Документ Microsoft Word

by Konstantin

  “Or what— you’re going to hit me again?”

  I put my hands up and took a deep breath. I softened my voice and spoke slowly. “I’m sorry that I hit you, David. I’m not going to do it again. I just want you to please sit down.” His lip was swelling and his eyes were red, and he said nothing for a while, but finally shuffled to the table.

  I took his coat and fixed an ice pack, and I poured him another orange juice. While he drank, I checked his head for cuts. David tolerated my ministrations without a word, but his eyes followed my every move. I was pouring him a second glass when Clare appeared. Her black coat was on her arm. She didn’t look at David as she crossed the room, and she barely looked at me. She stopped at the door.

  “Are you boys going to be all right on your own?” Her smile was thin and her tone was chilly. I nodded. “Let’s hope so,” she said, and left.

  I threw away the broken glass and poured myself a seltzer. I drank it, and David and I looked at each other over the kitchen counter. And said nothing. He was hunched in his chair, tugging absently on a scrap of skin at his neck, when the phone rang. We both jumped. It was Mike Metz.

  “I got a call from Stephanie,” he said.

  “If she’s looking for David, he’s here with me. I was—”

  “She’s not the one looking. She’s at the house in East Hampton, and the police are executing a search warrant there right now. They’re doing the same at the apartment, and they want some of David’s DNA.”

  37

  There shouldn’t have been traffic. It was early Sunday morning and the sky was bright, and I should have been doing an easy seventy instead of grinding through a three-lanes-into-one merge. I crawled a few feet forward and rocked to a halt. In the car ahead, the driver pounded his steering wheel and slapped his palm on the dash. The guy behind me pulled at his hair and mouthed obscenities. There was a Mercedes SUV on my right, angling sharply into the front bumper of my rent-a-car. There was a doughy blond guy at the wheel, and he looked over with what he thought was a hard stare. Then he glanced into my car, at the passenger seat, and blanched. He hit the brakes and someone leaned on a horn. I reached over and covered the Glock with my notebook. Taillights flared as far ahead as I could see. I took a slow, deep breath and told myself that I was nearly there.

  My mistake had been in not starting at the beginning, with the DVDs in the plastic sleeve labeled “Interview #1.” If I had, I might have made this drive yesterday. As it was, I didn’t watch those disks until seven on Saturday night.

  I’d ridden uptown with David after Mike’s call, and he was silent and blank-eyed in the back of the taxi. We met Mike on the sidewalk in front of David’s building.

  “They’re up there now,” Mike said. “McCue, Conlon, a lab guy, and a uniform. They’ll be a while.”

  The doorman watched through the glass, staring at David’s swollen lip and bruised face and rumpled clothing. We went inside and he nodded nervously. “Mr. March,” he said, and he explained, in low, anxious tones, about having to let the police in. David walked past him and into the elevator with no sign of having heard a word. Mike followed, and I did too, but when I tried to step into the car, David put a hand on my chest.

  “Not you,” he said quietly. Mike raised an eyebrow and began to speak, but I shook my head. David pressed the button and the elevator door slid closed. I watched the numbers climb until they reached David’s floor. When I turned around, the doorman was looking at me and scratching his jaw. I’d walked slowly home from there.

  It was midafternoon when I got in. The light had begun to wane, and the apartment was empty. The phone was ringing. It was Mike, and he’d sounded tired.

  “They just left,” he said. “David’s lying down.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Slowly. They collected stuff for comparison— fiber samples, hair samples, paint samples— and they swabbed David. Mostly, though, they were looking for a gun. They didn’t find one.”

  “How did David take it?”

  “Like a mannequin— a mannequin with a fat lip. What happened to his face?”

  I ignored the question. “How did it go out in East Hampton?”

  “Pretty much the same way. I sent an associate to be with Stephanie, and he told me Vines was running the show out there.”

  “And…?”

  “And no gun.”

  “That’s something.”

  “Barely,” Mike said. “In case we had any doubts, the warrants mean Flores is serious— pretty much, as serious as it gets. Worse still, she’s managed to convince a couple of judges that there’s probable cause.”

  “Shit,” I said.

  “And plenty more where that came from. So if there are unturned stones out there, I’d get to turning them goddamn quick, because I expect a call from Flores Monday morning— a formal call.”

  “Shit,” I said again. Mike was quiet, but stayed on the line. “What is it?” I asked.

  “I have to go soon, and…you may not want to leave David alone just now.”

  “Stephanie isn’t coming back to town?”

  “Not tonight, she told me, and I got the impression she meant not tomorrow, either, and maybe not the next day.”

  “I’ll call Ned,” I said, and I did.

  I explained what I could, as briefly as I could, to my brother, who said he would go right over. I hung up the phone and looked at the black nylon case, still on the table, and at the DVDs— all the unturned stones— still inside. I wondered whether the cops had yet discovered unit 58 at Creek Self-Store, and said “Fuck it” again. I flicked on my laptop and opened another sleeve. It had taken me hours to make my way to the “Interview #1” DVDs, and to the unlabeled disk that was tucked into the sleeve with them.

  A tow truck eased by on the shoulder, and ten minutes later, traffic began to dissolve. Ten minutes after that, I was doing seventy. The sun climbed in the empty sky, and my head filled, yet again, with thoughts of family: brothers, sisters, David’s bruised and empty face, his words in the elevator. Not you.

  I got to the house before noon. I’d called the night before, and I was expected, but something prickled on my neck when I saw the red door standing wide. Curtains were open, but I saw no movement inside as I pulled up the drive. I climbed out of the car and listened, and heard nothing but icy branches creaking in a small wind. A knot tightened in my stomach.

  I looked down at my fingers, and wiggled them in their splints. I peeled the tape off my right hand and pulled the splints off. Underneath, my fingers were bruised and swollen. I reached into the car and took the Glock off the seat, and very slowly wrapped my hand around the grip. It hurt like hell, and I wasn’t at all sure I could hang on through the recoil, but it was better than nothing. I slipped the gun into its holster behind my back and headed up the path. I slipped it out again when I approached the door.

  There were footprints in the pristine snow, and handprints, and shapes that a body might make if it ran, fell, and then crawled. Scattered on the trampled patch, in dashes, spidery lines, and fat, ragged dots like rotted berries was blood. I called out, but there was no answer. The blood trail led to the path, up the stone steps, to the front door, and inside. My pulse was racing, and I followed.

  The heating system was cycling loudly, but it was no warmer in the entry hall than on the front steps. I wondered how long the door had been open, and I called out again. Again, no answer. There were scuff marks on the polished wood floor, and the Persian rugs were twisted and askew. The rusty droplets led to the left, through the living room, down a hallway, and past the study. Besides the rush of air in the ducts, the rooms were silent.

  I followed the trail to a pair of French doors and the conservatory. It was a long glass room with a peaked glass ceiling and a brick floor laid in a herringbone pattern. Warm air wafted through the open doors, along with an odor. It was not a garden smell, and it was not pleasant. I held my gun down along my leg, and stepped across the threshold.

  Big con
tainer plants— fruit trees and dusty shrubbery in round terra-cotta pots— lined the room, and made an enclosure around an Oriental rug, a long wicker sofa, a glass-and-wicker coffee table, and a wicker chair. Nicole Cade was sitting on the sofa with her legs folded under her. She wore jeans and a purple sweatshirt, and a distracted look on her wind-beaten face. Her sleeves were pushed up over her sinewy arms, and there was a short-barreled Smith & Wesson in her hand. Herbert Deering was on the chair. He was leaning heavily to his left, and on the floor beneath him was a pool of blood.

  38

  Deering was alive. He moved a paper-white hand when I stepped into the room, and opened cloudy, terrified eyes. His desiccated lips parted, and a groan came out. A sheen of sweat covered his gray face, and his thin hair was plastered to his head. His right arm cradled his gut, and his right hand was pressed to a wet patch on his left side. Blood soaked the left side of his plaid shirt from armpit to waist. His khakis were stained with something else. Deering’s breaths were rapid, shallow, and uneven, and if he hadn’t already crossed into shock, he was right at the edge. I looked at Nicole. She hadn’t moved, except to point the gun at her husband.

  “He said you were coming. He told me last night.” Her voice was shaky, and she had trouble with the volume. One of her legs was quivering, and strands of tired red hair fell across her face. There were sooty circles under her eyes, and red patches on her neck and bony cheeks. The gun was black and hammerless, and Nicole ran a nervous thumbnail over the top of the rubber grip.

  “That’s what started it— that you were coming. He said you were coming to talk more about Holly, and that you had questions about Redtails, and Dad. I asked him how you knew about Redtails, and…he came apart.”

  I nodded, and put on my most earnest face. “Uh-huh. We should call an ambulance now, okay? We should get you some help here.”

  She shook her head absently. “He said he couldn’t take it any more— the lying. He said it was making him crazy, and that he was glad it was over, that he was exhausted. Can you believe he wanted me to feel sorry for him? Feel sorry, for chrissakes!”

  I nodded some more. “We should call an ambulance now, Nicole, and get all this taken care of.” I eased my cell phone from my jacket pocket.

  Nicole pointed the gun at me. “No calls,” she said. She was quite certain. “He falls apart— crying, hysterical— and I’m supposed to take care of him. Comfort him! He was grabbing my arm, kissing my hands, burying his face in my shoulder, begging forgiveness. Like I’m supposed to make everything all right.” She looked down at the gun in her hand and almost smiled.

  “When I brought Daddy’s gun down, he knew that wasn’t going to happen. He ran around the house, screaming like a girl. He wet his pants, for chrissakes. I should’ve left him in the snow all night.”

  “You shot…Herbert was shot last night?”

  She nodded vaguely. I looked at Deering again and saw what might have been a blood-soaked dishtowel clutched in his right hand. He opened his mouth and managed a parched whisper.

  “I’m sorry, Nikki, I—”

  The gun swung back to Deering and I gritted my teeth. “I don’t want to hear from you, Herb. Not one word!”

  I took a slow breath, and tried to keep my voice conversational. “When’s the last time you ate, Nikki?” I said.

  She ignored the question, but turned back to me. She held the gun out for me to see. “This is what he used, you know— my father’s gun. The little bastard took it from my lingerie drawer.” She turned to Deering again, and her face darkened. “So on top of everything else, you’re a thief too!”

  She pointed the gun at him again, her bony fingers white on the grip. My heart was pounding, and my ribs were shaking in my chest. I gulped some air. “Let me get you something, Nikki— some water, something to eat….” I took half a step backward, and the S&W swung over again, following me like a camera lens.

  “Stay here,” Nicole said. She squinted at me, as if recognizing me for the first time. “What did you want from him? Why did you want to talk about Redtails?”

  I fought to keep my voice steady. “Holly mentioned it, on some videos she made when she visited your father. I wanted to know what it was, and why she didn’t want it sold. And I wanted to ask about those visits. Herbert told me she never saw him, but apparently she did.”

  “Is that a surprise— that he lied to you? Is that a big shock? Lying is what he does.” Deering shifted on the chair and another groan came from him, from deep in his chest. Pain rippled across his face and Nicole pointed the gun at him.

  “What is Redtails, Nicole?” I asked. Even to me, it sounded desperate and too loud.

  Nicole’s lipless mouth split into a nasty grin, and something like a laugh came out. She looked at Deering. “You idiot. You thought he knew something! You came crying to me with your confessions because he was coming here, and you thought he knew. And it turns out he doesn’t know anything. You stupid, pathetic idiot.”

  Her knuckles whitened on the gun again, and I cleared my throat. “What is Redtails?” I repeated softly.

  She shook her head. “It’s a cabin. Not even a cabin, more like a falling-down shack. One room, an outhouse, and a sagging porch— but she could never get over the place.” She turned back to Deering again. “And that’s what this is all about, isn’t it, Herbert.” There was loathing in her tone and on her face. Deering stayed silent.

  “It’s a house?” I asked.

  “It’s a shack, I told you— a fucking shack, on a big piece of land. Redtails—Holly gave it that name, like it was a manor house or something. She was six or seven, and we saw a pair of hawks up there one weekend— that’s when she came up with it. And just because it was Mother’s, just because Mother went there when she was a girl, and it was in her family for who knows how long, Holly was fixated on the place. But Mother didn’t leave it to Holly, did she? No— she left it to Daddy, to do with what he wants.”

  A bead of sweat rolled down my ribs, and my fingers ached on the grips of the Glock. Deering was looking at me, and looking for— what— compassion? Rescue? He kept shifting in his chair, and every time he did, Nicole pointed the gun at him and I held my breath.

  “And now your father wants to sell?” I asked.

  Nicole frowned. “Daddy’s not up to dealing with that kind of thing right now; that’s why he turned those decisions over to me. I’m the one who wants to sell, and why not? The kind of care he needs— it’s goddamn expensive, and more so every year. Developers will pay a lot of money for five hundred acres in Columbia County right now. That made Holly even crazier— the idea that the money would pay for Daddy’s care.”

  I nodded. “You argued with Holly about it?”

  “We didn’t talk.”

  “You didn’t see her when she visited your father?”

  Disgust became anger on Nicole’s face. “If I could’ve arranged it, I wouldn’t have let her visit. The way she carried on with him, with those questions and taping everything— going on about Mother, how what she did to herself was Daddy’s fault…As far as I was concerned, Holly was abusing him with all that. Nobody agreed with me, but I certainly wasn’t going to stand around and watch it.” She turned to Deering again and held the gun in front of her, in both hands. My grip on the Glock tightened. I watched Nicole’s fingers and concentrated on keeping my arm loose.

  “No, it wasn’t Holly I argued with about the property,” Nicole said. “It was him. And now I know why.”

  I thought about the video I’d seen last night— the footage on the unmarked disk— and thought that I knew why too. But I needed to hear them say it. Slowly, so as not to spook Nicole, I rolled my shoulders and worked the kinks from my neck. Nicole brought the gun to bear on me again.

  “Why does Herbert care about the property?” I asked.

  Nicole’s weathered face darkened. She drew back her lips and looked at Deering. “Why don’t you tell him, Herbert? Go ahead— tell him why.”

  Deeri
ng tried again to sit up, but a wave of pain washed across him and he slumped lower in the chair. His eyes wandered awhile before they found me. When they did, they were forlorn.

  “Tell him!” Nicole shouted. Her shrill voice echoed off the glass.

  “She forced me,” Deering said. His voice was barely a whisper now, barely more than rustling leaves. “Holly forced me.”

  “Forced you how, Herbert?” Nicole said, as if she were speaking to a very slow, very trying child.

  Deering closed his eyes. “She’d made a video. She said I had to convince Nikki not to sell Redtails, and that if I didn’t— if I couldn’t— she’d show it. She’d show it to Nikki.”

  “Tell him what was on the video, Herbert.” She pointed the gun in encouragement.