‘Dr Paul Sanger?’ Malcolm said.
‘Yes. Malcolm MacGregor, I assume.’ He smiled, shook Malcolm’s hand and sat down beside him. ‘Excuse me if I eat lunch. I only have half an hour.’ He opened the bag. The pungent smell of tuna fish wafted over.
‘It’s terrible about Wes and Carrie. But you mention gun control in this state, and everyone gets up in arms, ha ha.’ He paused. ‘Sorry. Stupid, terrible joke. Or was it a joke? I’m not sure.’ He took a few bites of his sandwich.
After a moment or so he said, ‘Sweet Rose. So, how’s she doing?’
‘Very sad.’
He nodded. ‘I can imagine. Carrie and Rose were pretty close. And how do you know Rose?’
Malcolm explained. He explained at great length: he described Chico and his grieving sister Lupita, he explained the circumstance of the murders and his thoughts on the matter as a police officer. It seemed the best way to gain support, sympathy, the man being a doctor and all.
‘Huh.’ Dr Sanger looked away, at some spot to the left of Malcolm’s shoulder, as if there were something there of great interest. A large bird, maybe? Or a beautiful woman? Malcolm turned his head, looked too, but saw nothing in particular.
‘Well,’ said Dr Sanger after a while, ‘it’s plausible what you’re saying about this Chico, about everything. I just don’t know. Like Rose, I feel very sad. I hadn’t seen Wes and Carrie for quite a while. They were planning to stop by to see me, after Dudley, then—’ He stopped, shrugged.
‘What about Polly? Were they going to see her?’
Dr Sanger gave him a look. ‘No, but leave Polly out of this, all right?’
‘Why is that?’
‘Surely Rose told you they were estranged.’
‘I know Polly didn’t like Carrie. But how estranged exactly were they?’
‘No, no, no.’ Dr Sanger shook his head vehemently. ‘We’re not going there. Please. Polly’s a good person who’s been hurt. She loved her mother dearly, and Carrie—’ He shrugged.
‘Drugs? Could they have had some involvement with drugs?’
He laughed. ‘I don’t know what Wes and Carrie were doing with their lives, but I’m pretty sure it had nothing to do with drugs.’ He sighed. ‘I just can’t imagine them getting murdered. For God’s sake, who would do it? It has to have been a mistake.’
‘What were they like, as people? Was Wes combative, argumentative? Did he make enemies easily?’
‘No, no. He was pretty mellow. Good athlete in high school. And Carrie—’ He sighed again.
‘What about her?’
‘She was very beautiful in high school.’
‘Like how? Seductive?’
‘You could say that. I don’t know if it was intentional, but she came across as seductive and withholding. You know. I have to admit back then I had a big crush on her. We all did. She had several long-term relationships, I understand, but I’d moved away by then and didn’t keep track. She never married until Wes … And I think she really loved him. I know she did.’
‘They lived so far away from here,’ said Malcolm. ‘So far you’re the only person connected to them who’s shown an interest in actively following the case.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that I saw you in the courtroom at the release hearing. Not that I would have recognized you if I saw you on the street, what with those new glasses.’
Dr Sanger laughed politely, the way people do when you make a joke they don’t get but don’t want to hurt your feelings. ‘What new glasses,’ he said, ‘and what release hearing?’
‘Chico’s, of course.’
‘I never went to any hearing for Chico. Why would you think I did?’ asked Dr Sanger.
Malcolm was stunned. ‘Because whoever it was gave your name to the security guard.’
‘No shit?’ said Dr Sanger, reverting to high school. ‘That’s weird.’
‘Damn!’ Malcolm said. ‘The glasses. That was all you saw. Big black glasses. Who could it have been, I wonder?’
‘No one I can think of. They were from back east, you know? It might have been, what do you call it, a lookie lou? Wow. You kind of caught me by surprise. I’ll have to think on it.’ He paused, reached in his pocket and handed Malcolm a card. ‘Send me an email at the address on the card, and then I’ll have yours.’
‘Better yet, I’ll give you my card,’ Malcolm said. ‘Just let me know if something comes to mind.’
‘He slept on your couch with a gun?’ said Windsong, his voice hushed as he stood with Kate in the produce section. He dumped a bunch of wilted chard into a bucket.
‘Yes,’ said Kate. ‘I wasn’t scared at all. He’s in Tucson now, but he should be back by the time I get off work here at six. Then we’re going to dinner, then he’s going to burglar-proof the house. Aren’t these—?’
‘What?’
‘The strawberries – they look like the ones I picked up.’
‘No one,’ said Windsong, ‘no one can tell one strawberry from another.’
‘I meant the thingy that they’re in.’
‘They are the same,’ said Windsong. ‘We went through and picked out the good ones that weren’t battered. We sold most of them, but – looks like what’s left will have to go. Unless—’ he grinned, holding one up, browning at the tip – ‘you’d like one as a souvenir.’
God damn it, Malcolm thought as he drove away from the medical complex, I didn’t notice, I didn’t really look at the man who called himself Paul Sanger. I only saw his glasses, and I’m a cop, goddamn it. Who the hell was he, then?
He stopped at a fast food place, then changed his mind and went to a Mexican restaurant instead. He had time before he had to drive back to Dudley where he was supposed to meet with Kate at her house after she got off work. The restaurant had been recommended to him by Lupita – if you’re ever in Tucson, she’d said, weeks ago.
God, Lupita, Chico. It was such a lame case against him, but proving motive was not a requirement in a trial, and there was still the cold hard fact of him holding the gun that did it. He didn’t buy it, but a jury might. And maybe Chico was better at handling a gun than anyone knew; maybe he’d had training, even – from, say, a drug cartel? And maybe he was a psychopath – hey, people were. Psychopaths could be good at seeming normal, sometimes even better than normal people.
And where the hell was Chico, anyway?
Malcolm sat in a black leather booth at the restaurant and ordered two green chili burritos, refried beans and fries, thinking, while he waited, about Wes and Carrie and their blameless lives. He knew better than that – no one’s life was blameless – but still it seemed to him now that the murders must have been a case of mistaken identity, the wrong couple shot.
Which meant there would be no clues, no leads contained in the lives of the victims.
Then Kate – who was after Kate? He could see no connection between Kate and the Coopers. He’d had hopes about Hairy Lite, but not so much any more. Though, of course, you never knew. And that empty house bit – too bizarre. She had that ex in Vermont, maybe mad at her, but why? He’d cheated on her. Or so Kate said. Was Kate being straight with him?
Maybe there were things in her life she didn’t want anyone to know about. The kind of things that get someone killed. Like what? What, what? His brain felt numb with thinking. Let it go. Let it go. It was his experience that answers often came when you stopped asking questions.
The order came. Excellent, down to the greasy as all hell fries. On impulse he called Kate’s cell. He knew she kept it off when she was at work, but just in case. Just to tell her what he’d found out – nothing. Just to hear the sound of her voice. To make sure she was still alive.
He got her voicemail, didn’t bother leaving a message.
He had the card for the real estate guy back in Jersey who was managing the house on Roscommon Drive, so maybe when he got back in town he would be helpful. The other real estate agent had said: what? He couldn’t remember exactly
, but soon. He should be back soon, maybe, even now. Yeah, sure, maybe he was back now. Maybe, maybe, maybe – what the hell. He pulled the card and punched in the real estate guy’s number.
A woman answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Steve Anderson? Is he there?’
‘This is his wife. Is this a client?’
‘No. I had some question about a house he’s showing, and—’
‘I just asked if you were client,’ she said. ‘It sounds to me like you are. Look, he’s been doing a lot of traveling, and he’s exhausted. He fell asleep on the couch, and I answered his cell. Can’t this wait? He’ll be back in his office tomorrow.’
‘Yes,’ said Malcolm. ‘It can wait. Thank you.’
He finished his lunch, left the restaurant, got in his truck and sat in the parking lot for a few minutes, staring out at the red and green Dos Equus sign in the window of the restaurant. The real estate guy had actually met this other guy who’d probably stolen the key and left it for Kate. Steve Anderson could be the key to figuring out this empty house thing. He sat, wondering just how to handle Steve when he talked to him. He didn’t want him to freak out or close down. It was hard on a phone; you didn’t have as much subliminal information.
Then he started up the truck and got on Oracle, headed for the freeway, feeling a bit of semi-euphoria from eating good Mexican food and the fact he would be talking to a new lead tomorrow. A busy man with a life. But at the same time he kept thinking that something had to start making sense pretty soon, didn’t it?
More and more he had the feeling that he was missing the big picture – and it had nothing to do with either Harry Light or Chico. Right now it looked like talking to this realtor was maybe his best bet, but you could never—
And who the hell was the guy in the Buddy Holly glasses?
Thinking so hard, he didn’t even notice the guy who ran the red light, the guy in the battered pickup that was coming right at him. Then he did notice, enough to turn the wheel, but too late.
Kate drove to work that day, and around four she made a quick run to the post office – she hadn’t checked her mail since she’d been back. Her box was jammed full, and they’d saved the rest in a box. She went back to work leaving the box on the passenger seat, and it was still there when she stopped off at the Circle K before she went home after work to gas up her car. She hadn’t had the energy to go look through it; it was mostly catalogs, anyway.
After she gassed up her car at the Circle K she went inside to pick up some Sam Adams beer. It was the least she could do. When Malcolm got to her house, if he wasn’t there already – she’d left it unlocked for him – it would be nice to be able to offer him a beer. And she had a pretty good quality frozen pizza in her freezer if it came to that. Or they might even go out to eat.
Back in her car she checked her cell. It looked like he’d called, but he hadn’t left a message. She didn’t see his truck parked anywhere when she drove to her house, just a gray Volvo parked on the street in front, maybe someone visiting her neighbor Estelle. Malcolm had probably stopped off somewhere to pick up some Sam Adams. She giggled. He would be there soon, she knew, because he’d planned to talk to Dr Sanger at lunchtime, which gave him plenty of time for the two-hour drive back.
She pulled into the carport, got out of the car, carrying the six pack of Sam Adams, went inside and put the beer in the refrigerator. She checked the freezer to make sure the frozen pizza was actually there. She’d left her cellphone in the car, and she was just heading out to get it and the box of mail when she noticed the door that led out to the porch was wide open.
Great. Malcolm was already here. He must have left his truck at his house and walked over.
She headed for the porch. ‘Hey,’ she said, on her way out there. ‘How was Dr—?’ She stopped.
A man in a baseball cap was sitting on one of the porch chairs, feet up on the railing as if he owned the place, but it wasn’t Malcolm.
For a moment she got very still inside. She saw the yard beyond the porch in a strangely vivid way, the patch of grass browning.
‘Hi, Kate,’ said Harry Light. ‘Your door wasn’t locked, so I just came in. Good to see you – it’s been a while, hasn’t it?’
THIRTY-SIX
‘What are you doing here?’ Kate asked.
‘Don’t be mad.’ Harry Light stood up.
Kate backed away.
‘Hey, hey, hey.’ Harry held his hands out, palms up, as if to show he had no concealed weapons.
But, thought Kate, he could have that gun. It could be – where? Waistband of his pants? That’s where they carried them in movies.
‘Where are you going?’ Harry said.
The porch wasn’t visible from the street. Seeing him here right in front of her, he wasn’t exactly formidable to look at – dressed in khaki shorts that showed off his knobby knees, wire-rimmed glasses – a poet, not what you’d call a man of steel. The baseball cap was because he was getting bald. Or balder. He always worried about that.
Maybe he was even completely bald already, the process sped up from the stress of it all. Good. She hoped so. How could I have run off with him, she wondered. How could I?
‘You had a gun,’ said Kate, ‘in the bedside chest of drawers.’
‘Jesus Christ, that thing? It’s still there, and it’s not even loaded. It’s for just in case someone breaks in. I can wave it around and scare them away.’
‘Lift up your shirt and turn around.’
He did; there was nothing there.
‘My friend Malcolm should be here any minute,’ she said. And it was true, he should be.
‘Malcolm,’ Harry said politely.
‘Malcolm MacGregor. He’s a cop,’ she added pointedly.
‘Malcolm, Malcolm. Sure. I know about him. Anna Marie’s mom told me. He seems like a good guy from what she told me. Like I said, don’t be mad. You can’t still be mad. I couldn’t believe you left like that, without any explanation. What did I do? What was the finishing blow, anyway?’
‘Hard to say,’ Kate said. ‘There were so many.’
‘Besides, come to think of it, I’m the one who should be mad. We could have sat down together and talked about whatever it was that was bothering you.’
‘Whatever it was? It was your silent rage. We were supposed to discuss your silent rage in a rational manner? Rage lurking under the surface, just waiting for a reason to come out. Restaurants were the worst, as I recall. I left you right after a restaurant episode. One of too many.’
‘Restaurant episodes?’ Harry wrinkled his brow theatrically. ‘I don’t know no restaurant episodes.’ He grinned.
‘It’s not funny,’ Kate said. She glanced at her watch. Surely Malcolm should be back by now.
‘Oh no,’ said Harry, with false concern. ‘Is your friend late? I hope he’s not hooking up with—’
‘Why don’t you just shut up,’ said Kate in a rage. ‘I’d really like you to leave, Harry. I don’t know why you came here. In fact, I’m leaving myself.’
She went down the porch steps and around to the side, heading for her car. She needed her cellphone, and that’s where it was, in her car.
‘Wait,’ said Harry, following behind. ‘Wait, please, Kate. You’re right, okay? You should have left me, I’ve always understood that underneath, but I’ve never wanted to accept it, what a jerk I was.’
Kate stopped.
Harry took off his baseball cap, not totally bald yet, put it back on. ‘If it makes any difference, it wasn’t really me who was acting like that. It was the medication I was taking. It was an antidepressant.’
‘You think that absolves you? Bullshit.’
‘It screwed me up. I’m off it now, okay? I’m on this other one that’s much better.’ There was a pause. ‘Jesus, Kate. Half the country’s on antidepressants. I’ve been depressed my entire life. After all, I am a poet.’
Suddenly, Kate had a picture of Harry when she’d first met him, at the poetry seminar, talking
about his poetry and what it meant to be a poet. He was so vibrant, alive, wearing a brilliant Hawaiian shirt (in Vermont!) printed with parrots and palm leaves. At the end he’d raised his fist to the crowd of mostly women and shouted, ‘Duende!!’
Vaguely now she remembered what had attracted her to him, some sense he held a truth, though about what she still didn’t really know.
‘You are so full of it,’ Kate said.
‘Your leaving,’ Harry said, ‘made me think a lot. About who I was, how I treated people. It led to my helping Anna Marie. It was a big deal for me, you know. My livelihood could have been at risk if the rumors abut her disappearance got too bad.’
‘But you can’t fire people for rumors.’
‘I operate on grants, seminars, that kind of thing,’ he mused. ‘But nothing happened. I was still in demand. Who knows? Maybe it added a little bit of danger to my image. Anyway, you probably won’t believe this, but I’ve never had sex with Anna Marie. And she’s a beautiful girl. It was a completely innocent act, my helping her.’
There was a silence.
‘Anna Marie likes you a lot, Kate. She thinks you’re great. You can trust me. Anna Marie did, and look, look, I saved her. I saved Anna Marie.’
‘Okay,’ said Kate begrudgingly. ‘You saved Anna Marie.’
‘All I want to do now is make it up to you, the way I behaved. Let me take you out to dinner, Kate, okay? Please. And your friend too, if he ever shows up. Leave him a note. We can walk down there now. Cafe Roka – I checked around – it’s the best restaurant in town.’
There was a gray Volvo parked in front of Kate’s when Malcolm, head bandaged, parked his truck on the street just down from her house and walked up to her carport. After he was hit by the other pickup truck and had to go to the emergency room – head wounds bled a lot – to be treated and had dealt with the other guy’s insurance etc. It got later and later. He’d called her, but no one answered. He left a message and drove on back. At the Sierra Vista turn-off he called her again, but still no answer. Strange.
Empty Houses Page 20