“Making notes for a story I’ll never tell,” he said. “Isn’t that what you called it?” Another delay. “Only maybe I will tell it.”
“What do you mean?” Loogan asked him.
“Maybe I made the wrong decision the other night.”
“Which night would that be?”
“Don’t be dim,” Kristoll said. “Look, why don’t you come in later. To the office. We’ll have a drink. Maybe I’ll run something by you.”
“All right.”
“ ‘All right,’ he says. You’re very matter-of-fact about it. You don’t have to come, you know. I’ve asked a lot of you already. You’re allowed to refuse.”
“I’m not going to refuse,” Loogan said. “What time should I come?”
“Around seven.”
The story of the blackmailer and the money-launderer occupied Loogan for much of the afternoon. His revisions grew to fill the spaces between the lines of type. At five-thirty he stood in the middle of the living room. The pages of the manuscript were spread out at his feet—twenty-four of them. The letters of his fine, dark handwriting were as clean as the type. Viewed from a height, they were virtually indistinguishable.
He stood over the pages longer than he had intended. He was about to kneel and gather them together when he heard a tapping sound. Turning to the window, he saw Laura on the porch. She smiled and tapped her knuckles again on the glass.
He met her at the kitchen door and took her coat, and a moment later she was in the living room looking down at the manuscript.
“I’ve wondered what it would be like,” she said, “catching you at an unguarded moment. I think I’ve always had it in my head that you’re not like other people. I can’t picture you doing mundane things—watering plants or taking out the garbage. Or at a desk, with a pencil, editing a story. Turns out I was right—you don’t use a pencil. You just stare at the manuscript until the words burn themselves onto the paper.”
She slipped out of her shoes and got down on one knee, lifted the first page, and began to read. Her legs were bare beneath her skirt. Loogan switched on a lamp, and the light was silver on the silk of her blouse, golden on the strands of her hair. She got through six pages and would have gone through the whole thing, Loogan thought, if he hadn’t interrupted her. “I’ll make you a copy,” he said. She picked up the seventh and eighth pages, glancing over them.
“This is good,” she said. “This is better than it has any right to be.” She stood and held the papers up to the light. “You’ve done a lot of work on this.”
“It’s not difficult,” he said, “when all you have to do is stare at the pages.”
“Sometimes I think it’s better when they need work,” she said. “When you can see at once what’s wrong and how to fix it. And you make a change and you know it’s right. And you give it back to the author and he can’t argue, not if he has any sense.”
She laid the eight pages on the mantel of the fireplace and sat at the end of the sofa.
“I wonder if Tom realizes what a good choice he made, hiring you,” she said.
Loogan let that pass. He watched her pat the cushion beside her.
“Come sit with me, David,” she said. “I didn’t come here to talk about editing. I came to see what you’d done with that.” Her gaze went to the framed photograph that hung above the fireplace—glass and flower petals and paper leaves. “It’s not quite right for the space, but I like it just the same. I can’t remember what was there before.”
“Some awful painting of sailboats,” Loogan said.
“That’s right. This is much better. I didn’t know if you’d approve. Tom wanted to buy you a gift, and I meant to give that to you anyway. You’re not angry, are you?”
“I’m not angry.”
“I like seeing it there and thinking about that day.” She turned toward Loogan, rested her arm on the back of the sofa, stroked his hair with her fingers. “And it was right here . . .” She didn’t need to say what was right here. “I think we should put these cushions on the floor, David,” she said softly. “I think you should build a fire. We didn’t have one then, but it might be nice on a day like today.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Loogan said.
“We don’t have to have a fire.”
He said nothing. Her hand drew back. It went to the front of her blouse. “You’re not talking about the fire,” she said, studying him. “I should have known. You’ve stayed away from me these past two weeks.”
Loogan’s face held no expression. He stared at the photograph over the fireplace.
Finally he said, “The thing is, I like him.”
“Yes, it would have to be that,” she said in a small voice. “I knew you liked him. If you didn’t, it wouldn’t have worked. If you hated him, I wouldn’t have had anything to do with you. But he’s your friend. And I should have known—David Loogan is a loyal man.”
She sighed. “You and Tom, you’re like that fable. What’s the name of it?” “I don’t know—”
“Androcles,” she said. “Androcles and the lion.” She paused to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “Androcles is an escaped slave, wandering through the woods. He finds a lion with a bleeding paw. The lion has stepped on a thorn. Androcles pulls it out.”
“I thought it was a mouse who pulled out the thorn.”
“That’s a different fable,” she said. “Androcles removes the thorn, and after that the lion befriends him. He hunts for him and brings him food. Then both of them are captured, and Androcles the slave is sentenced to be thrown to the lion in the Colosseum. But instead of tearing Androcles to pieces, the lion lies down at his feet.”
Loogan leaned back against the sofa. “Am I Androcles in this scenario?”
“You’re the lion,” Laura said. “The lion is grateful. He’s not going to attack Androcles. He’s not going to let any harm come to Androcles at all.” She smiled faintly. “He’s certainly not going to sleep with Androcles’ wife.”
She moved close to him, let her head rest in the hollow of his shoulder. “Poor David. You were afraid to tell me, weren’t you? You thought I’d cry.”
“I thought you’d make me change my mind,” he said.
“I feel like doing both, but I won’t. I’ll leave if you want.”
He put his arm around her. “You don’t have to leave.”
“I don’t want to. I want to sit here for a while and not say anything. Is that all right?”
“Sure.”
Loogan woke in the semi-dark. Laura Kristoll was standing over him. He seized her wrist and sat up sharply.
“Easy, David. It’s only me.”
“Dark,” he said.
“I turned off the lamp. I’m leaving now.” She had her coat on.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Twenty after seven. What’s the matter?”
He got to his feet. “I forgot about Tom. I’m supposed to meet him.”
“Comb your hair first. You look like you’ve been sleeping. Don’t frown, David. We haven’t done anything wrong.”
She kissed him on the cheek and then turned and went out without saying anything more.
He went to the phone and dialed Kristoll’s number at the office. After three rings he got Kristoll’s voice mail. He left a message saying he was on his way.
He put on a fresh shirt, brushed his teeth, and got his coat. His car was on the street. He walked around to the driver’s side and the tires caught his eye immediately. Both of them were flat. Someone had scratched an obscenity in the paint of the driver’s door. He felt a wave of anger, looked up and down the street. Saw no one but a white-haired lady walking her dog.
Standing in the cold, he deliberated. He would need to have the car towed, but that could wait. He could call a cab, but that would take time. It was twelve blocks to the Gray Streets office. He would walk.
Gloves from the car, one last look around, he set off eastward. He walked in the street, avoided
the shadows of the sidewalk. A brisk pace warmed him.
Houses with lighted windows. Gutters full of leaves. Traffic picked up as he got closer to downtown. He moved onto the sidewalk.
Near Main Street he heard sirens. Ahead, a police car crept through an intersection, red and blue lights flashing. Another followed a few seconds later.
Loogan reached Main and turned north. Flashing lights in the distance, two blocks away. Northbound traffic crawled. People milled in front of restaurants. A man in a long knitted scarf played saxophone, the instrument case open at his feet, a few dollar bills in the bottom. A border collie nearby, its leash tied to a fire hydrant. The collie and the man with the saxophone were the only ones not looking north.
Some of the restaurant people drifted toward the flashing lights. Loogan started to jog. The two police cars he had seen were latecomers. There were three others on the street. Cops at the intersections, directing traffic.
The flashing lights surrounded a building on the corner. The building that housed the offices of Gray Streets.
A barrier of sawhorses held back the crowd. Loogan insinuated himself among the people. A woman with a cell phone at her ear. A balding man with rimless eyeglasses. The woman with the cell phone broke her connection and dialed a new number. “You’re not going to believe where I am,” she said.
Loogan pressed through to the barrier. Beyond it, there was a tree growing out of an opening in the sidewalk. A wrought-iron bench beside the tree. A man’s shoe had found its way underneath the bench.
Trailing off from one end of the bench: a line of uniformed cops. Four of them, hats off, hands behind their backs. Stone-faced. Between the cops and the building, a blanket had been spread on the sidewalk. The cops stood facing the crowd, as motionless as sentries, but their presence could do nothing to conceal the shape beneath the blanket.
Loogan thought he should ask them the name of the man beneath the blanket. He was sure they wouldn’t answer. It was a formality in any case. He knew the answer. Looking up, he could see that every window in the face of the building was closed—every window except for one on the sixth floor.
Chapter 7
ELIZABETH WAISHKEY NODDED TO THE OFFICER IN THE HALLWAY AND went on through. The outer office of Gray Streets was unoccupied. The air was cool.
The door of Tom Kristoll’s office stood open. Carter Shan was inside taking photographs. Elizabeth paused for a moment in the doorway—a tall woman with raven hair. Her clothes were unassuming: tan overcoat, gray blazer and slacks, pale blue blouse. Her only adornment was a necklace of glass beads.
Carter Shan turned and aimed the camera at her. He didn’t press the button.
“Pushed,” she said to him.
“You’re dreaming, Lizzie,” he said.
Elizabeth stepped into the room. “You think he jumped, I suppose. That’s why you’re taking pictures.”
“I’m covering the bases.”
“The pictures’ll come in handy,” she said. “We’ll need all the evidence we can muster, when we put him on trial for killing himself.”
She crossed to the open window and looked down. A small crowd lingered on the street below. The medical examiner was kneeling beside the body. The blanket had been cast aside.
“Whose bright idea was the blanket?” Elizabeth asked.
“It wasn’t one of our people,” said Shan. “The woman who called it in, she covered him with a blanket from her car. She had her kids with her.”
Elizabeth nodded and silently watched the scene below.
Shan put the digital camera in the pocket of his coat. “All right, Lizzie,” he said. “Don’t be so inscrutable. Why do you think he didn’t jump?”
She walked away from the window. “Maybe it’s just a feeling.”
“I know better than that.”
“The west wind brings me tidings.”
“Fine. Keep it to yourself.”
She surveyed the room, from the bookshelves to the desk to the rack by the door that held a long coat and a black fedora.
She said, “Have you ever thought about killing yourself, Carter? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Just imagine you have thought about killing yourself, and you’re here in your office and you decide today’s the day. You look around, and you don’t have a gun handy, or a rope, but there’s the window. Would you jump through it?”
“Why not?”
“That’s the spirit,” said Elizabeth. “Why not? But it’s not an ideal window for jumping. You throw up the sash, and the opening is—what?—two feet square? You can fit through, but it’s going to be awkward. How do you go about it?”
Shan studied the window. “I don’t know. Headfirst or feetfirst—I suppose it wouldn’t matter much. I’d want to get it over with.”
“Would you?”
He looked thoughtful. “No, you’re right. I’d want to put it off a little. Get used to the idea.” He bent to open the deep drawer of the desk. There were two tumblers and a bottle inside. “I’d want a drink,” he said.
Elizabeth touched the glass beads at her neck. “Yes. You’re a man who’s fond enough of Scotch to keep a bottle in your desk—you’re going to want a taste.”
“Maybe he took a hit from the bottle, and put it back when he was done.”
“Maybe he did. Eakins’ll be able to tell us.” Lillian Eakins was the medical examiner. “So you’ve had your drink, or not, and the window’s still beckoning. You didn’t answer me. How do you go through?”
“Not headfirst,” Shan said. “It’s too scary that way. You’d want to go feetfirst. You’d sit on the windowsill with your legs dangling out and then sort of lean back and slide through—No, that’s too awkward. What you’d really want to do is climb out onto the ledge and stand there for a minute to get your bearings. But there’s no ledge out there.”
“No,” Elizabeth said.
“If he wanted to jump, he wouldn’t have jumped out this window. He’d want a place where he could stand.”
“Yes.”
“He would’ve gone to the roof,” Shan said. “But maybe he couldn’t. Maybe there’s no way to get up to the roof. You’re smiling. That’s your inscrutable smile. You’ve been up there.”
“The stairs at the north end of the building go all the way up,” Elizabeth said. “There’s a door with a lock, but the lock is broken. People go up there and smoke. There’s a low wall. You could stand on it and work up your nerve. If you wanted to jump, that’s where you’d go.”
“Suppose that’s where he went,” said Shan. “He decides he’s going to jump, opens this window, sees that it’s no good. He leaves the window open and goes up to the roof.”
“And jumps from a spot that happens to be directly above this window.”
“Why not?” Shan said.
“You haven’t been up there. The wall at the front of the building comes to a peak. It’s part of the design. The wall at the rear of the building is level—much better for jumping.”
Elizabeth paused, shaking her head. “He didn’t go from the roof. He went through this window. But if I’m right, he was pushed. Killed first, or rendered unconscious. You’d have a rough time getting him through if he was awake and resisting. You’d hit him on the head and hope that the damage from the fall would conceal it. With any luck, it would pass for a suicide.”
The two of them stood quietly. Street sounds came up through the open window. The cool air turned colder. Shan said, “Who is he?”
Elizabeth looked up. She had been staring at the tumblers in the drawer. “You know as much as I do. He’s the publisher of a magazine.”
“Not Kristoll. The man who killed him. Assuming it’s a man, because a woman would have a harder time wrestling him through the window. You’ve got the M.O. worked out; I thought you might have a suspect in mind too.”
“No,” she said. “I haven’t got that far.”
“I might be able to tell you something about him. I think he’s a fan of Shakespeare.” Shan pointed
to a book on the desk. “That’s The Collected Works. It’s open to the final scene of Hamlet—the one where everybody dies. Before you got here, I assumed Kristoll was reading it before he jumped. But if he was murdered, the killer might have put it there, open to that page.”
Elizabeth leaned over the book. “Did you get a picture of this?”
“I got half a dozen.”
“And this pen was here. You haven’t moved it.”
“Give me some credit, Lizzie.”
“The way it’s placed—it’s underneath a particular line.”
Shan nodded. “I saw that. It’s something Horatio says. ‘I am more an antique Roman than a Dane.’ I read the thing in high school. I suppose I ought to know what that means.”
Elizabeth stood back and smoothed away the strands of raven hair that had fallen into her eyes. “We’re supposed to think it’s a suicide note.”
Chief Owen McCaleb of the Ann Arbor police was wiry and handsome and fifty-four years old. He had a bag of golf clubs in a corner of his office, but no one in the department had ever seen him on a golf course. Everyone had seen him jogging. He was the sort of jogger who always kept moving. At a crosswalk, waiting for a light to change, he would jog in place. Even indoors, he was never quite still. Sometimes, talking to subordinates, he would bounce on the balls of his feet.
He was doing it now, as Elizabeth Waishkey and Carter Shan filled him in on the scene at Kristoll’s office. Shan had gotten to the part about Hamlet.
“So in the play, Hamlet’s dying,” he said.
“I know that much,” said McCaleb.
“His uncle, the king, has plotted to have him killed. The king has Laertes challenge Hamlet to a duel. He gives Laertes a sword with a poisoned tip. But if the sword doesn’t do it, the king has a backup plan—he’ll offer Hamlet a cup of poisoned wine.”
“The details aren’t that important,” Elizabeth said.
Shan continued. “So Laertes stabs Hamlet with the poisoned sword. But Hamlet stabs Laertes too. And Hamlet’s mother drinks the wine, not knowing it’s poisoned. Then Hamlet stabs the king—”
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