by David Linzee
“I’m free to go, then?”
“It’s the doctors holding you, not the police. I’m just here to inform you about the crime scene. Out of respect.”
“Respect?”
“Yes. Your brother is a sleazebag. Lombardo is a pain, like all reporters. But you’re a gutsy lady.”
“Mr. Muldaur, sucking up to me isn’t going to be productive. I have no information about Don’s whereabouts.”
“You sure? I wish you’d give it some more thought. We’re looking for him a lot harder now. You know why?”
“They’ve given me painkillers. Maybe that’s why I’m having a hard time following you.”
“The crime scene team found traces of accelerant.”
“You mean the fire was set?”
“Yes. Presumably to destroy evidence. But Joel Rubinstein called it in right away and the fire department got there fast. Saved the building. Preserved much of the evidence. We’re pretty sure we have the murder weapon.”
Renata pulled herself upright.
“It’s a long kitchen knife. The wooden handle was mostly burned off. There’s blood on the blade. On the kitchen counter, we found a wooden block, scorched but intact. It’s a knife holder. There are five knives and six slots. The empty slot fits the blade of the murder weapon. Does that suggest anything to you?”
She shook her head.
Muldaur took a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket and began to put them on. “We know the victim was Mr. Radleigh’s girlfriend. It would be a natural assumption for you to make, that he was hiding out with her.”
“She was his girlfriend, yes. I had no reason to think he was there last night,” Renata lied blandly.
Muldaur picked up the plastic bag and opened it. She smelled smoke. He pulled out a tan trench coat, heavily smoke-stained, with one sleeve half burned away. “This was hanging on a hook in the foyer. Is it your brother’s?”
“He has a tan trench coat. I don’t know if that’s it.”
“This one has a tag that says Burberry, Regent Street, London. That narrow it down any?”
She shrugged.
“How about this?” He opened the coat and held it out to her. Don’s monogram was sewn into the plaid lining.
She said, “Those are his initials, but you don’t need me to tell you that.”
“No. We don’t.” He put the coat back in the bag and peeled off the gloves. “Any idea why he went back to Parkdale? Kind of a strange thing for him to do.”
“No idea.”
“But you knew to go there to look for him.”
“I just couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.”
Muldaur smiled thinly. “Based on your non-answers, I think you already know what we think happened. Radleigh was on foot in Parkdale. Bad place to be. He needed somewhere to hide. He knocked on Hannah’s door. She opened it to speak to him, but he couldn’t convince her to let him in. So he pushed his way in. She fought him. He saw the knives on the counter, and—”
“My brother did not kill Hannah.”
Muldaur gazed at her for a while. It was acutely uncomfortable. “You know, Ms. Radleigh? I’m not a cop anymore. That means I no longer have to do parts of the job I hated. Like convince a good woman that her lover or son or brother is a bad man. But think about it.”
He picked up the plastic bag and went out the door.
* * *
Renata stepped through the door into the waiting area where Peter had been sitting for what seemed like most of his life. She had changed into the fresh clothes he had brought, but the bandaged left hand and bloodshot eyes spoke of her ordeal. He planted his cane and rose as she moved gingerly toward him. Her eyebrows rose questioningly as she looked into his eyes.
“Can’t muster a smile?” she asked.
“I’ve had a hard night. Sounds ridiculous, saying that to you. But it’s true.”
“I’m sorry, love.”
They embraced. Her hair smelled of smoke. He moved to put her on his left side—the side with the uninjured leg—and she took his arm and leaned on him. He leaned on his cane, and they set out, slowly and carefully. The automatic doors swished open on a cold, gray dawn.
“I do hope you’ve brought a car.”
“The one you rented. I found it in Parkdale. It’s okay except for a broken window.”
“You’ve been to Parkdale?”
“It made a change from sitting in the waiting room.”
They reached the car, parked on the side of the wide, nearly empty street. Peter settled her carefully against a fender while he brushed broken glass from the passenger seat. Then he helped her in. She drew in her breath sharply when she saw the umbrella stand from Don’s apartment, lying in the foot well.
“It was at the bottom of the back steps of Don’s building.”
“The passport’s gone, of course.”
“Yes. Don must have taken advantage of the diversion caused by the fire. The cops watching his building were distracted.”
He waited for her to say something, but she did not. He closed the door and went around the car. Settling behind the wheel, he headed for home. Renata still kept silent. He glanced at her. She had her eyes closed against the cold air rushing through the broken window. He asked the question.
“Did you tell the police about the passport?”
“No. It would have been pointless, since I don’t remember what name was in it.”
“I do. It was—”
“No, you don’t.”
“Oh.”
“I’m not going to help them catch him for killing Hannah, because he didn’t do it.”
“You know who did?”
“I caught a glimpse of him fleeing the scene. Flathead.”
“The man who chased you along the canal? He was here?”
“His employer can afford plane tickets for his hirelings. And this was the same sort of job. I mean Don was in the same sort of position as Flathead’s mate, who fell in the canal. He was in trouble. Likely to be caught by the police. It was necessary to make sure he wouldn’t tell them anything. Particularly who he was working for.”
“What do you think happened in Hannah’s apartment?”
“The kitchen door was open when I got there. Flathead must have talked his way in. All he had to say was that their boss had sent him to help Don. Flathead killed Hannah first. Maybe she got suspicious. Maybe not. Even if she didn’t put up a fight, she was a witness and he had to kill her. I can’t be sure how it happened. But I know exactly what happened next.”
He glanced over. She was blinking in the wind and tears were running down her cheeks. He said, “Do you want me to pull over? You’d be more comfortable in the back.”
“I don’t want to be comfortable. Do you remember, when we went to see Hannah the morning after I arrived, the key was in her front door lock?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“I did, because I have the same sort of deadbolt lock, and I leave the key in it too, so I can get out in case there’s a fire. Well, last night there was a fire. I wanted to get out the front door. But the key was gone. Don had taken it.”
“I don’t follow.”
She folded her arms and bowed her head. “Hannah bought him a few precious seconds. While Flathead was cutting her throat, he beat a retreat. He saw the key in the lock and realized it was his chance. He unlocked the door, took the key, stepped through, and locked it again. Flathead was locked in. He would have to go through the apartment, down the back steps, and around the building, giving Don time to run away. Lose himself in the darkness.”
“Flathead must have seen right away it was hopeless. He gave up the chase and set fire to the apartment to destroy the evidence.”
“Yes.”
Peter pulled up in front of his building and switched off the engine. Renata picked up the umbrella stand but made no move to open the door.
“Let’s go inside. Warm you up.”
“No. Let’s finish this.” She dried her tears on her sleeve. “We
can assume Don is on a plane now. He’s fleeing to … I don’t know. Buenos Aires? Sydney? Somewhere he hopes neither the police nor his former employer will be able to find him.”
“If he’s in the air now, the cops might still be able to nab him, if we give them the name on the passport.”
“He’s not a murderer,” Renata insisted again.
“No, but he is a liar and coward, and has probably committed other crimes we haven’t found out about yet. Not the sort of person I would normally commit the felony of withholding evidence for.”
“I’m so sorry you got dragged into this.”
“I’m sorry you got dragged into it. He has almost gotten you killed twice. I’m keeping count.”
She looked away. He suspected the tears were flowing again and she didn’t want him to see. “I’m such a pessimist about most things. But I have these two fond illusions—that I still have a career as an opera singer, and that Don is not as bad as he looks. I’ve caused you so much worry. I don’t blame you for being angry with me.” She was sobbing now. She got out a handkerchief and blew her nose. She folded it away quickly, but not before he saw that her mucus was spotted black from the smoke she had inhaled.
Peter felt awful. He said, “I’m not angry at you. I’m angry at Don.”
“So am I. But it’s a waste of emotion. We’ll never hear from him or of him again.” She set the umbrella stand upright in her lap. “How nice of him to leave the family heirloom to remember him by.”
“What do we do now?”
“You rest your leg and recover. I go home.”
“London?”
“Yes. I’ll do what I can to clean up the mess Don has left behind. Go to Detective Inspector McAllister and see if he’s made any progress with his investigation of Neal Marsh’s death. And the man in the canal, the one Flathead shot. Tell McAllister all I know and all I suspect. Except about the passport, of course.”
“All right. I’m going with you.”
“My love, I’ll be perfectly safe. I’m putting this in official hands. The police will protect me if I need protection.”
“Forget it. I let you out of my sight for one evening and you run into a burning building. I’m going with you.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
There was a television at the gate in Lambert-St. Louis Airport, tuned to CNN. Waiting to board, they learned that Sheikh Abdullah and his entourage had taken off in their private jet late last night. University spokesman Roger Merck said that plans for the Kutar Campus were on hold indefinitely.
Peter was reminded to send Roger a text message, saying that he couldn't continue his PR assignment because his leg was too painful. He was surprised to receive a reply text immediately. Roger sympathized and promised to pay Peter anyway. The associate deputy vice chancellor was an awfully nice man.
There was a television at the gate in JFK, too, and they heard that the Board of Trustees of Adams University had met in emergency session. Their chairman announced the appointment of an interim chancellor. They had accepted the resignation of Philip G. Reeve. They did not add “reluctantly.” The correspondent said Reeve could not be reached for comment; according to his representative, he had gone to his winter home near Pensacola for a rest.
As their plane set off across the Atlantic, Peter, who had not slept at all the previous night, dropped off, disloyally leaving Renata, an anxious flier, to sit wide-eyed and upright. He did not wake until the wheels hit the runway at Heathrow. They taxied for a long time, passing lumbering, enormous planes just arrived from or about to set off for the ends of the earth. Peter gaped through the window at the stylized kangaroo of Qantas, the swirling golden Arabic letters of Etihad, the red and blue fish, or whatever it was, of Malaysia Airlines. “I’ve a feeling we’re not in Missouri anymore,” he murmured.
At passport control they separated, Renata to the “European Union” line and Peter to “All Others.” His line was longer, and by the time he emerged, she had telephoned Detective Inspector McAllister. He had identified the corpse from the canal. Orangefoot’s real name was James Bartleby. He was a villain well known to police. In Britain, Peter now learned, they actually called the bad guys “villains.” But no leads had yet been found to his current employer or his accomplices. Renata wanted to come in and talk to him immediately, but he said tomorrow would be better. Peter remembered reading somewhere that the wheels of British justice ground exceedingly slowly.
Peter refused a wheelchair, which was a mistake. After walking down endless corridors, his ankle was throbbing. He leaned on Renata as they staggered to the curb and entered one of the big, black, comfortable taxis of song and story. She said that it was the first time she’d taken a cab home from the airport in ten years, and when he saw the final figure on the meter, he knew why.
They walked to one in a long line of identical row houses—a terrace, Renata called it—with bay windows and steep stairs up to a door flanked by columns. A low iron fence separated the sidewalk from what Renata called the “area.” The neighbors had brightened up their areas with colorful tiles and potted plants, but Renata and her roommates had only litter blown in from the street decorating theirs.
“This is a nice neighborhood,” he said. “I thought you said your place was more depressing than mine.”
“I pay six times as much rent as you. That’s the depressing bit. But it’s nice coming home with you.”
“Will I get to meet any of your roommates?”
“Not sure if anyone is home.”
They went under the front steps to the door of the basement flat. She unlocked the door and pushed. She had to put her shoulder into it. When they stepped into the dim, narrow corridor, he saw why. A mound of mail was behind the door.
“Several days’ worth,” she said. “No one’s here.”
They gathered the mail. It was a complicated operation, because Renata’s bandaged left hand was fairly useless and Peter couldn’t lower himself to the floor. They were laughing by the time they got the mail to the kitchen table. He looked around the room and recognized it from Skype.
“All junk as usual,” she said. “No, hang on, here’s an actual letter.”
He looked at the envelope in her hands. It was addressed in handwritten block capitals. She took a kitchen knife and slit it open. There was one piece of paper, which had on it only:
DANGLY FOOT
YR AGE ZAUBER
50
Renata had gone perfectly still. He said, “What?”
“It’s from Don. Couldn’t be anyone else. He’s writing in Radleigh family code.”
“What’s it mean?”
“I’m not sure. But I recognize the references.”
Peter picked up the envelope. “Postmarked London yesterday.”
“But he could have gone anywhere in the world. Why is he here?”
“It’s pretty obvious,” Peter said. “He decided not to run.”
She looked at him, then back at the paper. After a moment she said, “It’s a rendezvous. He’s asking us to meet him. What’s the time?”
“Eleven thirty.”
“We have to go now.”
Half an hour later they were walking in Hyde Park, along a straight path lined with tall, bare trees. A bitter wind was sweeping across the flat expanse of parkland, but the sky was blue and the grass all but glowed green.
“Am I holding you up?” Peter asked. “You can go ahead.”
“Not, it’s all right. He’s not there yet.”
“Ah. That’s the rendezvous?”
“That’s Dangly Foot. Known to the rest of the world as Physical Energy by G.F. Watt.”
At an intersection of paths ahead stood an equestrian statue. A naked man, hand to brow, sat leaning back and scanning the horizon atop a prancing horse. He had a saddle but no stirrups. His bare feet pointed to the ground.
“Don was quite the equestrian when he was a boy. Used to rail against Mr. Watts for forgetting to put in the stirrups.”
“I see. And YR AGE ZAUBER?”
“When I was twelve my parents took us to see The Magic Flute. Die Zauberflöte. My first opera.”
“And that’s memorable because it was when you decided to be an opera singer?”
“No. I was a veteran, committed pianist. Didn’t like the opera at all. I was bored and restless. Don was a little saint, our parents said. It was usually the other way round.”
“So we’re meeting Don at twelve?”
“Yes, but he’s late.”
People were streaming past the statue, but no one was lingering: mothers wheeling prams, joggers, parties of tourists gawking and taking pictures, lone, briskly striding men with backpacks.
“Is this typical?’ Peter asked. “I mean, in St. Louis there’s hardly anybody in the park on a weekday.”
“London’s chock-full of people, my love. You’ll have to get used to it.”
Peter put his back to the base of the statue and shifted his weight off his bad leg. Renata was too keyed up to stay still. She paced, looking up the paths in all directions, trying to spot Don. Minutes crawled past.
“What does ‘50’ mean?” Peter asked.
“Haven’t got that yet. Been ransacking my memory.”
“Maybe he meant he’ll be here at fifty minutes past twelve.”
“I hope so. I simply won’t be able to bear it if he does a bunk.”
“He’s wary. Obviously. Sending you a letter in code rather than a text message. Why do you think—”
“Peter, I’m too nervous to think.”
She continued to pace and scan the faces of approaching people. One had windswept hair, thin face, orange vest over greasy anorak. A homeless man selling the Big Issue. “Oh lord,” she whispered to Peter. “They never fail to glom onto me. Some days I buy five copies.” As he drew near she sighed and smiled. “I’ll take one, please.”
He said, “Renata?”
“What?”
“Got something for you.”
“Oh. You mean … a man gave you something to give to me? When?”
“Yesterday. But I didn’t lose it.” His voice rose and his eyes widened. He must have spent the last twenty-four hours worrying about losing it. “Be out a hundred pounds if I lost it, wouldn’t I? The man said you’d give me a hundred pounds.”