No. He was just another man. And not at all responsible for her response to him. He hadn’t set out to arouse this interest, he certainly did nothing to encourage it. After all, he had someone. She had seen the woman’s photograph on his desk. Short, dark, curly hair. A heart-shaped face, with high cheekbones and a small, softly shaped mouth. Not conventionally beautiful, but which, once seen, would be remembered. A good match, probably, for his electric presence.
He had someone.
Someone he might be with, right now.
They might be together, right now.
She shivered and sat up, blinking.
‘You always feel cold when you doze off like that,’ the elderly man next to her sympathised. ‘Would you like part of my blanket?’
Stryker glared at the microwave and willed it to turn his frozen dinner into something wonderful. Slowly a bubble rose at the edge of the glass casserole, and then collapsed. The turntable went on turning, and, after a second or two, another bubble rose and fell.
Some things take a long time to thaw.
Some things melt at once.
He wondered what plane Agent Dana Marchant was taking back from Washington, and whether she would bring with her a new lead, a new insight, anything that would give them a way into or out of this goddamn mess.
He wondered what she was wearing, the Brooks Brothers suit and the black stockings, or the jeans and bulky sweater.
Either way, he should be thinking about something else.
Some choice – either think about cops going down all over the goddamned town, or think about Dana Marchant’s ankles, knees, and all points north.
Turn on the television, he told himself.
Get involved with the world, you stupid putz.
He found it hard to believe he had ever enjoyed living alone. Hunched over a semi-cooked casserole in front of the television set, he felt like biting chunks out of the furniture instead of the rubber chicken and noodles. Wine, that was it. Open a bottle of wine. Enjoy yourself. Pour out a glass, put some Ravel on the stereo, pick up a good book.
Get drunk.
Get maudlin.
Throw up.
The hell with it.
By the time the telephone rang, he was contemplating learning to knit.
‘Hi.’
‘Kate?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, Kate.’ He felt better, hearing her voice. Or maybe he just felt safer, reminded of her existence by the soft warmth of her voice.
‘Oh, Jack.’ She sounded almost tearful.
‘Anything wrong? More dreams?’
‘No, no – nothing wrong,’ she said quickly. ‘Everything’s fine.’ There was a silence.
‘So, how’s the weather been over there?’
‘Beautiful. The whole day was beautiful. And you?’
‘I’m beautiful, too, but it’s raining back here. I miss you, come back, all is forgiven, I’ll even iron my own shirts.’
‘You always did before I met you,’ was Kate’s dry comment.
‘Well, I’ve developed this arthritis thing . . .’
‘Run out already, have you?’
‘I spill a lot. And then there’s all the crying . . .’
‘I left six clean, ironed shirts in the bottom drawer of my bureau.’
‘You didn’t.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘You didn’t?’
Her laughter hadn’t changed. ‘Go and find out for yourself after I hang up. Are you eating?’
‘You sound like Tos. I did my own dinner in the micro- wave. Have you ever tasted chicken noodle ice cream?’
‘You’re breaking my heart. I had an old-fashioned English tea this afternoon – anchovy toast, potted shrimps, Scotch eggs, scones just dripping with butter and strawberry jam, Eccles cakes, congress tarts, walnut gateau—’
‘What the hell’s an Eccles cake?’
‘I’ll bring you some home.’
‘You mean you’ll bring some home with you.’
‘That’s what I said, isn’t it?’
‘Not quite. You’re turning English before my very ears.’
‘I’m not!’ She sounded quite offended.
‘Have it your own way. How’s Richard?’
She didn’t answer immediately, and, when she did, her voice sounded rather thin. Perhaps it was a bad connection. ‘Richard Cotterell I suppose you mean?’
‘I suppose I do, yes. Did he have this vast tea, too?’
‘You sound like a policeman.’
‘I am a policeman, remember? A dirty copper, see?’ His Cagney imitation was never very good, and long distance did not improve it.
‘Yes, he had tea, too. How’s your investigation going?’
‘It’s not, it’s just hanging there. Sniggering to itself.’
‘And little Miss Firefly from Washington?’ On this subject, her voice was definitely thinner – despite the high- calorie tea party.
‘Back in Washington – she had to check out some things. Returning tomorrow.’
‘Oh.’
‘Katie . . .’ His voice was suddenly soft.
‘What?’ She was very far away.
‘Nothing. What’s on your agenda tomorrow?’
‘Oh . . . more Shakespeare, of course. I’m giving my paper in the afternoon. I’m pretty nervous about it.’ There was a low mutter in the background. A male mutter. Unmistakeably and clearly male.
‘Who was that?’
‘Just somebody talking. How did your court appearance go yesterday?’
‘Fine. Talking to who?’
‘To whom. To me. Apparently they’re waiting downstairs. Some of us have been invited to an after-theatre party with some people from the RSC. It’s a fantastic chance to meet some of the actors and the direc—’
‘Downstairs? You mean you’re phoning from your room?’
‘Yes, of course.’
There was a thirty-second silence. She was in her room, it was after eleven at night over there, and she wasn’t alone.
‘Jack? Are you there?’
‘The timer just went off, Kate, I have to go, I have an angel-food cake in the oven. Good luck with your speech tomorrow, I’ll be thinking of you. ’Bye.’
It is a scientific fact that the remains of a chicken noodle casserole, when smashed from head height on to a linoleum floor, scatters an average distance of six feet, and tends to go mainly under the refrigerator.
He was still on his knees, clearing up the result of his temper, when the phone rang again. Muttering, he went to answer it, trailing paper towels.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Dana. I have something, I think.’
‘Great. When will you be back?’
‘I am back, I just got in.’
‘Oh.’
‘Did I get you out of bed? I’m sorry.’
‘No, no, I was just cleaning up a few dishes.’
‘Your turn in the kitchen?’
‘My week in the kitchen – Kate’s at a conference in England.’
‘Oh, I see.’ There was a pause. ‘Well, I suppose this could wait until morning, but if you feel like coming over to the hotel for a drink, I’d love some company.’
‘Is it that good?’
‘The bar?’
‘Whatever you got in Washington.’
‘Well – it’s confusing,’ she said, slowly.
He waited, but she didn’t volunteer any more information. A little song began to run through his head. Everybody knows this game, it went, everybody plays this game sometimes, everybody loves this game – do you? Does Kate? Does Richard Bloody Cotterell?
‘Give me half an hour,’ he said.
TEN
‘Jesus! We’ve got a correlation!’
‘Guess who Hawthorne partnered during his three months on the job?’ Pinsky demanded.
‘Chief Franconi?’
‘No. Phil Yentall.’
Having leapt up at Pinsky’s triumphal announcement, they now all sank down and stared at one another. Tos finally spoke.
‘What does it mean?’
Pinsky, flushed with running up from Records, wiped his face with his handkerchief and stuffed it back into his pocket. A sudden and unexpected warm front had suffused Grantham from the south, and windows had been thrown open to welcome the spring. How long the spring would last was anyone’s guess. Maybe even until that night.
‘It doesn’t mean anything at the moment,’ Stryker decided. ‘Thanks to Dana, we knew that Hawthorne grew up in Grantham and that for one month he was a member of the Grantham police.’
‘And now we know he served that month partnering Phil Yentall,’ Tos said. ‘Hey, wait a minute. His prints must have been on our files, for crying out loud. Why the hell didn’t we match them before? Why did they have to go all the way to Washington?’
‘Because some klutz marked them “Inactive” and they haven’t been transferred to the computer yet,’ Pinsky said. ‘They said they’ve been trying to get around to it, but with new stuff coming in all the time . . .’
‘Oh, for crying out sideways,’ Tos said in disgust.
‘Do you think knowing about Hawthorne would have saved Yentall?’ Neilson asked.
Stryker considered it. ‘It might have made him more careful, because we’d have got to him about Hawthorne.’
‘Do you suppose it had something to do with this Higley man?’ Dana asked, hesitantly. ‘Maybe it was something about that, some secret between them.’
Stryker sighed. ‘I’ve got someone trying to track Higley down, but it looks as if he left the city years ago. We can certainly have the phone records for Yentall’s station and home checked out to see if he made any calls to Chicago. If he used a pay phone somewhere we’ll never get it, of course.’
‘Why would he have called Hawthorne, anyway?’ Neilson asked.
‘I have no idea,’ Stryker said. ‘There was a gap of several days between Hawthorne’s death and Yentall’s, though.’ He got up and started pacing between his desk and the window – following a path already clearly defined on the green linoleum, which was wearing thin in several places around the room. ‘Maybe Hawthorne called Yentall instead of the other way around.’
‘Why?’ Dana asked. ‘Why would he?’
‘Old friend, ex-partner, working cop, Yentall would have been the best one to give him current street information about the city. French Street wasn’t in his precinct, but there isn’t a cop in the city who doesn’t know it, one way or another.’ He thrust his fingers through his hair, and rubbed it until it stood on end. Like the linoleum, it was going thinner, no doubt due to constant abrasion. ‘There was something Yen tail’s captain said – what the hell was it?’ He stared at the far wall, and then his face cleared. ‘Right – I meant to ask him about it then, but I let it go. He said Yentall hadn’t been sleeping too well lately.’
‘Do you think it was because of Hawthorne?’ Dana asked.
‘Could be.’
‘Hey, never mind the damned fingerprints. Why didn’t he identify Hawthorne?’ Pinsky asked suddenly. ‘His photograph was circulated, Yentall would have seen it for sure. Why didn’t he come forward?’
‘Maybe he was going to,’ Stryker said. ‘Maybe that’s why he got killed.’
‘Sure, I remember Gabriel Hawthorne,’ said Mrs Yentall. They were seated in a glass-walled room at the side of the house, obviously intended more for use in the summer. The furniture was mostly wicker and there were bright flower patterns on the cushions and upholstery. The warm day had made it attractive and comfortable, and sitting there allowed Mrs Yentall to keep her eye on the children in the yard. While she spoke, her eyes were always going to the windows and what was going on outside. It was like talking to someone watching television. ‘I remember him because Phil said he had the right name – always going around blowing his own horn.’
‘That sounds like Gabe, all right,’ Dana said, half to herself.
‘They didn’t get along?’ Stryker asked.
Mrs Yentall shrugged. She was a nice-looking woman, who probably fretted over her weight and shouldn’t have, because the slight plumpness became her. But grief had dulled her skin and tightened her mouth, and there were dark circles under her once-bright eyes. ‘They got on all right, I suppose. It was a long time ago, and they weren’t together long. I remember they didn’t part too happy, though. Hawthorne had this habit – if things went great it was him that did it, if things went bad, it was Phil’s fault. There was others wouldn’t have put up with him but Phil . . .’ She faltered, then controlled herself. ‘Phil was easy-going. Always gave the benefit, you know?’
‘I hear Phil was very popular with his fellow officers,’ Stryker said, gently. ‘Captain Corsa said how much he was liked.’
‘He was. Hawthorne wasn’t. He had a knock-down, drag- out fight in the locker room with some other rookie . . .’
‘Colin Higley. Yes, we know about that.’
‘Higley went at him for letting Phil take the can for the Eberhardt mess-up. Nobody held him back, either. But they both had to resign. Phil felt bad about Higley, spoke up for him, but there was nothing he could do. Nobody listened.’ She looked out of the window. Two small boys were playing in the backyard, and as she looked, one slipped and fell into a particularly luscious mud-puddle, sending muddy water flying over his brother. It was obvious the two of them found it hilarious, and gave every indication of doing it again.
‘Good thing mud washes off,’ Stryker said.
Mrs Yentall gave him a rather sardonic glance. ‘Not all of it does,’ she said. ‘Some sticks.’
‘Meaning?’
She sighed. ‘The Eberhardt case,’ she said, patiently. ‘Like I said before.’
‘Oh. Right. How exactly was Phil in on that?’ Stryker tried to remember what he’d read of Yentall’s working history.
‘He was the original arresting officer,’ she said. ‘Him and that Gabe Hawthorne caught the Eberhardt kid trying to rob a gas station, and took him in. But Hawthorne didn’t Miranda the kid and his lawyer got him off. Like I said – it all ended up looking like Phil’s fault because he was the senior officer of the two, but he said he had told Hawthorne to do it.’
‘He should have done it himself, to make sure,’ Stryker said, gently. ‘Twice doesn’t hurt.’
‘Do you always do it twice, just in case your partner messed up?’ demanded Mrs Yentall. ‘Or do you trust him?’
Stryker nodded. ‘You’re right. Sorry. But Eberhardt went to jail.’
‘Oh, sure, he went to jail. For thirty days on possession of an offensive weapon – that knife of his. And look what happened. Everybody seemed to remember that it was Phil let him get away with it.’
‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not true.’
‘Then how come he passed his sergeant’s exams four years before he got promotion?’ Mrs Yentall said, shrilly. ‘Always he got passed over, always they took someone else, never Phil. Even then, he made excuses for the Department. It’s the way the system works, May, he’d tell me. You got to be patient. You got to understand the pressures. He never got bitter, but me, I got bitter. He should have been a lieutenant, like you, maybe even a captain one day. Now . . . now . . .’ Her voice broke and she looked down at her clenched fists. A burst of shouting and laughter from outside drew her attention, and she stood up. ‘I got to get those kids in out of the mud,’ she said. ‘Do we have to go on any more?’
‘No, that’s all for now, Mrs Yentall. Thanks for seeing us,’ Dana said, standing up too. Reluctantly, Stryker rose to stand beside her.
Outside, walking down the path to the car, he turned to her. ‘I had more questions,’ he said, angrily. ‘I had more I wanted to know.’
Dana shook her head. ‘You wouldn’t have gotten your answers,’ she said. ‘Not right now, anyway. She’s still too raw, hurting too much. And especially resenting the Department too much. She’d keep retreating behind the children, the way she did just then. Believe me, it wouldn’t have been any good. Maybe in a day or two, you could try again. Or someone else could.’
‘Look, she might have known something . . .’
‘Fine, go back,’ Dana said, her own temper rising. ‘I work for the Justice Department, right? I’ve had to question a lot of people who have reasons to hate and resent the police. Chicago, Detroit, Milwaukee, New York – and women whose husbands have been killed hate their departments worst of all. Later, when they have had a little time, it gets easier for them. They can stand the memories. But not now, Jack. Really – it wouldn’t do any good.’
He took in some of the warm spring air, drawing it down deep, and then let it go again. ‘Okay, we’ll leave it.’
They walked toward the car. ‘Who was Eberhardt?’ she asked, as he unlocked the doors.
‘A very nasty piece of work, liked to cut people up with his hunting knife,’ he said. ‘Tos and I put him away three years ago. How about some lunch?’
‘Fine,’ she said, getting into the car.
He closed the door and then came around to slide behind the wheel. He sat there staring out of the windscreen but made no move to start the engine. ‘What did you have against Hawthorne, by the way?’ he asked, carefully.
‘It’s personal.’
‘Is that why you were sent to liaise on this case?’
‘Could be. My superior in the Department has quite a sense of humour.’
‘Hawthorne doesn’t sound like he had a winning personality.’
She was staring straight ahead. ‘On the contrary, that’s exactly what he had. Winning was all he cared about. Scoring and winning was Gabe Hawthorne’s hobby.’
‘And?’
‘And that’s it. My guess is, if they find anything in the phone records at all, it will be that Gabe called Yentall. And if he called him, it wasn’t for old times’ sake – it was to use him. Gabe was a user. He had no doubt he was going to be right on top one day – and there would be a lot of footprints on a lot of faces to show how he’d got there.’
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