Spur of the Moment

by David Linzee

  Renata sighed. “All right, Dr. Chase. You were here on Saturday night. That’s all that matters. I don’t suppose you want my apology, but you have it.”

  She turned and walked out, followed by Peter. If he said anything to Chase, she didn’t hear it.

  Chapter 54

  A train pulled into Rock Road Station. Its doors opened, but no one got on or off. The only person on the platform was Shane. He held his phone to one ear, while his finger blocked the other. He was shifting from foot to foot. He shouted, “Goddamn you, Bistouri, pick up!” but there was no response, and he shoved the phone in his pocket. He started walking up the platform. Soon he was running. He crossed the parking lot and scrambled up the slope to the viaduct.

  At the turn-off into the woods he stopped, breathing hard. There was nothing to see. He advanced. The overhanging trees blocked the streetlamp and he was in the dark. He bumped into something and grunted: Bistouri’s car. He felt his way along the fender to the door and opened it. The interior light came on.

  The car’s hood was dotted with blood spots. Bistouri’s body lay on the ground a few feet away. His face was turned away. Shane reached down. His fingers touched brains in the gaping hole in the side of Bistouri’s skull. He gasped and backed away.

  He slammed the door and the darkness returned. Propping his elbows on the car, he buried his face in his arms and muttered incoherently. Then he ran back the way he had come. Tripping over a crack in the pavement, he fell full-length. He scrambled to his feet and ran out to the edge of the road. He looked both ways. There wasn’t a car in sight. Shane just stood there for a while, breathing deep and swallowing, pulling himself together. Then he went back into the darkness.

  Opening the car door again, he leaned in. The key wasn’t in the ignition. He didn’t hesitate. Leaving the door open for the light, he went down on his knees next to the corpse and began to search the pockets. He found the keys in the left pants pocket. His hands had gotten bloody and he wiped them on Bistouri’s coattail.

  Then he got in the car, switched on the lights and engine, and reversed out onto the Rock Road.

  The Porsche Cayenne was parked on a side street, just far enough down to be out of the streetlight and invisible. Schaefer started the engine and made a U-turn to follow Bistouri’s car. Only then did he turn on the headlights. Bistouri’s taillights were tiny red flecks far down the dark road.

  “Get closer,” said Bryson.

  “Can’t do that. Not till there’s more traffic.”

  Bryson was slumping into the seat and against the door. In the dim light from the dashboard his face looked wan, the features drawn. There were still blood spots on his shirt. He said, “How sure are we this is the accomplice?”

  “One hundred percent. He knew the rendezvous point.”

  “Yes, of course.” Bryson shut his eyes and said nothing more. He was swaying with the motion of the car. He did not open them until several minutes later, when Schaefer made a sharp turn and accelerated up an on-ramp.

  “What’s going on?”

  “He’s heading north on I-170.”

  Bryson made a sound between a sigh and a moan. “You said, there’s two of them. One sits on the disk while the other goes to the meet.”

  “That made sense to me.”

  “Well, what if you’re wrong? What if they left the disk in Chicago and that’s where he’s headed?”

  “Too early to say where he’s headed. Excuse me, sir, I need to concentrate.”

  The interstate had more streetlights and traffic was thicker. Schaefer closed the distance with the gray Saturn, but not too much. He kept two or three cars between them. The driver gave no signs of wariness. He was driving in the right-hand lane, a few miles under the speed limit. His turn signal began to flash, and a moment later the car went under the green sign that said, I-270 NORTH—CHICAGO.

  “Looks like he’s going home,” said Schaefer.

  “He’s what? That’s not what you said he’d do.”

  “No. I couldn’t figure out what this kid had to do with it. I mean, why Bistouri brought him along, if it wasn’t to sit on the disk while Bistouri came to see us. I was wrong. Sorry.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “Follow him.”

  “To Chicago? But that’s … how many hours?”

  “Five or six.”

  “But I can’t drop out of sight for that long. Too many people will miss me. Start asking questions.”

  “I’m very sorry about that, sir. But here’s the situation.” Schaefer lifted his forefinger from the wheel and pointed. “This guy up ahead, I thought the first thing he’d do—after he got over the initial panic, I mean—was go back to the hotel or wherever and re-establish contact with us. There’d be some threats and curses but I could get him through that and then he’d deal. His heading home suggests one probability. The disk is in Chicago. And he’s decided he’s not going to deal with us anymore. He’s spooked. I don’t know what he’s going to do next. Maybe try to sell the disk to CNN. But if we lose him, there goes our only chance to get it back.”

  The workings of Bryson’s normally quick wits were slowed by shock. It was not until they were on the bridge crossing the Mississippi River into Illinois that he feebly echoed, “We can’t lose him.”

  Chapter 55

  Peter and Renata were silent in the car, contemplating their failure. It was getting to be a habit with them.

  “Look,” Peter said. “Chase was my idea, and—”

  “Peter, shut up. It isn’t your fault.”

  They continued to drive aimlessly up Big Bend Boulevard for a while. He glanced over at her: she was still in costume. “You want to go back to the theatre and change?”

  “No. I can’t bear to look another human being in the face today.”

  She directed him to Don’s house. As they drove through the dark, empty residential streets, she wondered if she would be able to sleep. She had never felt so exhausted in her life. It was possible that she would fall into a crevasse of unconsciousness so deep that her anxious thoughts would not be able to drag her out of it for several hours.

  “Turn here. The house will be on the right.”

  Peter’s headlights swung round and settled on a white car parked in front of the house. In glistening green reflective letters, its door said, WEBSTER GROVES POLICE.

  “Oh my God,” Renata murmured. “What now?”

  Peter stopped behind the car. As they got out, the policewoman came to meet them. She looked at Renata. “Are you Renata Radleigh?”

  Never had she felt so much like denying it. “Yes.”

  The officer glanced at Peter. “Your name, sir?”

  He gave it.

  She nodded, satisfied. “You need to come with me. Or you can follow in your own car.”

  “We’ll follow,” Peter said. “What’s this about?”

  “A call you made to Bridgeton PD this afternoon. About an individual named Louis Bistouri.”

  Police vehicles were lined up along the side of the wide, dark, empty road—patrol cars, unmarked cars, technicians’ vans. Peter followed the Webster Groves car to the head of the line and turned in. Renata opened the door and stood up, dizzy with fatigue. She had a fleeting impression of a narrow track running into the woods and halogen lamps on stands, casting a brilliant light on a group of standing or kneeling men. Then the scene was blocked out by Detective McCutcheon striding up to her. His face, normally so expressionless, was livid with anger.

  “Need you to make an ID, Ms Radleigh,” he said in a low, strident voice.

  “I can do it,” Peter said, but McCutcheon had already seized her arm and was dragging her into the pool of bright light. She nearly fell over a man who was down on one knee, examining a tire track. When she got her feet under her, she was standing over the corpse.

  The man she had seen at the motel lay on his back, limbs outstretched. His head lolled, revealing a gory crater where his temple and the top half of his ear had been.
Brain matter like gray scrambled eggs trailed across the blood-soaked shoulder of his jacket.

  “Is this the man you saw this afternoon?” McCutcheon asked.

  She could not answer. She was going to be sick and there was nothing she could do about it but turn away. One of the other men who were standing around the body heard the sounds coming from her throat. As she was bending down he took her arm less roughly than McCutcheon had and pulled her away. Mustn’t contaminate the crime scene, she thought. She was dimly conscious of him putting something in her hand before he left her to her convulsions. When they were over, she found that it was a Handi Wipe. She supposed the police were prepared for such reactions from people they called to identify bodies.

  She staggered back into the glare, wiping her chin. Peter was talking to McCutcheon. Seeing her, the detective turned to address her. “What can you tell us about this guy? What’s he doing in St. Louis? Who shot him? Why?”

  Renata shook her head.

  “That’s what I figured. We have a thorough report from Officer Thursby, Bridgeton PD. Based on that, I would say the only thing you know about the victim is, he has no connection to your brother or Helen Stromberg-Brand. He just drives a car similar to someone who might have some connection. That right?”

  She nodded.

  “You know nothing. You blew off my warning not to interfere. You lied to a police officer. And you found out nothing.”

  “We didn’t lie,” Peter said.

  “Shut up,” McCutcheon barked, and turned back to Renata. “I should have arrested you long ago. But I kept trying to talk sense into you, which was a fucking waste of time.”

  “That’s enough,” Peter said. Raising his voice he went on, “Who’s in charge of the scene? This man is way out of line.”

  McCutcheon paid no attention. “Are you convinced now, Ms Radleigh? That this is serious business? That you ought to leave it to people who do it for a living?”

  A gray-haired, uniformed man stepped forward. “Detective McCutcheon—”

  McCutcheon swung around. “You woke me out of the first sound sleep I’ve had this week to drag me up here, to a crime scene that turns out to have nothing to do with my case. Not that I’m blaming you. I’m blaming her.”

  “Detective, you want to stop talking and cool off.”

  “You have no idea what I’ve put up with from this woman. Demanding reports from me, like she’s the fucking prosecutor. Telling me what I would be investigating if I wasn’t such a stupid asshole. Accusing me of railroading her brother. Calling me at home in the middle of a fucking ballgame to accuse me of stealing her panties—”

  “That’s enough. Come with me.” The uniformed man put a hand on McCutcheon’s shoulder.

  But McCutcheon shrugged off the restraining hand and thrust his face in hers. “We’re not stupid assholes. We don’t need your help. There’s nothing weird going on in this case that we don’t know about. We put your brother in jail because he killed Helen Stromberg-Brand, and he’s gonna stay there. Get used to the idea.”

  Finally McCutcheon was through. He allowed the uniformed cop to lead him away, restoring Renata’s view of the bloody corpse. She turned around and leaned her forehead against a tree trunk. Peter was talking to the other policemen but she didn’t try to follow what they were saying. Eventually he came up beside her, took her elbow, and steered her toward his car.

  Part V

  Wednesday, May 26

  Chapter 56

  Morning light awakened Peter. He could hear Renata in the kitchen: the clink of plates and cups, the running of water. He’d been living alone for so long that it was odd to hear someone else in his kitchen. Not unpleasant, though.

  Last night, in the car, they had both been silent for a long time. When he glanced over at her, she was scowling so fiercely that he didn’t dare speak to her. He wanted to, though. It had not escaped his notice that Renata had a tendency to beat up on herself. It was she who broke the silence. “Where are we going? Your flat?”

  “Yes.”

  He braced for an argument, but she said only, “What a jolly evening you’re going to have.”

  In his living room she sank down on the sofa. He asked if she wanted anything, and she said a cup of tea. When he returned with it, he found her slumped with her head back, asleep. He didn’t think that either the tea or anything he could say would do her as much good as sleep, so he turned off the light and went into the bedroom. Pausing only to take off his coat, tie, and shoes, he flopped on the bed.

  He woke in the darkness to find her lying beside him, fully clothed, on her back. He raised himself on an elbow. Her eyes were closed but her brow was furrowed. Could she be frowning that hard in her sleep? No, her breathing told him she was awake. Nothing good to say had yet come to him. He reached out tentatively and stroked her forearm. She tolerated it well.

  Now, hours later, he rose and went to the kitchen. Renata was pouring water into the coffee maker and did not notice him. So he just looked at her: this statuesque woman in fluorescent tube-top and miniskirt, barefoot and mostly bare-legged. Her makeup had worn off to reveal her empurpled eye, the bruise now yellowing around the edges, and her hair was tousled. He thought she was beautiful.

  “You’re feeling better,” he said.

  “Oh, hello, yes. I’ve thought it over. Of all the things that could have resulted from my amateur investigating, what happened last night is only the third worst.”

  He nodded. “You’re still alive, and you still believe your brother’s innocent.”

  She gave him a look. “You know how I think. I’ve noticed it before. Yes, well, I spent most of the night going over Detective McCutcheon’s little lecture. Trying to think up answers to his accusations and failing. I mean … we find this man Bistouri at the motel, and a few hours later he’s dead. It’s not a coincidence. It’s something to do with Bryson. But of course McCutcheon would have said such vague musings were no use to him. He was so angry. I wish I’d never accused him of stealing my knickers.”

  “You’ll have to tell me about that sometime.”

  “When this is all over.” She sighed. “That’s the point I reached about dawn. It is all over. Don is going to spend the next twenty to thirty years in prison. Unless I do something.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to the jail, where I will ask my brother what really happened in Chicago, the weekend he took Helen to see Carmen.”

  “You’ve asked before.”

  “This time he’s going to tell me.”

  “What are you expecting to hear?”

  “Haven’t a clue. Nor a theory. Nor a plan. But he’s kept it back for too long. Now he will tell me.”

  “I’ll drive you to Clayton.”

  “Thank you. It’ll be SLO, actually. They’ll be wanting my costume. I’ve got the sack.”

  This confused him. He had an image of Renata taking off her costume and pulling a gunnysack over her head. “Which sack is that?”

  ‘I’ve lost my job. The radio said that the show did go on, after a long delay. Which means I’m out.”

  “Are you sure? Just like that?”

  “Of course. One can’t leave the theater in mid-performance. Of all the people who’ve been sacked by our general director, I’m one of the few who actually deserved it. Anyway, thanks for putting me up. It was lovely sleeping with you. Or beside you, rather.” She paused, and continued in a voice different from her usual firm tone. “I’d like to see you later on. Assuming you’d like to. I realize my behavior last night was absolutely hopeless, from your point of view.”

  “As a man?”

  “Well, and an American. I should have cried on your shoulder and blathered on endlessly about Don’s and my childhood and begged you to tell me what to do. Then after you’d got it sorted for me, we could have spent the rest of the night having athletic sex.”

  “I’m afraid I have no ideas about what you should do. As for the athletic sex, however, my mind is a good de
al more fertile.”

  Renata smiled. She stepped up to him, put her arms around him, and brought her lips to his. The next moments passed agreeably.

  As they broke from the embrace, Peter said, “I’d like to stick with you today.”

  “Don’t you have to go to work?”

  “I haven’t bothered to listen to my messages. I’m sure I got the same sack you did.”

  Chapter 57

  It was quieter in the visiting room today. The chairs on either side of them were empty. Don looked glum. It was sad to see him so. What an overpowering presence he had been in his glory days, with his bright avid eyes and voracious smile, the sheen on his blond hair, the aroma of expensive soaps and lotions that wafted from his well-tailored suits and crisply pressed shirts. Now he smelled like old sweat and disinfectant. He was a jailbird already.

  He was eager to talk, though. “Have you done anything about the guest list? The possibility the killer was there on Saturday night?”

  “That turned out to be rather a dry hole.”

  He did not pursue it; he had something else on his mind. “I heard about what happened at SLO last night. Naturally I rang a few people, wanting to get the inside story. No one would take my call.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know there’s that awful recording, telling people they have a call from a prisoner, but I thought surely one of my friends would pick up. No one did.”

  “Don, you’re no longer part of the happy SLO family.”

  “Yes, you’ve been telling me so all along. You have no idea how hard it is for me to accept. You’re just sitting there, waiting for me to get down to business. You don’t understand me. You and I are just too different.”

  True. She was impatient to ask her question, but she let him talk.

  “The last few years, you’ve been more baffling to me than ever. How could you keep doing it, flying off to the Timbuctoo Opera to sing Kate Pinkerton. Carrying on even though everyone says you’re well past your sell-by date. I thought you didn’t know what they were saying, but you do, don’t you? You simply don’t care. You have such a hard time winning your own approval, you can’t pay attention to what anyone else thinks of you.”