by P. N. Elrod
“It’s quite… beautiful.” The creases on his skin smoothed as the muscles beneath relaxed.
A touch, a freezing of his mind and a simple command …
“… beautiful …” The glitter submerged under his lids.
I went out quietly so as not to wake him.
“What did he want?” asked Escott, falling into step with me.
“To say thanks.”
10
A long day’s rest restored my tired body, if not my peace of mind. When the sun went down and darkness released me for another night, all the same problems were there, only they’d had time to ripen.
Alex Adrian’s name was on the front page of the lesser papers again and even the major ones had placed the story above the fold. They carried virtually identical accounts of Sandra’s murder. Later editions mentioned that two suspects were in custody, but Barb Steler had scooped them all with her report on how they’d been captured.
“I find it odd that she does not give your name,” said Escott. He was stretched full length on his sofa in the parlor, the papers neatly stacked over his legs and a stiff brandy within easy reach on a table. “Or perhaps it’s not so terribly odd, after all.”
I’d just come up from the basement when he started talking as though continuing an interrupted conversation. His brain was always working and sometimes he expected people to keep up with him. By now I was used to it, but it usually threw others off balance.
“We had a little talk at the hospital when I was giving back her gun,” I said.
“She did a credible job of minimizing your role in the incident. No bright lights and fame for you?”
That one didn’t even deserve an answer. The radio was tuned to Escott’s usual station, giving us an earful of violins playing Mozart. With the volume down low, the higher-pitched notes were almost bearable.
He folded the last paper, adding it to the stack on his knees, then inhaled a few molecules of brandy. “I appreciated her free advertisement of my business, but am rather annoyed at being called a ’private detective.’ “
It just meant he’d be getting more requests to do divorce cases. He could handle turning them down.
“Learn anything new today?” I asked, sitting across the table from him.
“I was able to glance at the autopsy report.”
That had to have taken some doing. Blair hadn’t exactly been in a sweet mood when we’d last seen him.
“Sandra Robley had some bruising on her face and the left side of her skull was smashed in by a very powerful blow. The forensic man was of the opinion that she’d first been struck by a fist and then hit with something much harder while she was down. The police found a heavy bronze sculpture by the sink in the Robleys’ kitchen. They think the killer took it there to wash away the blood and fingerprints. It was next to a damp towel and quite clean.”
“Very neat of the bastard.”
“Except for her change purse, nothing else seems to have been stolen.”
“You think it was a blind?”
“Yes. Probably the best the killer could do at the time. They had no valuables in the place unless you count their paintings. Except for confidence tricksters or forgers, who are rarely so violent, very few criminals are interested in the fine arts as a source of money.”
“What do the cops think?”
“They are of a similar opinion, that it was a blind, but murder for the gain of a few dollars is certainly within their experience. Today they’ve been questioning Sandra’s friends and business acquaintances on the theory that the crime was committed for a personal reason rather than gain. A personal motive is often easily found out—proving one in court is the tricky bit.”
“What about Evan?”
“He’s recovered enough to give the police a coherent statement, but is still in hospital and under mild sedation.”
“He’s all right, then?”
“As well as he can be, considering his circumstances.”
“What’d he say?”
“That he walked his lady friend home, returned to his own house about an hour later, and discovered his sister’s body. He remembers calling Alex Adrian, but has no memory of anything afterwards. His doctor says the amnesia is not unexpected, he may recover or he may not.”
“Do the police believe him?”
“They confirmed the times of arrival and departure with the lady, which was also corroborated by her roommate. Both vouched for his good character in the most sincere terms and also stated that Evan was in a lighthearted, very humorous mood. Of course, the man could be a consummate actor or a liar who so believes in his own fantasies that he is able to convince others.”
“He doesn’t strike me as the type, if there’s a type for him to be.”
“I’m merely covering all possibilities. As for practicalities, he had the means and opportunity, but no readily apparent motive. I’m not saying the police have entirely ruled him out as a suspect, but thus far they have-yet to arrest him.”
“That’s something at least. How’s your new client doing?”
“Mr. Brett came to the office long enough to drop off his contract and to listen to an expurgated version of how we found Adrian. He then signed a check and left for the hospital to see Evan.”
“He paid you already?”
“For one day’s—or rather night’s—work. He’s satisfied that Wallace and Koller are responsible for Sandra’s death.”
“Are you?”
His gaze was firmly fixed on his brandy snifter. “They do seem to be tailor-made for the part, and their violent response to Adrian’s intrusion was most incriminating. Since Wallace is not powerful enough to challenge Gordy directly, their motive for murder could be a form of reprisal against Evan Robley.”
“Shaky, Charles.”
“I know. From what you’ve told me, they would have been more likely to want to frighten the Robleys and thus intimidate Evan into continuing payment on his canceled debt. Murdering his prime source of income is certainly carrying things too far. Wallace and Koller are denying all knowledge of it.”
“They’d have to. Any news on the old geezer from the garage?”
“The police located him later that morning, he’s assisting in their inquiries—oh yes, they also found the other fellow, Tourney.”
“Yeah?”
“He’d taken Adrian’s coupe around to a certain garage to sell to the less-than-honest operators there. They have, or rather had, a highly lucrative stolen-car business. The police alert to pick up Adrian included a description of his vehicle and its license number, and a passing patrol car happened to be in the right place at the right time. Several birds were annihilated with the casting of that particular stone.”
“So Adrian’s off the hook with the cops?”
“Yes, for the time being.”
“You think he did it?”
“I think we lack information.” He’d stare a hole in that brandy snifter if he wasn’t careful.
“And you figure I should talk to him?”
He nodded once, but remained silent, letting me think. Damn the son of a bitch. The Mozart stuff ended and was replaced by some kind of modern vocal piece that sounded like stuttering, lovesick cats. I heaved to my feet.
“I’ll see you later.”
I didn’t take a direct route but dropped by Bobbi’s hotel to check on her. I’d tried calling from Escott’s, but her phone was busy.
Piano music came through the walls, which meant Marza was visiting. I grimaced, but then no one ever said life was fair, and knocked on the door. The music faltered over a few notes and then continued on with determination. She usually kept the mute pedal down for the sake of the other hotel tenants, but shifted her foot from it as Bobbi let me in.
We hugged hello and Bobbi asked her to stop playing so we could talk.
Marza put on a sweet smile, utterly lacking in sincerity. “I’m sorry, was I disturbing anyone?” She pretended to busy herself by lighting one of her
noisome little cigars. To protect my own sanity, I grabbed Bobbi and dragged her out into the hall and firmly shut the door behind us.
“Rude, isn’t she?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” she answered, and then we gave each other a proper kiss.
“Your phone’s been busy,” I said when she came up for air.
“It started ringing when the papers came out this morning. I’m just famous enough locally to bring every crank out of the woodwork, so I had to take it off the hook. Did you see one of those rags? ’Singer Stumbles Over Slaying.’ I just hope they don’t cancel my spot this Saturday.” She pulled me tight, needing reassurance. “This is awful, thinking about myself with all this going on.”
“No, it’s not. You couldn’t be awful if you tried, unlike some people I know.” I nodded significantly at the door and Marza’s direction and eventually got a smile.
“I’m sorry about that, she thinks you’ve dragged me into a situation that will hurt me. Marza’s terribly protective.”
“She’s terribly something. Are you doing all right?”
“Yes, I’m just fine, really. Did you have anything to do with finding Alex?”
I gave her the quick version of events and covered the points all the papers missed. “Anyway, the heat’s off him for now.”
“What about poor Evan? I’ve tried calling the hospital, but they just said he was stable, whatever that means.”
“Charles says he’s all right, he just doesn’t remember much from last night.”
“Probably just as well. Look, I’m going to kick Mar/.a out so we don’t have to hang around the hall.”
“Sorry, baby, but I have to go talk with Alex about some things.”
“Like whether he—”
“Yeah, that and some other stuff.”
“I don’t know whether to wish you luck or not. Can you come back by later?”
“As soon as I’m free.”
“Good. I’m still going to kick Marza out. She’s been with me almost all day and I need a break.”
“Atta girl.”
At the hospital, the nurse on Evan’s floor told me only thirty minutes were left for visiting.
“Is he still under medication?”
“Yes, a mild sedative to relax him.”
That was convenient. “Has he had any other visitors?”
“Some of his friends are with him now.” Her phone rang before I could ask which ones.
I opened his door quietly and was not too surprised to see Reva Stokes and Leighton Brett. Reva was concentrating on her talk with Evan and didn’t notice me, but Brett looked up in time. He was a big man, but still managed to ease out soundlessly, giving a relieved sigh as he joined me in the hall. He smiled grimly and pumped my hand.
“Good of you to come by like this,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind waiting, but Reva’s just gotten him to talk a little about Sandra, and an interruption now might spoil the mood.”
“I understand. How’s he doing?”
“Better than he was last night. I forgot to thank you for your help. When he started to go off the deep end—”
“We were just lucky that doctor was still hanging around. Is Evan’s memory any better?”
“ ’Fraid not. I’m hoping Reva can help him, but if it comes to it I’ll be looking around for some kind of psychiatrist. I don’t know about you, but that breakdown he had last night scared me to death, and I’m still worried about him.”
“How so?”
“He might do something crazy if we don’t watch him. He and San dra were very close. They genuinely liked each other. Now, I like my own sister, but if she got killed—God forbid—I wouldn’t do anything desper ate to myself out of grief. Anyway, that’s how Evan’s worrying me.”
“Does his doctor know about this?”
“I’ve talked to him. He’s keeping Evan sedated for the most part, but whether that’s doing him any good …” Brett finished with a shrug.
“How long will he be here?”
“He gets out tomorrow and then he’s coming to our house. I’m not letting him go back to that apartment and stay there alone.”
“I’m glad to hear that, but I thought since he’s known Alex for so long …”
He snorted, but not unkindly. “Alex is hardly fit to take care of himself, much less Evan.”
“He’s survived.”
“At the cost of his soul, if you ask me. He gave up when his wife died. All we’re seeing now is the walking corpse.”
Brett had a point there. The first time I met Adrian I thought the same myself. “He seemed pretty lively last night.”
“Oh, he still has some anger in him. That’s what sent him off hall cocked and nearly got him killed. I think anger is all that’s really keeping him going these days, which is not a good way to live. I’d like to get him to a psychiatrist, but you can’t cure a man’s mind unless he wants help in the first place.”
“I can understand him being angry about Sandra, but—”
“About his wife? It’s been there, all mixed up with his grief. The man can twist himself up so much he could meet himself coming around a corner. Alex was working in his studio the night Celia—the night she died.”
“And if he hadn’t been painting, he might have stopped her?”
Brett nodded. “He’s angry with himself and sometimes it’s thick enough to cut with a knife. Evan was able to put up with it because he’s known him for so long and is so easygoing he can’t stay mad at anyone for more than a minute.”
“Has Alex been in to see him?”
“I don’t know. He was released earlier today and isn’t answering his phone.”
That sounded familiar. Brett excused himself to look in on Reva and a few minutes later they both emerged.
“I’m glad you’ve come by,” she told me, taking my hand briefly. “He’s still very sleepy.”
“I won’t stay long,” I promised, and wished them a good night. When they were well down the hall, I went into Evan’s room.
He was motionless on the high metal bed, his lank, ash-colored hair clinging damply to his pasty gray forehead. One lamp burned in a corner, its shade tilted so the light wouldn’t bother him. He didn’t notice I was in the room until 1 sat down next to him and lightly touched his hand.
He started slightly and his eyes dragged open. “Wha… ?”
“Hi, remember me?”
Recognition tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Where’s that pretty lady of yours?”
“I had to leave her home, I’ve heard of your reputation.”
“You and all the nurses on this floor. Any water around?”
I found a glass on the bedside table and filled it for him. He sat up for a sip and fell back, exhausted. “They pumped me full of something I don’t like. Everything tastes awful, even the water.”
“How do you feel?”
“Dunno … wrapped up in cotton, all over. When I’m out of here I’ll find something else to do the job.”
Brett’s fears were still fresh in my mind, but I had the feeling Evan was referring to the kind of emotional painkiller you get from a bottle of booze. “Cops give you a hard time?”
His eyes went vague for a second. “I don’t think so, it’s all so fuzzy.”
“I know.”
“This is real, isn’t it? She’s gone, isn’t she?”
I nodded.
His hands formed into helpless fists and went slack again. “Why?”
“I don’t know, Evan. I’m very sorry.”
Not unexpectedly, tears started out of his eyes and trailed down the sides of his face. He was unaware of them.
I’d seen him start up like this before and neither of us would be the better for a repeat performance. “Evan … listen to me …”
First I calmed him down and then we had a quiet talk. It didn’t take long to reach through to his blocked memory and find out he’d told the complete truth to the police. At least I had my own private confirmation
that he hadn’t killed Sandra and knew nothing about it. The last thing I did before sending him off to sleep was to make sure he had no thoughts about suicide.
I stood and turned to leave—and stopped short. Adrian was standing just inside the door. His mouth was slightly open and he was twisting his wedding band around. I’d been focused entirely on Evan and had heard nothing.
“Hello,” I said, hoping it didn’t sound as awkward as I felt.
“I was wondering if you might show up,” he stated neutrally. He was casually dressed, his shirtsleeves rolled back to accommodate all the bandaging on his wrists.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Well enough.”
“Been there long?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“I rather thought you might. Shall we find a more comfortable place to do so?”
Not waiting for a reply, he led the way down the corridor to a spacious room with one wall composed mostly of windows. Chairs and tables dotted the polished floor at frequent intervals, and a row of wheelchairs were stored in a far corner. During the day the place would have been flooded with sunlight, but now it was gloomy and strangely isolated. He didn’t bother turning on the high overhead lamps and was content to remain in what for him would be darkness.
“It’s like your studio, isn’t it?” I asked.
He arrested his move to pull a chair from a table and glanced around. “Yes, it is … I’d wondered why I liked this place.”
“And you prefer sitting in the dark?”
He got the chair the rest of the way out and sank gratefully into it. His movements were slow and careful, an indication of the stiffness lingering in his shoulders and back. “I don’t mind. It softens reality and makes the impossible more acceptable.”
“Me, for instance?”
“Yes.” He brought out a pack of cigarettes and tapped one onto the table, but didn’t fire up his match. Perhaps even that tiny spark would have made things too real for him. “I meant what I said last night, I won’t tell anyone about you—or about what I just saw.”
“Thanks.”
“I have a lot of questions, though,” he added.
“I might not answer them.”