Gyp.
But hold on a second: Big car, all warmed up, doubtless an automatic—did these cars even come with a stick shift?—sitting there at the curb, like it had pulled up on purpose to take Tony anywhere he wanted to go.
There was danger in taking a cab. The driver might remember—of course he’d remember Tony, handsome, chic Tony, and all banged up like he was! What had he been thinking, ordering a cab to take him to a crime!
So for cripe’s sake, go get in the car before the man came back with old Mrs. Gotrocks and her luggage!
Tony moved as unobtrusively as he could over to the car and, after a struggle with a leg that didn’t want to bend much in the middle and a huge and useless arm, with a coat wrapped around it besides, he managed to get behind the wheel. He adjusted the seat back a few inches, pulled the seat belt down and fastened it—no need to get stopped for that minor offense and blow the whole deal—and drove sedately away.
Whoops, turn the headlights on! Adjust the mirror at the stoplight at the top of the street. Flip the turn signal on to go right, no need to draw the attention of a patrol car by doing something ticketable. Comfortable, comfortable car, seats real leather, a dark red to match the exterior. No wonder old folks kept buying these great old road yachts, so easy on fragile bones. And look at this: The gas tank was almost full!
Two blocks later the street forked, and the left fork was Highway 7, which led to Excelsior. This time of night there was almost no one else on the road, which was a good thing, as it was a little hard to stay in one lane. But Tony rejoiced to be on his way. Steering with one hand, he felt for the gold necklace with his other. It was just long enough to reach down to where his hand could get it. The texture of the links was soothing, and he let it slip over his fingers again and again.
Sometimes things like this happened, things suddenly turning right, coming into focus, becoming effortless. Tony knew with all his being that he was doing right, following the correct path, making the choices that would lead to success. When things started going his way like this, he would come out on top. That likely meant that not only would he neutralize—hopefully not kill, but kill if necessary—this Godwin person, but he would also regain that twenty-four grand. Then he could get out of—Uh-oh.
He was almost all the way to the Excelsior turnoff by then, when he remembered he hadn’t packed anything, and had left the fake passport behind, too. It was far too late to go back. But so what? When he got his money, he could buy some new clothes, and a new passport, too.
Crewel World wasn’t on the main drag, but Excelsior wasn’t a big town, so Tony drove at random until, coming up a street, he drove past a two-story, dark brick building that had Christmas stockings hung in one of the three big front windows. And there was the sign, Crewel World—ha, he’d found it! Tony pulled to the curb right in front, then decided that wasn’t a good idea. What if a cop drove by? Because after all, the owner of the car hadn’t meant to leave it sitting more than a couple of minutes, and so probably had already reported it stolen. And Tony was pretty sure Excelsior was still in Hennepin County and so word would reach even out this far right away.
He’d just started to pull away when he noticed something: a narrow driveway going up beside the building. He turned into it. At least the car would be harder to spot here. To his surprise the driveway went around back, to a small parking lot. See? His luck was still in.
He steered over to a big Dumpster, bumped it lightly, and shut the engine off. It took a couple of minutes to get himself out of the car and his crutch under his arm. A lowwatt light gleamed over a back door to the building. A back door! Smiling, he made his way over to it.
The door was wood, with a window in the top half made of thick glass with chicken wire embedded in it, hard to break. But his over-the-limit credit card served his purpose one more time as, with some effort, he slid it in to move the tongue of the lock back.
At first it was as dark as the inside of a black cow at midnight—an old jest he remembered from grade school. He stood there a while, waiting for his eyes to adjust. His hand strayed to the gold necklace. The feel of it under his fingers was soothing and kept him occupied until, finally, he could see by the outside light dimly pouring through the top half of the door that he was in a narrow, uncarpeted hall. Turning away from the door, there was a wall to his left, and—was it? Yes, it was, another door down the longer way to his right. He moved as stealthily as he could down to the door. It was unlocked.
On the other side was a big wooden staircase. He came out and there it was, just a few feet away, painted a shiny light green color. Then he saw he was in a much bigger hall. The front door was to his left, and there was an open tiled space in front of it, better lit, with one of those bristly things to wipe your feet on. He went in that direction. Apartment on the second floor, Travis had said. Tony turned and looked up the broad, uncarpeted stairs, which were made of some kind of stone or marble with a nonskid edge on each step. At the top was a big landing. He looked around. No elevator. He would have to climb those stairs to that landing, and then there would be as many more stairs to climb to the second floor. A long and painful journey—but Godwin lived up there, and was probably peacefully asleep in his bed, unaware that justice, or doom, or something equally fearful, with a gun in its waistband, was coming up the stairs after him.
Tony, who would have admitted to being a little tipsy, wanted to emit a wicked laugh, but was not so drunk he yielded to the impulse. He was content to silently recite the chant from an old ghost story, about a ghost coming after a wicked man, as he started up the stairs: “Old man, I’m on the first step; old man, I’m on the second step; old man, I’m on the third step…”
Around the landing, and up again. Finally, at the top, “Old man, I’m on the sixteenth step.” He paused then, to catch his breath and look around. He was in another broad hall, this one carpeted. A light glowed beside a window on the wall nearest the street, and another lit an old red glass EXIT sign on the wall beside the top of the stairs. There were three doors up here, meaning three apartments. No name or number on any of them.
Tony stood awhile, uncertain which door to try first. Then he remembered what Travis had said: He lives over the store. And the apartment most nearly directly over the store was…that one.
Tony walked to the door and simply tried the knob. To his immense satisfaction, and in furtherance of his belief that he was acting in accord with his karma, the door opened.
He found himself in another hallway, this one narrow and short. There was a pleasant smell of cooking—basic cooking, like a hot dish—and then a trace of perfumed soap. Was he in the wrong place? He couldn’t tell, but this was no time to hesitate.
He closed the door silently—and found himself in utter darkness. He felt his way down the short passageway until he was in a much bigger space. There was a vague lighter rectangle on the wall to his right—that was probably a window with the shades down. He took a few steps forward and bumped into something that was substantial but soft when touched. A couch.
“A-row?”
“What th—!” He managed to stifle the exclamation as he staggered back. He stopped himself from falling with his crutch, and came forward to put a hand on the couch again. By then he realized what had spoken in that tiny, high-pitched voice: a cat.
The thought was immediately followed by something landing on the couch, he could feel the shock of it. Must be a damn big cat. “A-row?” it asked again.
“Here, kitty, kitty,” he whispered, and it came to him, to sniff the fingers sticking out of his cast and rub its face on them. A big cat, yes, but friendly and—he stroked down its back—long-haired.
He heard a sound from across the room, in another room. Bedroom. Godwin was awake.
Tony stepped back from the couch and drew his weapon, braced for the light that would come on. And it did.
And there was a woman standing just outside the door over there. She wasn’t pretty, or even young, despite the tangle
of dyed-blond hair.
“Who are you?” They asked the question in unison.
“Where’s Godwin?” growled Tony. “Get him out here.”
“Godwin doesn’t live here,” she replied in a surprised and sleepy voice. Then, in a more awake one, “Oh, my God, are you Tony Milan?”
“How d’ya know that?” he demanded.
“Because…because of several things,” she said. “Godwin told me Tony Milan broke his arm and his leg in a car accident, and you have about the same build and coloring as Bob Germaine. But how do you know about Godwin? Or me?”
“What’s that—Never mind any of that! Where is he?”
“Home, I suppose.”
“No, no, don’t you lie to me! This is his home! Unless he’s in one of the other apartments?”
“No, he doesn’t live in this building.”
“But that’s his store downstairs, right? The embroidery store?”
“He’s my store manager, yes.”
“No!” he shouted, waving the gun, pleased to see fright drain what little color there was from her face. “I told you not to lie to me! Godwin owns the embroidery store and he lives in an apartment over it! This apartment!”
She did not reply.
“He’s here, isn’t he?” He let his rage show in his voice.
“N-no,” she faltered. “I told you, he doesn’t live here.”
“Liar!” He raised his voice even louder. “You bastard, stop hiding behind a woman! Godwin, come out here!”
She looked behind her, into the bedroom she’d come out of. “There’s no one in there,” she said.
He shifted the gun to his left hand, barely able to hold it there with his imprisoned fingers. “Move out of the way,” he ordered, and she obeyed, moving slowly. He suddenly realized she was on crutches. “Freeze!” he barked, just like a cop, and again she obeyed. She was wearing a flowing nightgown of some pink material, cotton or thin flannel, and had a flimsy robe over it of the same stuff. The combination had hidden her crutches and the hard-plastic boot on her right leg.
“Who are you?” he demanded
“My name is Betsy Devonshire.”
“What are you doing in this apartment?”
“I live here.”
That had to be a lie, Godwin lived here. He asked a question he already knew the answer to, so he could compare how she looked and sounded when telling the truth. “What’s wrong with your leg?” he asked.
“It’s broken.” Either she really did live here, or she was a damn good liar.
“Move a little more,” he said, waving the gun and she came away from the door—doors, he saw now. Three of them, in a kind of alcove. He went to the door she’d come out of. The light was on, and the bed was empty. And by the look of it, she’d been sleeping in it alone. He went to the second door, moving so as to keep an eye on her while he groped for the door and slammed it open. The room was in darkness. He felt around with his hand on the wall and found a switch. The room had a desk, a great big box with a blanket tossed over it, and a four-poster iron bed stripped of sheets and blankets. The closet door was open, and inside it were office supplies. No clothes.
“What’s behind that other door?” he asked.
“It’s the bathroom.”
This was stupid, crazy—was it possible Godwin really wasn’t here?
“You say this is your place.”
“Yes.”
“Where does Godwin live?”
“About five blocks from here.”
“But he owns this building, right?”
“Well, no. I do. And I live in this apartment. Alone. Godwin is my store manager.”
“I’ll kill you if you keep lying to me!” he raged, and pointed the gun at her, with his finger on the trigger.
“What do you want me to say?” she asked, breathless with terror, her eyes enormous in her white face.
“I want you to tell me Godwin owns a store called Crewel World.”
“Godwin owns a store called Crewel World,” she said, as if reciting a lesson—and suddenly he knew that was the lie, that she owned Crewel World, she owned this building, Godwin was a manager, not an owner.
“He lied!” he shouted.
“Who did?” she asked stupidly.
“None of your business! I need to get to Godwin! Now!”
She was near tears, he could see that, which would render her useless to him, so he took a breath and then another, to calm himself. “All right, all right.”
“Do you want me to call him?” she asked.
“Yes!” he said, then, “No, no. He’d call the cops before he came.”
“Yes,” she said, “very likely. He told me he was afraid of you.”
“Well, he should be, setting me up like he did. What did he think I was gonna do? Lay down and take it?”
“I don’t understand. How did he set you up?”
He felt his throat start to close. He was perilously near tears himself. This was not going his way at all. He grabbed for his anger to give him courage. “He framed me! He set me up! He’s the murderer, not me!”
She stared at him. “Godwin—you think Goddy killed Bob Germaine?”
“You’re damn right I do! It won’t be the first time he’s murdered someone!”
Something flickered behind her eyes, and he thought, She thinks I’m crazy. “I’m not crazy! I heard how he killed his lawyer boyfriend and got away with it. He set up someone else to take the fall, and now he’s doing it again!”
“No—” she began.
“Shut up, just shut the hell up!”
“All right,” she said.
He tried to think. What should he do? She was no good. And she knew who he was. Christ, was he going to have to kill her, too?
Twenty-six
“MAY I sit down?” she asked in a humble voice. “My leg is starting to hurt.”
He nearly decided to say no, but his own leg was aching and he wanted to sit down, too, so he said, “Okay, but move slow,” and waved the gun at her to get her started moving—he had taken it back into his good hand.
He watched as she started for the upholstered chair sitting at a right angle to the couch. Then he saw the big soft bag in a wooden frame beside the chair and called, “Hold it!” She froze. “On the couch, on the couch!” he ordered. Because who knew what she had in that bag?
“All right.” She went to the far end of the couch and sat down heavily. The cat, which had jumped down and gone somewhere when she turned on the light, reappeared and jumped back up to lie down beside her, reaching with a forepaw to touch her on the leg. She stroked it once, then looked at him, and put both her hands in her lap. Being the good little girl, he thought with cruel satisfaction.
He moved to the chair himself and sat down in it, easing his own leg. He’d banged it around some getting in and out of the stolen car and climbing the stairs, and it was really hurting. His arm was, too. He wondered if she had any painkillers. Probably, they gave girls medicine more often than boys, even though they needed it less. Probably something better than his damn no-good Vicodin.
But if he took one of hers, he might be slowed down to a dangerous degree. He was already having trouble holding on to the high his rage at this Godwin person had produced. What if he got so relaxed she figured she could charge him and take the gun? That was so alarming a thought that he stirred himself to talk, asking, “Who lives in the other apartments?”
“Doris Valentine lives in one, the other is empty right now.”
That answer came with a convincing carelessness. He tried to think how to get Godwin over here. If he asked her to phone him and tell him to come over, Godwin would want to know why, and even if she told some kind of story, he might not believe her—after all, it was a scary hour of the morning; there probably wasn’t much she could say that he would believe—and if he didn’t believe her, he might call the police. I’ll ask her for his address, he thought. But then he’d have to leave her here. He couldn’t tie her u
p, not with only one hand. And the woman across the hall might hear him if he shot her. Damn, this was stupid, this was ridiculous!
Without conscious thought, his left hand went to the necklace. Though he’d only owned the thing for a couple of hours, it felt as if it had always been his, soothing his stress with its texture moving under his fingers. And soothing his stress helped him think.
“Who told you Godwin lived here?” He started at her voice.
“What’s it to you?”
“I just wondered why someone would lie to you like that.”
“It was a fellow named Travis,” he said, because he was angry with him and so didn’t mind naming him.
“Travis Dash?”
“You know him?” Good!
“I’ve heard of him. I think I’ve even met him once. He and Goddy know each other. But he knows Goddy doesn’t own Crewel World.”
“But he said…he said…” Tony was trying to think of what Travis said. “He said Goddy—he calls him Goddy, too—he said Goddy ran a booth at that embroidery convention and made lot of money.”
“That’s true. He had to run it because I was in the hospital with a broken leg.”
“So he was there, at the convention.”
“Yes, of course.”
“So he’s the one who murdered Germaine.”
“No, of course he isn’t!”
“Well, then, who did?”
She looked frightened at the question.
“See? You think so, too!”
“No, I think you did.”
“No, I didn’t!” he shouted.
“Well, Goddy didn’t, either,” she said in a very humble voice.
“How do you know that?”
“Because he wouldn’t. And anyway, he saw the man who murdered Bob walking out of the banquet hall,” she said.
“Germaine was murdered in the banquet room?”
“No, out in the parking garage.”
Tony blinked at her. Echoing voices, a smell like automobile tires…Was that a memory? “I didn’t,” he said. “I couldn’t’ve.”
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