by Robert Ellis
Teddy shut the closet door, looking back at the furniture. Holmes didn’t own much, but seemed to take unusual care of what little he did.
“You missed one,” Jackson said, laying out on the bed and yawning.
“Missed what?”
“A room. Between the living room and kitchen there’s a door.”
Teddy walked out, spotting it as he turned the corner. He’d thought the door opened to a rear entrance because of the deadbolt. As he turned the lock and grasped the handle, he found the door swollen in its frame. It took a measure of strength, but he gave it a hard yank and broke the seal. Swinging the door open, he could feel cooler air rushing past him from the darkness, the familiar scent of oils as he switched on the lights.
Holmes was an artist. A painter.
Teddy froze, his eyes taking in the converted sun porch in ravenous bites. There was a love seat, a work table, canvases leaning face down against the glass pane walls in stacks ten deep. He noticed a stereo in the corner and grabbed a handful of CD’s. Beethoven and Mozart, Coltrane and Coryell. None of it was working, none of it making sense.
He moved to the easel, staring at the dust cloth draped over a work in progress. He lifted the cloth and looked at the canvas, expecting to catch a glimpse of Holmes’s path through the darkness.
It was a landscape. And the violent man he’d met in a city jail last night was more than a weekend painter. Holmes had an eye and a talent. He had a life—all crammed into this one room.
Jackson tapped on the door. When Teddy turned, he saw the detective in the middle of the living room and looked down. A little girl stood in the doorway dressed in her pajamas and holding a stuffed bear. Her light brown hair was braided, her golden brown eyes staring up at him and sparkling as if in sunlight. She couldn’t have been more than five or six years old.
“May I have my paintings, mister?” she asked. “They belong to me ‘cause I did ‘em.”
Jackson shrugged like it was okay. Teddy nodded at her, unable to speak in the face of her innocence.
She flashed an excited smile. “Thanks,” she said, scampering across the room.
He watched her knee her way onto a chair at the work table. As she began to sort through the stacks of watercolors, Teddy tried to get a grip on his emotions.
“Do you spend much time here?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
“Mr. Holmes is teaching me paints,” she said.
“Where’s your mother and father?”
“I don’t have a daddy, and Mommy’s not back from work yet. Mr. Holmes used to pick me up from school and then we’d paint. When Mommy got home, he’d make us dinner. Mommy says Mr. Holmes is still our friend, and I shouldn’t listen to anybody that calls him bad names. Sometimes even nice people like the police make mistakes. Mommy says sometimes good people are wrong.”
It hit him in the center of his chest. Watching her. Seeing her trust. Taking it all in. Holmes’s life had a wider reach than the sun porch.
The girl climbed back down to the floor, then tore across the studio with her paintings and the bear. Zipping into the kitchen, Teddy heard the refrigerator door open. After a moment, she ran out with a fruit drink and flew through the front door. Now he knew why the drinks were on the bottom shelf. He heard the door across the hall open and slam shut. When the lock turned, he looked back at Jackson staring at him like the grim reaper from hell.
“Kids,” the detective said. “She’s lucky Holmes didn’t eat her for lunch.”
Teddy’s legs felt weak, and his head started spinning. He sat down at the table, feeling something deep inside him begin tumbling forward. It was clawing at the surface, flailing at the shadows into the light.
Oscar Holmes was innocent.
Even the thought of it cut all the way down.
Innocent.
In spite of the evidence—the fingerprints, his lip prints, a strong motive and an eyewitness—there it was in his gut. The possibility, however faint, that everyone had been consumed by the details and missed the whole. The chance that somewhere along the way, someone had been distracted by the obvious and made a horrible mistake. Just the way they’d been mistaken about his own father.
Teddy looked at his hand and noticed he was trembling.
He’d been a part of it, too. Part of the rabble. Part of the mob adding it all up like it was a simple math exercise. Only it didn’t add up because everyone involved had been disgusted by the crime and either wanted something out of it, or like Teddy, needed to move on.
Jackson stepped into the doorway. “You okay, kid? You look a little pale. You’re not gonna faint on me, are ya?”
Teddy didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He pulled his cell phone out and punched in the number Barnett had given him for Nash. When he hit Nash’s service, he cleared the call, checked his watch and entered his own number at the office. It was already past seven. In spite of the hour, Jill picked up on the second ring.
“I need you to find Nash,” he whispered. “Then call me back.”
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
He noted the panic in her voice. She must have picked up on his as well.
“I’ll tell you later,” he said under his breath. “I don’t care what anyone has you doing. Just find Nash and give me a call.”
“Done,” she said.
Teddy stared at the phone. After a moment, he got up, switched off the lights and closed the door. Jackson seemed pleased that the night was over, locking up the apartment and leading the way downstairs. As they reached the sidewalk, Teddy thanked the detective for coming. He heard the Cadillac start up, the muffled sound of Frank Sinatra singing through glass, and turned to watch Jackson gun it down the street like a broken-down hot-dog cop who was still pissed off. He heard his cell phone ring, felt in vibrating in his pocket. As he brought it to his ear, he heard Jill’s familiar voice in the cold night air.
“He’s at the Skyline Club,” she said excitedly. “It’s a nightclub. Nash will be there all evening.”
He could feel himself being reeled back in. She’d found him.
“I know where it is,” he said. “It’s private.”
“That’s right. What’s wrong with your voice?”
He cleared his throat. “Nothing.”
“Barnett’s looking for you,” she said. “He’s lost your cell phone number.”
“Don’t give it to him, okay? Don’t say anything.”
“I didn’t. I turned on the TV and saw the news. They found another body.”
“Yeah,” he said. “They did. Let’s talk in the morning.”
“Take care of yourself, Teddy.”
He closed the phone and turned the corner, spotting his Corolla in the middle of the block. His dizziness had passed, and he started for the car. Slowly at first, then picking up speed.
FIFTEEN
It was an exclusive club on the top floor of a high-rise building just off Rittenhouse Square, and the man at the front desk seemed adamant about not letting him in. He kept looking down at Teddy’s shoes and pants, still damp from the river. When reason didn’t work, Teddy grabbed him by the collar and shoved him aside.
Hurrying down the hall, he found the dining room and spotted Nash at a corner table by the window. He was seated with a beautiful, exotic-looking woman. Her clear skin was a deep brown, her face refined and gentle.
The light in Nash’s eyes glowed a little as Teddy approached the table. When Nash looked past him and nodded, Teddy turned and saw the man he’d just pushed straighten up his jacket and vanish down the hall with a shake of the head the way little men do.
“Have a seat,” Nash said. “We were just enjoying a little wine. Would you like a glass?”
Teddy nodded even though he didn’t want any wine. A waiter appeared with a third glass and a bottle of Williams & Selyem Pinot Noir. As the glass was partially filled, Nash introduced Teddy to his friend, Lynn Guzmon. She smiled warmly and offered her hand. Teddy shook it gently, noting her
British accent, and was happily surprised when she excused herself to make a phone call. It was an act, of course, an elegant gesture made by someone who understood something was up without being told.
“Let’s go outside,” Nash said. “Better bring your glass.”
He followed Nash onto the terrace. Gas burners kept the space warm with benches and chairs arranged in small groupings along the entire side of the building. Nash stopped at the rail, gazing at the city. Teddy joined him, thinking that the name of the club was a perfect fit with its setting. The view from the terrace of the Skyline Club was tremendous. He could see the entire city, from the Museum of Art all the way down to the blue lights framing the Benjamin Franklin Bridge.
“It would seem you’ve had a long day,” Nash said in a quiet voice, even though they were alone.
Teddy gave him a look. “You know, don’t you. You know about the second body.”
“We were listening to the radio on the drive over. I expected you might make a return visit in the morning.”
“There’s a chance he’s innocent,” Teddy said.
Nash sipped his wine without saying anything. But Teddy could tell that he’d struck a nerve and the man’s wheels were turning.
“You know that, too, don’t you?” Teddy said. “That’s the real reason why you told me the story behind Derek Campos’s arrest and execution. That’s why you refused to help. In spite of the evidence, you knew there was a chance that Holmes might be innocent, too.”
“You’re reading meaning into things where it was never intended. I didn’t have Holmes in mind when I told you that story. I was thinking about your father. He was innocent, wasn’t he?”
Nash was staring at him now. From the look on the man’s face, it seemed as if he’d spent the afternoon in his library reading up on the subject. But Teddy wasn’t ready for the question. He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes and lit one. He’d never spoken about what happened to his father with anyone and was surprised when he heard himself say yes.
“It was the accountant,” Nash said. “He’s the one who murdered your father’s partner. The three of them had been friends.”
The skyline view fell away, and Teddy found himself staring into the abyss and nodding at it. “They were working on a project,” he whispered. “A lot of money was involved. My father’s partner caught their accountant embezzling money and confronted him.”
“The accountant murdered your father’s partner and made it look like something else.”
Teddy drew on the cigarette. “It was a small police department in the suburbs. They lacked experience and made a lot of mistakes. After my father died in prison, the accountant had a nervous breakdown and came forward. A week later, he tried to deny his confession, but it was too late. He knew things only the murderer could’ve known. They had him.”
“You were just a boy at the time. How did you feel when the police took your father away?”
Teddy shook his head at the memory. “Why do we have to talk about this?”
“Because it’s important. How did you feel?”
“I wanted to kill them,” he whispered.
“As time passed, did the rage go away?”
“Not really.”
Nash paused a moment to take it in. “When you got involved in the Darlene Lewis murder case, did new memories of your father surface?”
Teddy nodded. “In living color.”
“It got worse?”
“Yes.”
“When you first saw her corpse, what were you thinking?”
“That I might be sick. Then all I could think about was the man who did it.”
“And when you first met Holmes, could you still see her corpse? Could you still see Darlene Lewis’s mangled body lying before your eyes?”
“I couldn’t get it out of my head.”
“It made you angry,” Nash said.
“After the shock it did.”
“When you spoke to Holmes, when you were alone with him in the same room, did he seem like a killer? Did he look like one? Did he act the part?”
Teddy nodded, unable to speak and keenly aware that he’d almost repeated what had been done to his father. The idea had been haunting him since the little girl from across the hall entered Holmes’s art studio.
He picked up his glass and finished it off in two quick gulps. The barrage of questions didn’t feel like an interrogation. Instead, there was some degree of kindness in Nash’s voice. Even understanding and compassion as he pushed Teddy on. Nash was peeling back the layers and pointing out his prejudices. Tossing a line into the black hole of his past, and giving Teddy his first glimpse at the way out. When Nash asked how the second body was found, Teddy filled him in on the events of this afternoon. Nash seemed particularly intrigued by the call from Dawn Bingle, agreeing with Teddy that he’d been led to the boathouse.
“The call could be innocent, but it’s not likely,” Nash said. “There’s the possibility that she found the body and didn’t want to get involved with the police, but I don’t think so. In the end, we don’t have enough information to even make a guess.”
Nash turned back to the view, his cobalt-blue eyes taking in the lights thoughtfully. Several moments passed before he broke the silence, his voice remaining quiet even though they were still alone.
“So now there’s a second body,” Nash said. “A second murder. But I’m guessing you haven’t told me what caused the change in your point of view.”
“Valerie Kram was kidnapped in October but only murdered a few weeks ago. I’ve just come from Holmes’s apartment. It wouldn’t have been possible to keep her there. Holmes has a life. He’s got friends. Neighbors. A schedule and a full-time job. If the murders are related, then there’s the chance that Holmes is innocent. The chance the district attorney and everybody else are looking at the physical evidence, and for some inexplicable reason, they’re wrong.”
Nash took another sip of wine. “It seems odd, doesn’t it.”
Teddy remained quiet, watching Nash think out loud.
“If Holmes has killed before,” Nash was saying. “If Darlene Lewis wasn’t his first. How many times have you heard of a killer like that fleeing a crime scene in broad daylight wearing bloody clothes? They’re usually more subtle about it, their indiscretions better planned.”
It hung there. Both of them staring at it. The one sign left behind at the crime scene that pointed away from Holmes.
“Then you agree that it’s possible,” Teddy said.
Nash turned and gave him a long look. “What’s significant is that you do. But none of this means Holmes didn’t do it, Teddy. We’re just talking over a glass of good wine.”
Teddy looked into the dining room and saw Nash’s friend returning to the table. Nash followed his gaze and turned back.
“He didn’t take Darlene Lewis,” Teddy said.
“No, he didn’t.”
“He didn’t do the same things to her.”
Nash lowered his glass. “Tell me what you think the next step is,” he said.
“They need time to process the evidence. The autopsy’s scheduled for tomorrow. While they’re at it, I need to find out if there’s any connection between Holmes and Valerie Kram.”
“It’s important that you attend the autopsy as well. Bring the murder book over in the morning so I can take a closer look. And you better call Barnett tonight and let him know that I’m in.”
He was in. Teddy felt a sense of relief hearing Nash say it. But so was Teddy now. He remembered that personal injury case he’d been working on yesterday, even this afternoon. It seemed so important then. Now it was meaningless. A million miles away.
“I’ll give him a call on the way home,” he said. “But I fucked up tonight. They think Holmes told me where the body was. They think that’s how I found it.”
Nash let out a faint smile. “If I’d been in their shoes, Teddy, I’m not sure I would’ve believed your story either. Let them think anything they w
ant for now. We’re just getting started.”
Nash opened the door and they walked back into the dining room. When Nash offered Teddy another glass of wine, he declined. He wanted to keep his mind clear. The night had been filled with the back and forth of the past and present. It had been a strain to keep up with, and he was glad he’d pocketed that bottle of aspirin in the afternoon. Still, he felt more at ease about things and even nodded at the little man behind the front desk on his way out.
As he got into his car and pulled away from the curb, he tried reaching Barnett but hit his voice mail again. Guessing that Barnett had heard the news about the second murder and was consoling Holmes’s family, Teddy left a long message, filling him in on what happened and letting him know that it had taken all day, but William S. Nash was finally on board. Teddy hated long messages, but he didn’t want Barnett to be left hanging. He wanted to give him some degree of hope. Everything had changed. They wouldn’t be walking Holmes through the system so that he could spend the rest of his life in an institution for the criminally insane. They wouldn’t be trying to make a quick deal with Alan Andrews. Not yet anyway.
He made a right at 30th Street Station and started down the ramp to the expressway. The fog had tapered off some and he could make out the string of lights outlining the buildings on the other side of the river along Boathouse Row. Checking his rearview mirror, he saw the city in the clouds and let his mind drift. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to sleep tonight. If Holmes wasn’t the murderer, if he’d walked in on the crime and interrupted it, then that meant the real killer was still out there. Somewhere in one of the buildings all lit up behind him in the smoky mist.
SIXTEEN