What the hell, I was already a murderer. How much worse could it get? Once you’re accused of killing little old ladies, burglary and trespassing just ain’t that big a deal.
I’d gotten nailed the last time because I parked on the street down from the house. I wouldn’t make that mistake again. I didn’t have a whole lot of doubt as to what would happen to me if the police found me at R.J.’s again.
I poured a can of soup into a bowl, nuked it, and ate it without tasting it. I was going to give it a few hours, let the sun go down and the night take over completely. I didn’t figure any of the family would be there. Who’d want to visit the place where your father was murdered on the day you buried him?
If I was wrong, if someone were there, I could just keep on driving. Otherwise, I was going to find out what I could.
One way or another.
I showered, shaved, brushed my teeth. I don’t know why it seemed so important to be neat and pretty on this particular evening, except that I remember what every mug shot I’ve ever seen looks like. You can take the most devout preacher or the head of the largest corporation in the world or the president of the United States (especially the president of the United States) and put him in a mug shot photo and he’ll look like a depraved animal.
Maybe I was trying to clean up for my own booking.
I gathered up my gear, which consisted of my 35mm Nikon with several lenses and strobe, notebook and pen, pocket tape recorder, a couple of flashlights, and my pocket case of lock picks. I laid everything out on the bed before packing them up and sat down to think. The one thing I might need the most was the one thing I always dreaded having. Given the circumstances and my level of paranoia, I figured it was better to cover all bases.
I got up, dug around in a pile of old clothes on the top shelf of my closet, and pulled out a shoebox. Inside the shoebox was the Smith & Wesson Bodyguard Airweight .38 that Lonnie’d given me several months before. Actually he’d only loaned it to me, but once it’d been used, he hadn’t wanted it back. I’d once thought of throwing it away but decided to keep it. As what, I didn’t know. A souvenir? Perhaps a talisman, a charm that had its own inimitable way of warding off evil.
I loaded the pistol, placed it in its hip holster, and packed it in my bag with the rest of my tools. I checked the clock; it was a little before nine.
It was too early to take off, but I was too fidgety to sit around here much longer. I fretted about it a bit, then decided to take a chance. I looped my arm through the strap on my goodie bag and headed down the stairs to the car.
She’d told me not to come by, but I had a bad habit of not doing what I was told.
A half hour later, I pulled off Hillsboro Road and into the parking lot of Marsha’s condo development. The Porsche was gone; either Marsha got rid of it or she was out somewhere. I parked the car in an empty slot next to hers and got out. I almost hoped she’d be gone; I hated to see that car go. There was something about losing it that saddened me deeply. End of one era and beginning of another, I guess, and a damned unpleasant one at that.
Maybe I should have made her an offer. After all, I’ve got some extra cash. It would have only cost me about half my unexpected inheritance to buy the car from her. Probably would have cost the other half to keep it running, though. And pretty soon it’d just be a damned expensive lawn ornament.
I strode quickly up the walk and knocked on her door. In a moment, I saw the peephole darken, then lighten again as Marsha unhooked the security chain. She opened the door a crack, peeked out, and started to speak.
“I know,” I interrupted her. “You told me not to come by. I did anyway.”
Marsha opened the door all the way. She wore a loose maternity shift and a pair of Birkenstocks. Her skin was pale and splotchy without makeup, but she smiled wearily.
“I’m glad you did,” she said. “I’ve been getting cabin fever.”
“Can I come in?”
“Sure, c’mon.” She turned, walked down the hall toward the living room. I followed her in and locked the door behind me.
“So you sold it,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s gone.”
“I’m sorry you had to.”
“Me, too. It’s for the best, though.”
We stepped down into the living room. She bent over and grabbed the remote off the coffee table, then muted the television, which was showing the tail end of an episode of Married with Children in reruns. Al Bundy chattered on in silence.
“Boy, have you sunk down on the cultural evolutionary ladder.”
“I was just staring at it,” she said, easing down onto the couch. “What are you doing out this late at night?”
I sat down next to her. “I’m on my way to run an errand. It was out this way and I just wanted to see you.”
She smiled again, a nice one. “I’m glad. Been kind of lonely around here.”
“Hear anything else from the office?”
“Not a word. Can I get you anything?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“So what kind of errand are you on?”
I thought a moment. “Okay, there was an ulterior motive for coming out here. I did want to see you, but I also need a favor.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re better off not knowing where I’m going,” I said, grinning despite myself. “I don’t mean to get so cloak-and-daggerish, but trust me. It’s better if you don’t know.”
“So what’s the favor?”
“If things get hairy tonight, there’s a pretty good chance I’ll be in the Williamson County jail by tomorrow morning.”
“What—”
I held up my hand. “Wait, let me finish. I don’t think I’m doing anything wrong. But, damn it, people keep misinterpreting me.”
She shook her head. “That’s an interesting way of putting it So what’s the favor?”
“If you haven’t heard from me by nine in the morning, call Lonnie. Tell him to bring some bail money. I’ll try to get him, but sometimes he’s tough to find and sometimes you don’t always get your one phone call.”
She looked down at her lap. “Harry, why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?” I asked.
“You are just amazing,” she snapped. “Do you enjoy this, damn it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you just not happy unless there’s some kind of crisis going on in your life? What kind of pathology is this, Harry? What great big unfilled hole inside you compels you to get drawn into these kinds of situations?”
I felt my face redden and my collar suddenly felt tight. “Look, a lady walks into my office and needs my help and hires me to do a job and the next thing I know I find this dead guy and the cops think I did it! Now all I’m trying to do is get out of a mess I didn’t have any part in creating.”
She hauled herself up off the couch carefully, her center of gravity changing by the minute. She walked over to the window, stared outside for a moment. Then she turned and there was a coldness in her eyes I’d never seen before.
“You never have a part in creating these messes, do you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean you live for it, Harry. Sometimes I think it’s the only thing that makes you feel alive.” There was revulsion and disgust in her voice as she forced the attack.
“That’s cruel, Marsha. And it’s not true.”
“It’s truer than you’re willing to admit. I can’t live like this. You’re going to have to make your own phone calls. And if you’re in jail, babe, don’t call me.”
“Marsha, I—”
I was interrupted by the chirping of the phone. Marsha picked up the cordless from the table next to the sofa and stared at the tiny built-in Caller ID screen.
“Who the hell?” she muttered. “Area code seven-oh-two … Oh, damn it, I know who it is.”
She punched the button on the phone. “Hello?”
Her voice brightened, a chameleon-like shift that amazed me. “Hi, Aunt Marty! Thanks for calling me back. But listen, I’ve got company. Can you hold on just a second?”
Pause.
“No, it’s all right,” she said, glaring at me. “He was just leaving. Yes, that’s it. No, honest, hold on.”
She cupped her hand over the phone. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to take this call. You can let yourself out, okay?”
I stared at her for a second, kind of numb all over, like this wasn’t happening, like it didn’t really sound like what it really sounded like.
“Is this the way you want to do it?”
Her eyes glistened and her lower lip trembled just enough to give her away, but not enough to change anything. She nodded.
“If that’s the way it’s gotta be,” I said. “See you around.” Then I turned and left.
I shut that side of my mind down as I wove through the traffic in Green Hills and then out of town. Night in the country, out of the city, is as thick and as black as axle grease. You get out far enough and there are no streetlights, and when it’s late enough, most of the houses are dark as well. A thin sliver of moon was the brightest object in front of me, and as I turned right on Old Hillsboro Road, a silver shimmer reflected off the Harpeth to my left.
There’d been little traffic this time of night, and once I got off the main road, there was none. I curved slowly around the polo field, its lights off in the night as well, and drove slowly on toward the Reeds’ place. A couple of mailboxes away from it, I doused my headlights and coasted to the driveway. I stopped in front of the gate and sat there, the engine idling and only the dim running lights to illuminate the way.
The house was dark, pitch-black. And as far as I could see, the driveway was empty.
I rolled down the window and punched in four numbers on a small panel that stuck out from a pole. The gate slowly swung open in front of me. When there was room, I eased out on the clutch and started down the driveway. As I drove through, the gate began closing behind me.
The only house visible beside Reed’s was the farmhouse to the right of his place. My eyes flicked back and forth between it and the thin ribbon of aggregate concrete that dipped and rolled toward the house. If a porchlight snapped on or a door opened, I was ready to throw the car in reverse and haul ass out of there.
My stomach knotted up on me. If this went sour, there’d be hell to pay. I could imagine that assistant DA licking his chops as I roasted on a spit in front of him.
Toward the middle of the driveway, the front yard took a real dip downward, taking me below a line of trees that blocked the view from the neighbor’s house. I’d made it this far. If my luck would only hold out …
I goosed the Mustang quietly up the driveway to the house. To the right, on the far end of the parking area, an enclosed carport with room for four cars sat unoccupied. It was more like a garage without doors. Guess R. J. figured he had enough security already. I pulled onto the parking area and turned the car to back it into a slot.
Suddenly, the whole backyard was lit up like a baseball stadium. Motion-activated lights on the corners of the house and at the carport flashed on, spreading harsh white everywhere.
“Damn it,” I mumbled. Nothing to do about it now. I was committed.
I backed the Mustang into the slot closest to the street and killed the engine. I stared hard through the windshield, studying the lit-up patio and swimming pool. Nothing moved. No sign of life. I hadn’t recalled there being so much security lighting last Saturday night.
Then I realized. There hadn’t been.
I didn’t know what that meant but shelved it away for later. The biggest fire I had to put out right now was getting in R.J.’s house before the bloody National Guard started parachuting in.
Most motion-activated lights are on a timer, and most of the time the timers are set short. If I sat here until they went out, I’d just set them all off again when I crossed the parking area. Better to go now, and then the neighbors would just figure a passing raccoon or possum did it.
I grabbed my bag and slid out of the Mustang, then quietly shut the door. I went to the edge of the carport and peeked around.
Nothing. All silent, all still.
Sweat ran down my sides in rivers. Jeez, I thought, where’s it all coming from? It’s not that hot out here. Pretty cool, in fact. Shivers ran up and down my spine and I started itching in places where it wasn’t polite to scratch.
I sighed nervously and realized my teeth were chattering. Okay, so the pressure’s getting to me. Nothing to do about it now. I gritted my teeth, set my jaw, and walked calmly out into the light. My hearing was so acute, I could hear the wind rustling off the grass as I paced the twenty yards or so to the corner of the house. In the distance, a dog barked, which set off another one and then another and somewhere in the cacophony a cow bellowed mournfully.
Jesus, I thought, it’s like Seventh Avenue at rush hour out here.
I got to the corner of the house and stepped into the tiny shadow cast by the soffit, just under the security lights. I studied the area again, especially listening for sounds of noise inside the house. As far as I could tell, the place was uninhabited, but it was also nearly eleven at night. Someone could be inside, asleep.
Maybe it was Victoria. And maybe she’d understand. And maybe she was standing at the door with a 9mm in her hand, waiting to blow away the first face that looked in her door.
I shook my head to clear it. Get a grip here, guy. And get inside the damn house before those lights go off.
I skirted the wall to a row of hedges, then around the hedges and onto the patio and to the back door, which led into the family room. The vertical blinds were closed, but I could see there was no light coming from inside.
The ornate black metal-and-glass door opened with a muted whoosh and I stuck the key in the doorknob. It was a simple cylinder lock, not terribly secure, but this was, after all, nearly a crime-free part of the county. Except for your occasional murder.
I stepped into the house and shut the door behind me. The air inside was dry, cool, the mechanized product of a high-efficiency cooling system. A tiny red light blinked away on a panel by the door. I punched in four more numbers, followed by the asterisk, and the light turned a steady green.
There was a light switch beneath the security panel. I thought for a moment, then took a chance. I clicked the switch down and the lights outside abruptly went dark.
“Great,” I whispered. Then I remembered again that the security lights had been off the Saturday night Reed was murdered. He had been outside in the Jacuzzi, nude. Maybe he had preferred having the lights switched off so he wouldn’t get any unpleasant surprises.
Then I laughed out loud, a soft dry crack of a laugh. Murder, I thought—the ultimate unpleasant surprise.
I pulled out the small flashlight and switched it on. Its narrow beam swept the room as I checked it out. The interior house lights were better left off.
That Saturday night I’d gone down the front of the house, peering into the windows, looking for Reed and Margot. I hadn’t found them, but I had seen what looked like an office in the front of the house, near the side closest to the driveway.
I walked out of the family room into a large kitchen. A brick arch was built into the wall over a large restaurant-size Garland stove. A brass fixture hung from the ceiling over a center-island butcher block with expensive-looking pots and pans hanging suspended. It was a large country kitchen, warm and comfortable. No doubt the center of activity for some pretty swanky summer parties that now weren’t going to happen.
Out of the kitchen and down the long hall, darkened rooms were off to either side. They were large, well furnished, but homey and warm. At the end of the hall, a locked door led into a room at the right while directly in front of me was the entrance to the master bedroom.
I stepped into the bedroom and ran the light all around. The Reeds had a large bed in the center of the room against the back wall with a huge cherry chifforobe facing it and antique cherry chests of drawers around the walls. A large Oriental rug covered most of the polished oak floors.
I opened the door to the chifforobe and peeked in. An immense black television perched on a shelf, with stereo system and VCR on shelves below.
Money, I thought, and lots of it. It was all top-of-the-line stuff. It may have taken them a while to learn how to earn it, but they had picked up the spending part fast.
I stepped into the bathroom, which was nearly as large as my bedroom. A huge sunken whirlpool dominated the master bath, with separate shower, his and hers sinks, and a closed-off phone-booth-size room for the dirty work.
“Nice,” I muttered.
Next to the bathroom was a walk-in closet that was as big as my kitchen, jammed full of expensive clothes. I started to go through them, then realized I was starting to feel like a burglar as well as act like one. This wasn’t what I was after.
I left the bedroom and returned to the locked door. I set the bag down on the floor, opened it, and took out my lock picks and the smaller penlight. Lonnie’d given me lessons in lock-picking—there’s not much to it for most locks—and I’d practiced from time to time.
Now was an opportunity to see just how good a teacher Lonnie was.
I held the penlight in my mouth and focused it on the lock as I slipped the thin L-wrench inside the keyway and put just enough tension on the cylinder to press the pins against the shear line. Then I took a thin raker pick and slid it in next to the wrench. The idea is to rake the pick over the pins until they all hit the shear line; when they do, the tension wrench springs the lock open.
Sometimes you get lucky and you only have to pull the pick through a couple of times. Other times, you pull the damn thing in and out until you give up in frustration and try other picks, either a diamond or a ball pick or a different-size raker. This night I was lucky. Third time through and the cylinder spun around. I stood up and walked into R. J. Reed’s private sanctum.
The flashlight beam shimmered off red leather and waxed oak. The rich smell of pipe tobacco seemed to fill the air, a kind of vanilla aroma mixed with the sharp edge of ash. I closed the door behind me and checked my watch: 10:55. The longer I hung around here, the greater the chances my karma would shift.
I’ve slept in beds that weren’t as big as Reed’s desk. It was heavy, constructed of dark wood, polished to a sheen with a sheet of plate glass a quarter-inch thick on top. Under the glass were proofs of his book covers, photos of Reed with celebrities and talk-show hosts, including an inscribed photo of Reed hugging Oprah and letters from other luminaries and famous people. In the corner, slipped just under the glass, was a small snapshot of Reed and his family, and next to it The New York Times bestseller list ripped from the paper the morning his book first made it.
A life under glass …
I sat down in Reed’s high-backed leather office chair, opened the center drawer of the desk, and perused the contents quickly. It was the usual collection of pens and pencils, paper clips and old notes, business cards, ink cartridges, matches, a package of pipe cleaners. The routine assortment of junk and the detritus of a working life; nothing revealing or particularly useful. No bank books or checkbooks, no insurance papers or contracts.
I riffled the other drawers of the desk and found manuscripts, notebooks, a file of correspondence that I flipped through quickly. Again, nothing that would be useful, nothing that would give away secrets.
Not a clue as to why Reed had been murdered.
Frustrated, I ran the flashlight around the office again. There were floor-to-ceiling bookcases against one wall, with a credenza against the other that had a copy machine on top. I opened the drawers of the credenza; again, lots of files that took precious minutes to scan and provided nothing useful. What I was looking for were copies of his contracts with Spearhead Press, any information about the Sirius Corporation or the mysterious Harvest Moon Corporation. All I needed was a thread, something to grab on to that would lead me out of this fog and into something focused.
But there was nothing. In the corner of Reed’s office was a closet door. As a last resort, I figured even a coat closet might have something to offer. I crossed the room and grabbed the doorknob.
It was locked.
“Now that’s interesting,” I whispered. “Why would anyone lock a closet?”
Determined to find out, I pulled out the picks again, set the flashlight on a shelf, and pointed the beam at the lock. This time it took a half-dozen tries before the lock gave way. I stood up, grabbed the flashlight, and opened the door.
It wasn’t a coat closet. It was a large, rectangular walk-in closet. Two four-drawer filing cabinets were pushed against the back wall, with shelves full of office supplies, copy paper, and three-ring binders full of manuscripts lining the other two walls. The filing cabinets were locked, but I figured I could handle them. But down in the corner next to the door frame, about knee-high, was something that presented a somewhat larger challenge.
Reed had installed a safe.