slug, they might be able to tell they came from the same batch and maybe even the same weapon. On the other hand, there haven't been any more notes since the shots were fired."
What about the gay man who…
"He's been doing pretty well, I think. He left a message for me to call him early this week. I've tried three times since, but his answering service says he's out of the office for a few days. The professor isn't due back from the West Coast till April, so everything else is kind of on hold for another month."
Does that mean you and Nancy can enjoy the parade today at Chuck's house?
"I will. Nancy's working on a murder one, which means we're just going to have dinner together afterward at my place."
So you're going to the party stag?
"Not exactly."
Not exactly?
"There's somebody I think could use some cheering up."
***
Inés Roja tugged on the bottom of her green sweater. "I have never seen a St. Patrick's Day parade."
I inched the Prelude through the traffic just east of the veterinary clinic. "I thought New York staged a pretty big one?"
"I never knew anyone to go with before."
The last time I'd checked in with Roja about notes and Maisy Andrus, the secretary had apologized for not being more available. She'd been putting in extra time with the vet because another volunteer had been sick. I'd asked her if that included Sundays. Inés said yes, but just in the morning. Knowing Nancy couldn't make it, I'd insisted over Roja's protestations that I'd be over to get her. At noon, in green.
I said, "Nice sweater."
Inés looked at me solemnly, as if to see if I was kidding. Apparently satisfied, she said, "Filene's Basement. A wonderful place."
I persuaded two barricades of cops to let us through on the strength of the address printed on our invitation. Chuck was born into the Lithuanian enclave in South Boston, his dad a marine wounded on Guadalcanal. Chuck left the city, making his fortune by wise investments. He returned to buy a huge white house occupying one of the few large pieces of land in Southie. A piece of land at the intersection where the parade wheels ninety degrees.
A big Irish flag in green, white, and orange rippled in the breeze over Chuck's front door. I parked the Prelude in his long driveway. As I killed the engine, Roja said, "Please don't leave me alone with people."
"I won't."
As it turned out, Inés was the hit of the party, a mixture of fifty or sixty people, only half of whom were descended from the Emerald Isle. We ate superb corned beef, drank enough Harp to float a PT boat, and got tours of the renovated house from Chuck himself, a rangy guy in a chartreuse shirt and cowboy hat. I took some good-natured ribbing about Nancy and heard Inés laugh for the first time, a merry, musical sound.
A whoop spread through the first floor, a lead element of the parade just reaching our corner. We joined the others carrying green beer and stronger spirits into the cold. Standing on the lawn, everyone applauded the bands and toasted the heroes and jeered the politicians. In between targets there were good stories and silly jokes and painful attempts to affect a brogue.
Back inside, folks opted for coffee and soft drinks to dilute the alcohol. As the party broke up around five, Inés and I said good-bye to Chuck, she helping me jockey the Prelude around the couple of cars that were staying later.
Stopping for a traffic light on Summer Street, Inés made a purring noise, then gave a tempered version of the merry laugh. "That was a wonderful party, John."
"It's a good time."
"The parade. You went to it every year?"
"When I was in the city. Even during Vietnam, when there wasn't much support for things military, the parade was a big thing because every block in the neighborhood had somebody in the service, many of them overseas."
"Tell me, from when you were a little boy, do you remember the parade the same way?"
"No, not really. I remember it being bigger and sharper and better. But I think that's just a function of growing up."
"Yes. Yes, you are right. We remember as better the things from when we were young."
I was about to keep the conversation going when I noticed a tear running down Roja's left cheek. I turned back to the windshield and watched the traffic instead.
At the Andrus house I pulled onto the sidewalk and came around to open the passenger door.
Inés got out and stood tall, still blinking away tears. Looking up into my eyes, she said, "That was the best time I have had in many years, John. If only…"
At which point Roja shook her head and pushed past me, fumbling out a key to open and close the front door as fast as she could.
***
"You didn't have enough at Chuck's?"
I took the wineglass from Nancy's hand. "Just carbos so far today."
" 'Carbos'?"
"Bread and beer."
"I hope you're learning more about running than you have about nutrition." She pushed the sleeves of a cowl-necked sweater up to her elbows. Topping off her glass, she raised it. "To St. Patrick?"
"Not after work kept you from the party. How about 'To forever'."
Nancy clinked her glass against mine with that half smile that makes a little ping in my chest. "To forever."
A minute later I had two hands on the steak tray, aiming it for the oven, when the phone rang in the living room.
"Nance, can you get that?"
"Sure."
I centered the steaks and flipped the dial to Broil. I was just setting the timer when Nancy's head came around the corner, minus the smile.
"It's Del Wonsley."
27
THE MEDICAL FACILITY WAS ONE I'D NEVER HEARD 0F, TUCKED away in the Longwood Avenue area near Brigham's and Women's Hospital. I found the right floor and suite, but the door was closed.
"John."
I turned around as Del Wonsley got up from a tub chair. Closing the current Newsweek, he looked bushed. "Thank you for coming. It'll only be a minute. They're… treating just now."
"What happened?"
Wonsley dropped the magazine onto the seat behind him. "AIDS leaves you open for a lot of complications. The diabetes is playing yo-yo with his waking hours. Usually these things are pretty predictable, but this episode is lasting longer than the others. So, Alec wanted to be sure to see you."
Wonsley read my face and managed a smile. "No, no. I think he's going to pull through this time. Weaker, but he'll make it. It's just that in seeing you now, Alec is playing the percentages?
"Is there anything I can do?"
"Be straight with him. No hearts and flowers. Just talk business or whatever, like he was laid up with a broken leg and had to meet people here as an inconvenience."
The suite door opened. A black female nurse with a round face came out. She held a metal pan, discreetly shrouded by a towel to conceal the contents. An East Indian female doctor followed the nurse and beckoned to Wonsley. They moved off to talk, Wonsley coming back as the doctor continued briskly on her way.
"You can go in now, John. But only a few minutes, all right?"
"Come get me if I overstay my welcome."
Wonsley went back to the chair.
I knocked, heard something, and went in.
They would have to invent a new kind of bleach to make the sheets whiter than his face.
Alec Bacall nodded to me, one fist compressing a little sponge ball. The arm had a clear plastic tube in it, some not-so-clear liquid pulsing downward and into him. I moved closer.
His eyes strained from the sockets, sunken and shriveled. The flesh sagged at his jawline, bruises of
purple and blue providing the only color on the bed. I'd seen Bacall at his office in January, eight weeks before. Given the changes, it could have been eight years.
"Alec."
He nodded again. "I'd say sit, but Del probably told you not to stay that long."
"Just as well. I've been tossing down booze all day at a St. Pat's party."
The eyes went left-right-left. "God, I've lost track of that sort of thing. You and Nancy went to the parade?"
I told him about Inés.
"Good, good. She needs that, and more." Something moved inside Bacall, a brief spasm traversing his face as well as his body.
Then, "About Maisy?"
"She's back in San Diego. No notes since February. No progress, either, I'm afraid."
"What do you make of the notes starting and stopping like that?"
"I don't know, Alec. It must be that the guy knows her movements, including major events like arriving in and leaving Boston. It could be that she's carrying her trouble with her."
"I don't understand."
I explained my views on Tucker Hebert and Manolo.
Bacall lolled his head from side to side on the linen. "I don't know much about investigating people, but I think I do know something about judging them. It just can't be Manolo or Tuck, John."
"I don't see many other prospects right now."
"Will you stay with it?"
"As long as I'm needed. Or wanted."
"Thank you." Bacall's pupils wandered, and his eyes closed. I'd almost turned to go when the lids rose. "John?"
"Yes?"
"I said I was a good judge of people, but sometimes being too close blurs the vision. How do you think Del is doing?"
"He's still smiling."
A forced laugh. "Do you know, do you know what is really unfair about his generation?"
"No."
"The smiles. Or, more precisely, the teeth themselves. Like half the kids his age, Del's never had a cavity."
"You're kidding?"
"Not kidding. Never, not one. The fluoridation came a little late for you and me, but he's never even heard a dentist's drill up close."
"Doesn't seem fair."
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