“Where’s Phillip?”
“Went to the office to charge Harvey with the murders.”
“He think it’ll stick?”
Kit lost some of her enthusiasm. “He has doubts. He says it’s all circumstantial, the big problem being we can’t tie Harvey directly to the briefcase. Even if we had his fingerprints on the key to the room at the Y, the key would likely be inadmissible evidence, since it wasn’t listed on the search warrant. We would have been better off to see Harvey claim the briefcase, but since he realized he was being tailed, he wouldn’t have done that. And he goes home tomorrow. Gatlin figured the best thing to do was take the briefcase and have the lab run the contents for prints. He seemed to think he was on safer legal ground with the briefcase than the key. He thought the clerk saying it wasn’t Harvey who rented the room hurts, though.”
“He could have hired somebody to rent the room for him,” Broussard suggested. “I take it the rent was paid in advance?”
“Yes.”
“At the Y, a cash transaction wouldn’t require any ID, not that it’ll help the case much.”
Since Gatlin was always pessimistic, Kit hadn’t really given his concerns much weight. But Broussard was another matter.
“You think he’ll beat it?”
“I think a good lawyer’ll make mincemeat out of it.”
“Then he just walks away?”
“That’s how things work.”
“But he’s guilty.”
“Not until it’s proven in court.”
“If he walks, I’m going to be very upset.”
“I’m sure you’ll have company.”
“At least we’ve ended his game. He can’t get at anyone else now. Whatever he was building up to, we’ve stopped him.”
“You ought to go home now and get some sleep.”
“I suppose.”
“Starrs’ll be givin’ his results on the assassination of Huey Long tomorrow mornin’. Oughta be a good show.”
“What time?”
“Eight-thirty—” he reached for his yellow pamphlet of presentation times and places “—in the Peach Tree Room.”
“I don’t know . . . maybe I’ll see you there.”
AS KIT DROVE HOME, she reflected on how quickly things had changed. When they’d first found the briefcase at the Y, it had set every nerve tingling and she’d experienced a heady rush of exhilaration. And it wasn’t just because she’d believed Harvey was nailed. Much of it was because it wouldn’t have happened without her help. And that should have earned her at least a word of acknowledgment from Broussard. But he’d said practically nothing, except to exceed even Gatlin’s pessimism.
She turned off St. Charles onto her street, well aware that a self-assured personality wouldn’t need outside approval for a job well done. But she had done well, damn it. It wasn’t her fault Harvey might walk.
She pulled into her driveway and cut off the engine. Instead of getting out, she thought about Harvey’s offer of a job. What would she have said if it had been someone else offering . . . at twice her present salary? Would she have considered it? Probably not. She still had unfinished business here. Someday, she was going to get Broussard to cough up a direct, unambiguous compliment on her work.
She got out of the car and went up the porch steps. By the light of a streetlamp, she found the front-door lock with her key and went inside. With the days since Lucky’s poisoning so full, she had often gone hours without thinking of him. But every evening, when she opened the door to a silent house, her thoughts had gone to the little varmint. Tonight, coming in so late, the gap his absence had left in her life loomed even larger. She took solace, though, in what she’d found out when she’d stopped at the animal hospital on the way home from the upholsterer. She could pick him up tomorrow.
She locked the front door, took off her shoes, and carried them into the bedroom, where she undressed and put on a long nightie and robe Teddy had given her on her last birthday.
She looked at the digital clock on the nightstand: 10:30 . . . not all that late. She went into the hall, picked up the phone, and entered Teddy’s number.
“Hi, it’s me,” she said when he answered. “Did I wake you?”
“No. I just got in from a heavy date.”
“Didn’t know you liked overweight women.”
“It’s a relatively recent interest. Is Lucky home yet?”
“I’ll pick him up tomorrow.”
“Terrific. How you doing with those murders?”
“Solved.”
“No kidding.”
“It was a medical examiner attending the Forensics meeting.”
“What was his motive?”
The question caught Kit by surprise, for this was something she had not discussed with either Gatlin or Broussard since their first inkling it was Harvey. Thinking about it now, she saw that Fleming’s comment in Broussard’s office was right on the mark. “Broussard and this guy clashed in court once and since then they’ve really disliked each other. They even had a couple of run-ins at the meeting. It looks like Harvey—that’s the guy who did it—was playing a sick chess game with Broussard, trying to embarrass him. You were right about the numbers on the Scrabble tiles. That was the key to it. . . . You’re still coming over on Saturday, aren’t you?”
“Sure.”
“That part is pretty complex, so I’ll wait and explain more when I see you. The short version is Harvey was leaving clues to his identity that he didn’t think we were clever enough to get. But he was wrong.”
“There has to be more to it than that. You don’t kill people as part of a game.”
“Not if you’re sane. Anyway, thanks for the help on the letters. It was a major factor in figuring it out.”
“I exist but to serve.”
“Oh really. We’ll have to discuss that Saturday night.”
Since the poisoning of Lucky and the discovery of the first body, Kit’s life had been out of kilter. Now, with Harvey in custody, Lucky’s return imminent, and Teddy’s voice fresh in her mind, she felt herself inching toward normality.
Still too edgy to be sleepy, she went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of hot chocolate in the microwave. She would have preferred to make it with milk rather than water, but when you won’t shop, there are penalties.
She took her cup to the big chair in front of the TV, sat down, and threw her legs over the arm. In thinking about the steps leading to Harvey’s arrest, she remembered Grandma O’s role. True, her comment about the Scrabble number being a date was not intuitive, but sort of an accident; it was still extremely important. And unlike some people she could name, she wasn’t one to ignore a person’s contribution. Maybe she’d buy Grandma O some of that gardenia perfume she liked so much.
Tired of thinking, she picked up the remote and clicked on the TV. Not interested enough to check the schedule, she channel-surfed, pausing on a forties musical with all the girls dressed as bananas. If any film needed colorizing, this one did. Still, the images were intriguing enough that she watched the routine all the way through. Then she moved on, stopping a couple of channels later to watch a few minutes of Citizen Kane. Maybe it was because she’d never seen it from the beginning, but she couldn’t get into it any more this time than any of the other times she’d tried.
Sleepy now, she turned off the set and shuffled to the kitchen, where she rinsed her cup and put it in the dishwasher. From there, she went to the bathroom and brushed her teeth. Coming out of the bathroom into the bedroom, she detoured past the light switch by the door, flicked it off, and headed for bed, guided by the old night-light with a cloudy shade on the far wall. Well before she reached her pillow, her big toe smacked against something hard. Holding her breath, she prepared herself for the pain.
Ahhh. It was worse than she expected. Though the puny night-light allowed her to see nothing of the floor between the bed and the near wall, she knew what it was without even turning on the light—the damn footstool. In it
s absence, she must have unconsciously adopted a new, more direct course to her bed from the light switch. Now that it was back from the upholsterer, she’d blundered into it.
Ahhh, but that hurt. She hobbled the last few feet and dropped into bed. This had been some kind of day.
The pain gradually subsided to where it could no longer stave off the drowsiness that had sent her to bed, and she lapsed into a deep sleep.
Two hours later, Kit’s eyes flicked open and she sat up quickly at the sound of the doorbell. Fully awake now, she got up, pulled on her robe, and headed into the hall, a remnant of pain in her toe reminding her to avoid the footstool.
When she switched on the porch light, she saw two shapes through the sheers at the glass in the front door. Pulling a corner of the curtain aside, she peeked out at two uniformed cops.
Her first thought was that something had happened with Harvey. She turned the latch and opened the door, confronting a wall of blue. One cop was blond and had huge shoulders. The other, though more normal in size, still looked like he could take care of himself. They smelled like leather and when they shifted the least bit, they squeaked like leather.
“Sorry to bother you, miss,” the blond one said. “We—”
“Are you from Lieutenant Gatlin?”
“No, ma’am. Dispatcher sent us. We got a report that there was some kind of trouble here.”
Remembering how the cops had gone to the house across the street a few months ago when she’d called them to report a screaming row in the backyard of the house behind her, Kit said, “Are you sure you’ve got the right address? There’s no trouble here. I was asleep when you rang.”
“Would you step out on the porch, please?” the blond one said.
“Why?”
“Please, ma’am. We’ll explain in a minute.”
The cops moved back and, reluctantly, Kit went out onto the porch, which felt cool and gritty on her bare feet. While she pulled her robe tighter around her, the big cop went inside and looked behind the door. From the sound of his footsteps, she concluded that he went over to the threshold of the living room. Then he came back outside.
“Just wanted to be sure nobody was making you say things were okay when they weren’t,” he said. “Guess it was a mix-up. It happens. Hope we didn’t disturb you too much.”
“Not at all. Thanks for checking.”
“Our pleasure. Good night.”
Back inside with the door shut and locked, Kit rubbed the grit from her feet on the hall carpet and hurried back to bed. Had she not been who she was, a visit like she’d just had might have caused lingering excitement. But since she worked with cops all the time, the event was of no particular consequence and she was soon as lost in sleep as before they’d showed up.
Twenty minutes later, she woke to the sound of the footstool stuttering across the floor.
20
People often claim to have experienced fear when they have merely lived through a moment or two of discomfort. Bone-chilling, marrow-withering fear is truly known to only a few. As she lay on her side, her eyes barely open, in the one place above all others that should be safe, Kit joined their numbers. She could sense a presence, unseen because it was in the shadowy recess formed by the end of the hall closet, unheard because of her heart drumming in her ears. But it was there . . . in her home . . . in her bedroom.
Her instincts called for a scream. But a scream would simply fly off into the darkness, heard only by one who would not help her. By a force of will she was not aware she possessed, she suppressed the scream and evaluated her situation.
Chances are this was a simple burglary. That’s all . . . a burglary. The worst thing she could do was confront him. Better to feign sleep and let him take what he wished.
She fought to keep her breathing full and slow, but her lungs seemed shrunken and hard. Her mind began to chase her heart. What if robbery wasn’t his goal? What if he wanted . . .
Her eyes left the shadows across the room and flicked to the drawer of the nightstand. Inside, there was Mace—but if she tried to get it, he’d know she was awake.
Useless . . . the damn stuff was useless if you didn’t carry it in your hand wherever you went.
The pounding in her ears grew louder. Moving . . . he was moving toward her.
In the faint glow of the night-light, there was a glint of steel.
A knife . . . God, he has a knife. . . .
The scream she had been hoarding erupted from her throat, bringing him to her in a rush. Distantly, she heard a crash and the tinkle of broken glass.
He came like a living shadow, faintly visible. The knife went up over his head and he lunged.
She rolled away from the attack and went off the far side of the bed, knocking the nightstand over and bringing the lamp down on top of her.
Caught.
She was tangled in the sheet, which held her legs like the wrappings on a mummy. Kicking to get free, she felt the floor vibrate and was faintly aware of thudding steps. The bed surged toward her, the springs groaning.
The damn sheet—she couldn’t get free of it. She rolled a few feet farther toward the wall and this loosened the hold on her legs. The bedsprings wailed again, followed by another huge crash.
She stripped away the imprisoning sheet and struggled to her feet as a dark mass flew past the foot of the bed and slammed into the wall. There was a grunt of pain.
The shape went to the floor and Kit darted for the bed, kicking the lamp with the same toe she’d banged earlier. But this time, her surging adrenaline washed away the hurt. She hit the bed in a roll that carried her across it and onto her feet again. Nearly falling over the footstool, she scrambled to the door and darted into the hall, where she clawed at the light switch and grabbed for the phone.
Even 911 seemed like too many numbers.
Damn it—no dial tone.
She dropped the receiver and started for the front door, noticing for the first time that it stood wide open, its glass lying in shards on the floor.
“Kit.”
She was being called from the bedroom.
“Kit, help me.”
Warily, she moved toward the bedroom.
“Kit.”
That voice. . . . Moving now with more courage, she went into the bedroom and switched on the light.
There on the floor was Broussard. Straddling him was a figure dressed in black and wearing a black ski mask. The knife was inches from Broussard’s throat, the prowler pushing it forward with both hands, slowly overcoming the counterforce Broussard was applying at the prowler’s wrists.
Mace . . . now she could get the Mace—but there wasn’t time.
She bolted for the footstool. Clutching it to her bosom, she threw herself at the prowler, hitting him from the side. As he fell, he turned so she ended up on his chest, the stool between them, their faces almost touching. From the corner of her eye, she saw the serrated blade still in his hand—and his arm . . . free to move . . . free to reach her. In the frozen instant as he turned the knife in his hand, she saw that the blade was tinged with blood.
She rolled away from the knife and thumped to the floor on her back, knocking the breath out of her. The prowler threw off the footstool and it came her way, one leg headed for her face. She made a half roll toward the bed and the stool hit her on the shoulder. Expecting at any second to feel the knife passing into her, she turned onto her back and grabbed for the stool’s skirt.
The prowler sat up and lunged toward her, swinging the knife in a looping overhand motion designed to clear the obstacle between them. A heartbeat before the blade reached her, she pulled the stool toward her. The prowler’s wrist hit the lightly padded edge of the frame and the knife came free, clattering to the floor beside her.
Broussard grabbed the knife hand and twisted the prowler’s arm behind his back. By the time Kit got to her feet, Broussard had one knee in the prowler’s back and had both his arms pinned behind him.
She was safe. . . . They we
re both safe. She almost felt like howling.
“Something to tie his hands,” Broussard said breathlessly.
Kit’s mind windmilled. Rope . . .
Spotting her robe lying on the floor, she went to it and tore the sash free. She took the sash to Broussard and while he wrapped the prowler’s hands, she examined herself for wounds. The blood on the knife did not appear to be hers.
“His ankles, too,” Broussard muttered.
With what? Kit thought. She hurried to her closet and pawed through her clothes. She grabbed a belt and returned to the figure on the floor. Broussard was still working on his hands, so she did his ankles, wrapping the belt around them twice and fastening it as she would around her waist.
With the prowler’s hands secured, Broussard looked at what she’d accomplished, then struggled to his feet. Kit saw to her horror a huge bloodstain spreading into the fabric of Broussard’s shirt.
“You’re hurt,” she said, as though he didn’t know it.
“It’s okay . . . I’m . . .” He began to teeter and Kit rushed to him, intending to guide him to the bed. But his legs buckled and he tacked toward the wall by the door. It was like trying to hold up a falling building, and all she could do was go along with him.
He hit the wall with his back and slid to the floor. Forgetting the prowler, Kit rushed for the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and dashed back to his side.
Kneeling to get at the buttons on his shirt, she saw a gun lying against the baseboard, its barrel covered by a spray-deodorant can. Not important now. . . .
As she unbuttoned Broussard’s shirt, his eyes fluttered open. She slipped the folded towel under his T-shirt and placed it over the wound. “Can you hold it while I get help?”
Broussard’s hand came up and he pressed it against the towel. Still barefoot, Kit hurried into the hall and picked her way past the glass on the floor. She flew down the porch steps and hesitated. Mrs. Bergeron was closest, but she was so arthritic, it would take her forever to answer the door—and she was a dog poisoner.
New Orleans Requiem Page 21