The old furnace had been ripped out and carted away. I stared at the empty space and decided that it made no sense. Why would Lauren have installed two CO detectors in her basement? And why would one, the presumably more reliable one, be unplugged?
I climbed the stairs and went into the kitchen, picked up the phone, and called the hospital again. Lauren answered her own phone this time, the sound of her tired voice stirred me.
"Sweets, it's me. How are you doing?"
"Still a little foggy. But okay. Where's Emily? How is she?"
"Great, they love her at the vet hospital, they're threatening not to give her back to us."
She laughed gently. "You're pretty tired still?" I asked.
"Yes. I just woke up and I'm ready to go back to sleep."
"I wanted to remind you that you're due for Avonex tomorrow. You remember? I'll bring it down when I come to visit so that they can give it to you."
"Thanks," she said, she admitted, "I'd forgotten all about it."
I tried to be reassuring. "It's okay. It'll take a few days for you to sort everything out. Listen. I've been trying to make some sense of all the carbon monoxide detectors you have in the basement of the house on the Hill, there were two of them down there. Why?"
She didn't hesitate before responding. "That all happened about six months ago. I think. My tenant— remember Suzanne?— she asked me to put one in for her. I did. I originally got the battery-operated kind but when I tried to hang it on the wall. I didn't hammer in the nail hard enough and it fell off the wall and dropped and fell behind the furnace. I couldn't get back there to get it out. It was kind of stuck. I didn't know whether it was still working or not and I knew I'd never be able to change the batteries, so I went back to McGuckin and bought another one, one I could plug in. I’ve been wondering why it didn't warn me earlier, you know? Why it wasn't screaming at me when there was so much poison in the house."
I didn't tell her that it hadn't warned her becausa someone had unplugged it. I said. "We're all trying to figure that out. Scott Malloy is all over it, has somebody checking the old furnace, and Sam is making sure nobody misses anything important. I have a new furnace going in tomorrow. You get some rest. I'll see you sometime tomorrow. I love you."
I hung up, wondering about the state of Lauren's memory: gratified that she remembered the history of the carbon monoxide detectors, and ambivalent about the fact that she didn't show any indication that she felt that the CO poisoning might have been attempted murder, she actually didn't even seem to recall the whole series of events that had followed Arnie Dresser's funeral.
Briefly, I envied her that.
I finally made my way to the bedroom to pick out some clothes that were not only warm but also appropriate for work the next day, the room was freezing. I toyed with the idea of collecting every blanket, comforter, and sleeping bag I could find in the house and burying myself under them so I could sleep in our bed.
I talked myself out of it. Instead. I packed up some more clothes and grabbed my appointment book and briefcase before I began searching the house for something else, the first place I tried was Lauren's little office. I had no success. I tracked down her briefcase, which was locked. I shook it gingerly and decided that what I was looking for wasn't there, her purse was hanging on a chair in the kitchen. Nope. Finally, I found it in the little leather ass-pack she carries to the health club when she works out.
The Glock.
Damn, but the thing was heavy.
The first place I tried to stash it was my jacket pocket, but its heft totally distorted the shape of my coat. It felt way too obvious having it there. Next, I gingerly hooked it into the waistband of my trousers but immediately became uncomfortable at the general direction that the barrel was pointing, so I pulled it back out of my pants and stuffed it into the bottom of the little carry-on that I'd packed full of my clothing, after one last look around, I locked up the house and hopped back into my car with the knowledge that I was now officially carrying a concealed weapon. I felt fully the burden of being a felon, my eyes as much on the rearview mirror as they were on the road as I drove the dozen or so blocks to the hotel.
I had to admit, though, that the presence, close by, of that hunk of metal was just the slightest bit comforting. I puzzled over the question of whether that comfort index would increase or decrease once I actually figured out how to use the damn gun.
Parents' weekend at CU was over and the young assistant manager at the desk of the Boulderado seemed delighted to rent me a room for the night, we wasted a little too much energy haggling over price, however. I suggested to him that at the rate he initially quoted me. I'd just as soon stay at the Golden Buff on Canyon Boulevard, we both knew that his occupancy wasn't hovering particularly close to one hundred percent, and he came around to my way of thinking relatively quickly, he even feigned graciousness about offering the lower figure.
I was aware the whole time that I had a loaded 9mm semiautomatic in my luggage and wondered, of course, if it was the Glock, and not I, that had been doing the negotiating.
The thought reminded me of a conversation I'd once had during therapy, when I inquired of one of my patients what heroin was like, he warned me that horse was "so good you should never try it."
I considered the possibility that possessing a handgun was somewhat like tasting heroin. Both were artificial comforts that temporarily and unreasonably increased one's sense of well-being. Was the sense of comfort of possessing a pistol "so good" I should never have tried it?
Time would tell.
I found my hotel room, a nondescript little place on
the second floor that had a stunning view of the alley. In a lesser town, that might have meant overlooking filth and mayhem. But downtown Boulder has great alleys. Neat, well lit, and paved with concrete, the choice of rooms was the assistant manager's petty revenge, I decided. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and decided to leave the Glock in my bag while I made my way up to the Mezzanine Lounge for a drink or two.
The mime was on duty again.
Before sitting down I scouted for a location in the expansive lounge that wasn't her responsibility. But since the Broncos were playing a Sunday night game and this wasn't a sports bar she was the only waiter working the floor.
She remembered me. Instantly, I regretted leaving her such a healthy tip the last time I was in, she waved hello from across the mezzanine with that annoying arm-bent-shoulders-and-head-swaying gesture that only a mime would dare employ. I didn't wave back and actually considered fleeing through an exit before she could get all the way around the balcony railing to me.
Before she made it to the table. I heard Sam's voice in my ear. "Don't you find it goofy that these doctors will let me drink beer every day but don't want me to eat a damn hamburger? I find that goofy."
The word "goofy" was part of the residue of his upbringing on Minnesota's Iron Range. Every time he used it, he made me smile. "Hi, bodyguard." I said. "Can I buy you some carrot sticks?"
He sat on the settee across from me and followed my gaze up to the ceiling. "Nice glass," he offered in understatement as the waitress arrived. Naively, he smiled at her in welcome, she rewarded him by doing her mime thing.
He watched her act to its conclusion before he shifted his eyes to me, he stared at me incredulously, as though he'd just somehow stepped into the bar scene from Star Wars and he figured I was the only one who could get him safely back outside, without changing my expression, I ordered vodka and told her I thought that Sam was doing okay with his beer.
She curtsied.
"Don't ask," I said.
"This damn town, I swear,” he muttered, and moved on. "Listen, downstairs? Did I walk in on something hot and heavy with you and Sawyer?"
Sam's perspicacity ambushed me sometimes. "I'd say it was a delicate moment, yeah. But not what you think."
"What do I think?"
"Sam."
"You're not, you know, doing her, are you?"
"Sam." My voice was tired. Tired enough. I hoped, to get him to move in another direction.
"Well, sorry if I intruded. You talk to Lauren tonight?"
"Yeah, She's real tired, which the doctors seem to expect. But she seems okay, her short-term memory has some black holes you could hide a galaxy in, but her thinking in general seems clear."
"Will she get out of the hospital soon?"
"It's day to day."
"Emily?"
"She's good. Making everybody happy at the vet hospital."
"The firefighters told me she did a smart thing, she found the cold-air feed for the furnace and lay down right under it. So she got some fresh air along with the carbon monoxide."
The story made me happy, and I promised myself I'd lighten up on the jokes I frequently made about the size of her brain. I said. "That reminds me. I asked Lauren about the two detectors." I related the explanation of why there were two carbon monoxide detectors in the basement.
"Wow. So the one with the battery that she couldn't reach is the one that saved her life?" He shook his head and smiled. "The best-laid plans, right? The asshole was good this time, alan. Lock on the back door may have been picked, by the way. Furnace may have been tampered with. But you know as well as I do that there's no way in the world we'll get usable prints off of the other carbon monoxide detector, so who can say whether it was unplugged intentionally or not? But the killer didn't know about the other one, the one that fell behind the furnace. Couldn't have, and it's the one that stopped him."
"No leads, though?" I didn't expect any.
"None."
"How are you feeling?" I asked casually.
"Hungry. Other than that, like normal."
"But then normal apparently included a kidney stone the size of Gibraltar, right?"
He took a long swig of beer and then wiped his mustache with a napkin. "Can we talk about something more upbeat than me being in excruciating pain? Like, oh, let's say, the risk of you being murdered?"
"Sure. What do you think about AJ.'s current hypothesis? About there possibly being more than one killer?"
"It's not her hypothesis. It's mine."
"Really? You convinced her of something? She doesn't seem that... ?"
"Malleable. No, she doesn't."
With stealthy silence. Ms. Marceau returned with my drink, she delivered it without affectation. Sam stared at her with marked suspicion, as though he had an inkling she might be about to draw a gun, or break unexpectedly into the I'm-locked-in-a-glass-box routine.
Instead she set her cocktail tray on the table, took two baby steps backward, raised her arms, contorted her face, and tried, rather successfully I must admit, to imitate Edvard Munch's The Scream.
Sam lunged at her and she ran away with exaggerated cat steps. "Can you make her stop?" he implored me.
I shook my head. "You're the cop. Unfortunately, I tipped her well last time I was here. I'm afraid it encouraged her."
"Like feeding a damn raccoon." He belched politely, if that's possible. "Went like this. If this Corey Rand is so good, why throw him away? That's what I was thinking. You like him. Sawyer likes him. I kind of like him. His only problem as a suspect is that he has a damn good alibi for the killings since ‘995."
"Damn good alibi is right. Major problem there, Sam."
"Not if he wasn't in it alone."
"You have an idea about his partner?"
"Not yet. Have you guessed how I got here?"
"Yeah, The change in MO between the early murders and the more recent ones. Sawyer and I have been
theorizing a psychological deterioration. You're just seeing another hand at work. But the motivation doesn't work for me. Who else would have the same motive for the same killings?"
"I don't know. I admit I don't know that yet. But you can't get lost in motivation at the beginning. Think. Did someone have a motive to kill JonBenet? I don't think so, maybe a predilection, perhaps even a need. But a rational motive? You can't start there always. Sometimes motivations are distracting at the front end of an investigation."
"Where to now?"
"I want to meet this boss of Rand's. See if he has a clue about any of this. What's his name?"
"Reggie Loomis."
"I want to meet Reggie Loomis."
"Now?"
"Why not? He's probably home watching the damn football game. I know I wish I was."
"Sam, you don't have to do this. I mean. I'm really grateful, but you should be home with Sherry and Simon, not here with me."
"That's not what I meant."
"Isn't it?"
"So you think Loomis is home."
"I doubt he's watching the football game. Mora likely he's making stock or preparing the dough for tomorrow's breads."
"What?"
"Never mind, you'll see." I threw six dollars on the table without bothering to ask for my tab.
Sam asked. "She won't chase us, will she? Like mimes do sometimes?"
"If she does. Sam, it's fine with me if you shoot her."
"Cool. Do you mind if Sawyer comes along with us to visit Loomis?"
"I guess not. Why?"
"Because I’ve already asked her."
THIRTY-FIVE
I didn't want to be chauffeuring Sawyer and Sam to North Boulder. I wanted to drink another vodka, plot my escape from the mime, retreat to my little hotel room alone, and spend some time pondering Sawyer and what had happened to her daughter. Simone. Sawyer had handed me important pieces to an old, long-incomplete puzzle, and I yearned for an opportunity to spin those pieces around, compare their contours, and see where they might fit on the board.
An unconscious corner of my awareness kept throwing Eleanor Ward's image into the mix, she had been there back then, too, On the unit, at the same time that Corey Rand was a patient.
And Eleanor Ward was the last patient Sawyer discharged before she packed up her things and left Colorado, and me, for good.
In addition. I now knew an additional fact. Eleanor Ward and Sawyer Sackett had both lost infant daughters to traumatic deaths.
Sawyer and Sam were arguing about Sawyer's speculation that a romance was simmering between Milt and A. J.— Sam said no way. Sawyer was totally sure— as I drove the car down North Broadway toward Reggie Loomis's neighborhood. I had enough self-awareness to know that I was confusing my mysteries. Part of me was consumed with understanding what had happened between Sawyer and me way back when, and part of me was consumed with solving the mystery of Corey Rand and his possible participation in these murders.
I reminded myself to try to keep my mysteries straight.
I found it odd, too, that I wished I had Lauren's Glock with me.
Sam took a break from arguing with Sawyer to ask me where Reggie Loomis lived.
"On Fourth, near Juniper."
"Which side?"
"West."
"On the greenbelt?" The edges of the question were gilded with envy.
"Yep."
"Nice neighborhood for a retired government worker."
"It's not one of the scrapes. Sam. It's one of the original houses. Looks like he's lived there forever."
"Still,” he said, he was cooking something up, but as the smell drifted back my way; I couldn't tell what it was.
The front of Reggie's house was dark, but I wasn't dissuaded. Reggie Loomis didn't live for appearances.
Sawyer said. "Looks like no one's home."
"He keeps a low profile. Let's knock."
We strolled up the walk in single file and I stepped forward and rapped twice on the door.
I thought I smelled cinnamon wafting in the chill air, along with some other enticing aroma that wasn't quite registering in my memory. "I think he's here. I smell food."
Sam looked at his wristwatch as though it was important to time Reggie's response to my knock. I kept my eye on the peephole in the door, waiting for it to darken. Finally it did. Reggie was checking us out.
Sam tensed, he had noti
ced the shadow across the peephole, too.
After another ten seconds. Sam said. "So, is he going to open it or not? I'm not exactly warm out here."
"He's considering it."
I waited a full minute. I timed it on Sam's wristwatch, which he held up for inspection about every ten seconds. I knocked again.
Reggie slid the dead bolt about two Sam-sighs later, he ignored my companions and looked directly at me as he said. "Yes."
"I brought some people with me. Reggie."
"I can see that."
"Are you busy? Can you spare a few minutes?" I noted that he was unconcerned with Sawyer, but had begun an examination of Sam.
"I am busy preparing tomorrow's breakfast. Cinnamon rolls? Perhaps you can smell them, although I find them unsophisticated. I'm afraid I've become known for them. I'll be doing baked eggs in the morning and need to finish the prep work before I head to bed. Perhaps another time?"
"Those rolls sure smell good to me." Sam interjected, his voice padded with false camaraderie.
"And you are ... ?" asked Reggie. His voice was not padded with false camaraderie.
"Sam Purdy."
"And you are .., with?"
Sam smiled. "I'm with my friends here. You know Alan, of course, and this here, this here is Sawyer, we'd be grateful for a little bit of your time and I promise we won't stay long."
"This really isn't a convenient time for a visit. I'm sorry. I have work to do. People depend on me. Please call tomorrow. Dr. Gregory, we can find a time."
Sam said. "Lives may be at stake. Mr. Loomis."
Reggie rolled his eyes at the overt manipulation. But he said. "Then come in. If you must."
We followed Reggie into his main room, he immediately stepped over to a CD player and flicked on a clarinet concerto.
Sam's face didn't hide his disappointment at not finding the football game, though he had no discernible reaction to the configuration of Reggie's house or the splendor of the kitchen equipment. But Sawyer did.
"Wow. Nice kitchen,” she said.
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