by Lee Boschen
"So we get rid of her too."
"How,” the voice sneered, “hit her on the head and throw her in a ditch somewhere out in the boonies?"
"I thought he was dead, damn it. You saw me hit him. He must have a head of solid bone. But never mind, I'll think of a way to get them both."
"Yeah, you do that. And this time, damn you, do it right. And do it now!"
Chapter Thirteen
Leslie and Richard sat in Leslie's car, looking at Richard's house. The long, low frame structure was painted a light brown, and accented in weathered field stone. A huge maple tree, gaunt and leafless now, stood where it would offer shade to the wide veranda on hot summer afternoons. A gravel drive led past the side of the house to the rear.
Next door a slender, white-haired lady, bundled in a heavy sweater, was raking leaves. Richard wondered if they were from his tree. If they were, the neighbor didn't seem to mind, smiling and waving at Richard. He waved back.
"Who's that?” Leslie asked.
"That's ... uh ... my next door neighbor."
Well, yes, Leslie thought. She looked at the house on the other side of Richard's. A man was on a ladder, stringing Christmas lights his wife was handing up to him. Leslie decided not to ask about them.
"So this is where I live,” he muttered after a while.
Leslie nodded. “That's what they said.” After a moment, “Very nice, don't you think?"
"Yeah, it is. Home. Hm-m. I guess you know I could have walked right by here and not given this place a second look.” He looked carefully for signs of damage. “Looks okay, don't you think?"
"Looks great to me.” She paused, considering. “Do you keep it up by yourself? I mean, cleaning, dusting, picking up and putting away—that's got to take a lot of time. And you with a business to run? Cutting grass and—” She grinned. “If you tell me you do windows, have I got a job for you. A certain rural home I know of is in dire need of a guy to do—"
"Keep it up myself?” He stared quizzically at the house. “I don't know. But if I don't, who does?"
Leslie made a small moue that he hadn't picked up on her hint. “You could have a housekeeper come in. A handyman to do the grass. And look at those hedges. Somebody has been keeping them trimmed. And cleaning the gutters. Which reminds me of this rural—” She stopped. Richard was staring intently at her. “What?"
"You don't suppose it's possible—” He was already shaking his head. “If I have somebody who does that kind of work, could they have happened to see whoever was in the house?"
"Hah. Wouldn't that be nice? But surely the police would have checked something like that.” She pulled a long face. “No, probably not, knowing the way Fahrquar operates."
He nodded. “Yeah. But you'd think Honey would keep him on the stick.” He opened the car door and started to climb out. “I suppose we'd better check inside."
* * * *
Richard stared in dismay at the shambles. Outwardly his house appeared untouched. Inside, a quick tour had shown that everything which could be opened and searched had been. Ruinously searched. Everything—except the drapes and curtains which had been needed to conceal the searcher. Pillows and cushions and mattresses lay spilling their insides from razor slits. The linings of his clothing had been ripped out, chair seats slashed, and all the drawers in the house had been pulled out and emptied.
He wandered through the house, broken glass from smashed pictures occasionally crunching underfoot. Leslie trailed behind, her heart aching for him. In the room which evidently had been his study, his computer lay wrecked, and every single book from the shelves lay in a pile in the middle of the room, their spines slashed by the searcher.
Leslie pensively studied the ruined computer. “I want to get the hard drive out of there. There are probably all kinds of files on it that you'll need before this is over. If we leave it in there, someone may throw it away when they scrap the rest of the computer. I couldn't blame them, either, seeing the way it's all smashed up. Let's find a screwdriver."
Richard stood watching as Leslie disconnected the cables and removed the hard drive from the shattered computer. “Mm-m, Western Digital,” she said, examining the unit carefully. “One of their new drives. Good, and it appears to be in good condition. We'll have to install it in another computer, you understand, but if it still works..."
"How do you know about things like computers?"
She shrugged. “My life style, I suppose. I try to get home before three o'clock, so I can be there when Coleen gets home from school. I've always thought that was important. But to do that I have to do a lot of my work at home. So I have my own PC, connected with the office server by modem, and I keep a lot of files for my current cases on my hard drive. And besides, I'm interested in what can be done with computers in a law practice. I've wondered sometimes if there isn't a computer programmer lurking just under my skin.” She sighed. “Then, of course, until now I've always had plenty of time for researching my ideas."
He cocked his head, gazing at her quizzically. “But not now?"
Why did she have to blush around him, she wondered. “No, not now. Now I'm ... uh, otherwise occupied."
Even without a key it had been easy to get in. The front door was locked, but the rear facing garage door gapped open. They walked through an empty two car garage, skirting a large selection of lawn tools. The lock on the door leading from the garage into the house had been broken, so the door wouldn't stay closed.
The house was cold and inhospitable, the wreckage depressing, and finally Leslie had enough. She took Richard's hand and led him to the kitchen.
"We're looking for coffee or tea,” she said, “even if we have to scrape it off the floor. And something to make it in. And something to drink it from."
He took her by the shoulders. “Thank you,” he said. “It's really not as bad as you think. For the first time, not being able to remember is serving as a cushion instead of a handicap."
"If this ever happened to me,” she said, “I'd be a screaming wreck by now. He even pulled the cover plates off the wall switches. Did you notice your mail all ripped open?"
"Yes.” He nodded. “Okay, I know I lived here, and it makes me mad as hell that someone would tear up my property, but fortunately I can't remember it as home or I'd probably be a screaming wreck too."
They stood for a moment, wrapped in each other's arms. “Let's get started on that coffee,” he said finally.
* * * *
She was drinking hers from a cup without a handle, and he had a heavy mug. “I don't know why the guy had to bust up all my china,” he said.
"Spite?"
"Against a dead man?” Richard shook his head. “Angry would be my guess. Frustrated because he couldn't find what he was looking for."
"Pictures?"
"Negatives, probably, judging from the way he looked in such little places. The backs of all my books, for example. Couldn't hide pictures there, but negatives would sure fit.” He stared into his cup as though he hoped for an answer there. “Though why he was looking here..."
"We may be making too big a thing of this search,” Leslie said finally. “Oh, sure, it's a mess, but what he was really doing here was waiting for you to come home so he could kill you."
"Uh ... yes.” Richard cleared his throat. “And the search was just a way for him to keep himself busy?"
"Yes. Okay, it could have been more than that. He may simply be mean. Vicious. Or he may have felt there was a chance he'd find something. But that wasn't why he was here, and we don't want to forget that."
"I wonder,” Richard mused, “if he hadn't had to leave in such a hurry, would he have set this place on fire like he did one of my stores? And why did he do that? To destroy some negatives? Did he succeed?” He drained his mug and sat it down with a thump. “This cold weather...” He grinned. “Do you remember seeing a bathroom?"
She shook her head. “Go look. I'll finish my coffee."
He wandered off, and in a moment she h
eard a strangled sound, and looked up from her coffee as Richard rushed back into the kitchen and seized the telephone. His face pale as paper, he punched his finger three times on the keys.
"What is it? What's the matter?"
"The bathtub,” he gasped. “Jesus. In the bathtub. A woman.” He turned to the phone, but turned back as Leslie started for the bathroom. “No, Leslie,” he yelled. He frantically waved his hands to warn her away. “Don't go in there. She's been—don't go in—” The telephone squawked and he held it to his mouth. “Yes,” he shouted. “I called 911. I need to report a murder."
Chapter Fourteen
"Death seems to follow you around like a shadow,” Detective Honey muttered.
Richard's eyes followed the medical examiner's gurney out the back door. He shook his head. “No. You've got it backwards. I'm following death around. And I'm getting damned tired of it."
"All right,” Detective Fahrquar said. “Let's go through it again. You came in the house, saw all this mess and...?"
"You want to hear it again?"
"Again."
Richard grimaced. “We came in through the garage. The back door was open, just like now. We looked around. Got depressed at what the guy had done. I mean—hell, look at it. Found some cups and had a cup of coffee.” He shrugged. “Had to use the bathroom.” He took a deep breath. “Found her and called 911."
"You hadn't been in the bathroom before?"
Richard shook his head.
Fahrquar's mouth turned down. “Nothing else? You never saw her before?"
Richard shrugged. “I don't know whether I did or not."
"Oh, that's right. Poor guy, you lost your memory."
"Listen, Fahrquar,” Leslie snapped, “we don't need this. Mr. Webb has already explained that he doesn't remember her. We think she may have been his housekeeper.” She pressed her lips together for a moment. “We didn't see any sign that she lived here. We believe she came here one morning and was killed by the same man who killed a police officer while making his escape from this house. You can probably remember that incident, since it was only this morning."
Fahrquar's face reddened angrily. He scowled at Leslie. “I don't like it,” he told Richard. “All these killings, and you don't know anyone, you never saw anything, and you remember nothing."
Richard opened his mouth to speak, but Leslie, eyes narrowed, interrupted. “We share your frustration,” she said sharply. “We'd love to know what's behind all of this. It can't have escaped your attention that Mr. Webb's life is at risk. The person who killed this woman, and the Kimberley woman and the police officer, also tried to kill Mr. Webb. And that killer is still out there."
Richard leaned down to put his face inches from Fahrquar's. “That's right, Fahrquar. And as much as you think you don't like it, I like it a lot less."
"You've figured it all out, have you?” Fahrquar sneered. “The same person has killed everyone?"
Richard formed his hands into fists and stepped closer to Fahrquar. As Leslie watched, Richard seemed to swell, to grow larger, more threatening. His voice deeper than usual, Richard growled, “You miserable incompetent. How do you keep your job?"
Detective Honey spoke sharply. “Mr. Webb, I would remind you that assaulting a police officer is a felony."
Leslie grabbed Richard's fist in her hand, and at her touch he turned his head to look at her. For a moment, she saw the same grim light in his eyes as the night Alex Wright had tried to kill her. Then he drew a deep breath and turned back to Honey. He nodded his head at Fahrquar. “Police officer, you say? You mean to say he qualifies?"
Honey didn't answer him. Instead she told Leslie, “This is a crime scene. I think it's time for you to leave and let us do our job."
At Richard's sour look, she inclined her head toward the hallway leading to the broken back door. “Go."
Leslie hooked her arm with Richard's. “Come on. Let's leave this place to them. And the insurance company. I've got a couple of ideas I want to check out."
As they were walking through the garage, they heard Fahrquar complaining at the top of his voice to Honey. “Why did you have to butt in?” Fahrquar yelled. “I had a chance to bust him, get him downtown and sweat him. I'd have had him remembering soon enough."
"Christ, Fahrquar, you don't remember the number he did on Phearson? One punch, and the man still can't blow his nose for fear of bleeding to death. You'd be a basket case by now. Or did you think I'd shoot him to save your sorry ass?"
Richard stopped, listening for Fahrquar's reply, but the mumble was nearly inaudible. He turned to Leslie. “What an absolute jerk that guy is.” He rubbed his jaw absently. “Would Honey do that, do you think?"
"I don't know, but we're not going to give her a chance. Just keep moving."
Richard grinned. “Yes, ma'am, counselor.” He bent to pass under the partly open overhead garage door. “Anyway, we need to see if I've still got a business to run.” He started across the gravel drive toward her car, then stopped, turning back to face Leslie, a stricken look on his face. “What's the name of my business?"
"Oh, Richard,” she murmured. Her heart broke as she watched him press his hands hard against his face, straining to remember. At last he dropped his hands, shoving them in his pockets to conceal their trembling.
"Nothing there,” he said. “I actually don't know the name of my own business.” He stood, head down, staring at the gravel drive. Leslie was silent, giving him a chance to work out what he wanted to do.
"When we were at police headquarters, Fahrquar told us we'd had an arson fire in the Lafayette Square store,” he said. “I asked him then what the name of the business was, but he didn't tell me. Let's go back in and ask—"
"No.” She put both hands on his chest. “I don't want you going anywhere near him. I don't know why, but he's got a thing for you. You heard what he wants to do. You're to stay away from him."
Richard's frustration erupted into loud anger. “All right then,” he yelled. “Just how do you suggest we go about finding out? Do we go to Lafayette Square and look for a burned out store? Leslie, I have to know!"
"I know. Take it easy."
"No, you don't know. You can't know.” His hands were hard, white-knuckled fists. He looked down at her hands on his chest, and he took a deep breath. Slowly he raised his hands to cover hers. “Sorry. It's not you. But nobody can imagine what it's like to look back into nothing. I have to know, Leslie. My business—it's part of me. Part of who I am. How are we going to find out?"
She shook her head. “The police are out. We could go to the Star with your name, but we might as well take out an ad telling everybody what's happened to you. Actually, it sounds silly, but going to Lafayette Square would probably be the quickest way to find out without letting anyone know what's going on."
"All right. Come on then, let's go.” He hurried her to her car, stopped, his shoulders slumping. “You know where Lafayette Square is?"
* * * *
"I'll be damned,” Richard said.
They were peering through a crack between the sheets of plywood sealing off the arson site. The store had been so completely gutted that there were no glass windows remaining on which a sign could have been painted. Inside, men were poking around in the ashes and rubble.
"Inspectors from the fire marshal's office, I'll bet,” Leslie said. “Bound to be, if they suspect arson.” She backed away from the plywood. “You stay right here,” she said. “I'll be right back.” Richard grunted an acknowledgment, and she walked across the mall and into a clothing store.
"Who used to be in that burned out store?” she asked the woman who came to assist her.
The woman gazed blankly at her. “I dunno. Something to do with cameras."
"The name?"
"Yeah, somethin’ to do with cameras.” She shook her head. “Never paid much attention.” She eyed Leslie up and down. “You know, I just got in a little number that would look great on you."
Shaking her
head, Leslie turned to leave. When she was almost to the door, the woman called out, “I think the word ‘camera’ was in the name. And we're running a special on costume jewelry."
Leslie waved her thanks.
In the shoe store next door, she got much the same answer in about the same words, but at the jeweler's next to Richard's store, she hit pay dirt.
"The Camera Store."
"Yes,” she nodded. “That's the one, but what was its name?"
"The Camera Store."
Leslie blinked at the man. “You mean,” she said slowly, “the store next door was a camera store with the name of—"
"Yes, that's right.” He smiled. “The Camera Store."
"The Camera Store?” Richard's mouth hung open slightly. “That's the name of my business?” His eyebrows lowered frowningly as he considered, then he grinned. “Okay, it's not too imaginative, but it's sure straightforward."
"I don't think it's so bad,” Leslie said. “It's a lot better than something cute."
He grabbed her hand and started pulling her toward a phone booth. “Right now I don't care if it's cute. At least we know who to look for in the Yellow Pages."
"Photographic Equipment...” he muttered as he leafed through the pages. “Look at that,” he said finally. “There are eleven Camera Stores.” He looked up at her. “Eleven. Imagine that. And look at that,” he said, his voice rich with satisfaction. “Downtown Center—and Office. Two numbers, but I can't tell which one is which.” He shook his head. “We'll have to straighten that out in the next Yellow Pages."
Leslie was already sorting out change to slide in the coin slot of the telephone, and her fingers lay on top of his, marking the number as she dialed.
"May I speak to Mister Webb, please?"
"I'm sorry. I'm afraid he isn't in just now.” The woman's voice was smooth and cultured. Of course, Leslie thought, what else. The voice continued. “May I have him call you?"
"I have reached his office, haven't I? Not the store, his office."