On the way down in the elevator a terrible thought struck me—I had no idea who had killed either Stephen Elliot or Jackie-the-prostitute or Larry-the-motel-clerk. I must have expressed my doubts out loud to myself because the matron standing next to me signaled her displeasure by pursing her lips and rolling her eyes. She probably thought I was an escapee from the junkie ward.
In the wide reception area, through which you passed to the parking lot, a familiar, weary voice cut through the various conversations. I stopped and watched my friend Detective Edelman work his way toward me. He always seemed to be toting an invisible cross.
“I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I could use a cup of coffee.”
The way he averted his eyes from mine, I knew why he was here.
“You arresting her this morning?”
There was a bloodstain on his collar where he’d cut himself shaving. It did not do major damage to his image, however, because Edelman always wore the sort of neckties that clip on, and there isn’t a lot worse a guy can do to himself than that.
“Yeah,” he said, “I guess you could, uh, say that.” He added quickly, “Actually, I’m meeting her lawyer upstairs in about twenty minutes. Everything’s going through him. She won’t actually, uh, see me, you know?” He frowned. “Hell, Dwyer, I’m going to make it as painless as I can.”
“Right,” I said, “Kind of a fun murder charge?”
He looked at me and shook his head. “I always hoped we’d never cross swords. You’re my friend, Dwyer.”
“Fuck,” I said. I didn’t blame him, but I wanted to blame somebody. I wanted to blame somebody bad. “She didn’t kill Elliot.”
“How about that cup of coffee?”
I sighed. “Yeah.”
During two cups of Sanka—my nerves didn’t need any help working toward overload—I laid it out for him, all the suspects, all the strange parts that didn’t fit, but that indicated that Jane Branigan was not a very good suspect.
I told him about my visit to Carla Travers’s apartment and how she’d hit me with a gun and accused me of breaking into her place the night before (“Why would somebody who sells TV time be carrying a .45?” I asked reasonably enough); I told him about the pornographic photos with Jane and Davies, and Davies and Lucy Baxter, and how Jane had told me that she thought David Baxter had taken her photo (“I mean, right there, Edelman, is a guy with some pretty strong motives—he’s in on the blackmail routine and his wife is in one of the photos”); I described Phil Davies and how he’d been at the Palms motel the night the clerk and the hooker were murdered, and how Stephen Elliot had seemed to be blackmailing him (“Just in case you need somebody else with a strong motive,” I said, more sarcastically than I needed to); next I related the incident with the two punks wearing the Dracula and Frankenstein masks and telling me to give up the investigation; then I informed him of Grandma’s black eye and how Jackie’s daughter told me of Dracula and Frankenstein visiting the house and taking Jackie’s phone diary; and finally I described how all the suspects had been gathered in one hotel room last night—and how odd I found it that people who didn’t hang around each other, didn’t really even know each other, should get together like that.
“I think the phrase, Edelman,” I concluded, “is beyond a reasonable doubt and I think there’s a lot of reasonable doubt where Jane’s concerned.”
Then he said a very coppy thing. The sort of coppy thing I probably would have said myself if I’d been sitting on his side of the desk. “Hell, Dwyer, I’m not saying she had anything to do with the deaths of the motel clerk or the prostitute. You’ve told me enough about them that I’m going to rule out the murder-suicide thing and open an investigation. But as for Jane—” He shrugged. “Right now, she’s still our chief suspect. Motive, means, and opportunity, Dwyer. I can’t get around them—and she’s got all three.”
“How about the mystery woman? This Eve?”
“What about her?”
“You going to look into her?”
“I don’t see where she’s got a lot of bearing on the case.”
“Dammit, man, she’s probably the key.”
He made a sad, wan face. He was a good guy. I was flogging him with my own desperation.
We sat there and listened to a Jerry Vale song on the Muzak speakers. It was one of those sunny winter mornings when the light makes everything look almost too vivid—more like a painting than reality. I rubbed my eyes.
“You all right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks for asking.”
“Maybe there’s something to the mystery woman after all.”
He didn’t think so. He was being nice. “Right,” I said.
“Damn advertising people,” he said. “They sure seem messed up, don’t they? The more I know about Elliot, the slimier he sounds.”
“But there’s a piece missing.”
“What?”
“I’ve heard Elliot described by maybe half a dozen people now, and he seems to have been all things to all people. There’s something—” I shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, on the one hand he’s this real creative type, very much into his work—which is easy enough to accept—but then on the other hand he’s this very dark, scheming guy who manipulates everybody.”
“No reason people can’t be both.”
“I know. But still—”
He glanced at his watch. Tucked a frown into the corner of his mouth again. “It’s time.”
“Yeah.”
I thought of Jane and her parents. Their panic.
Fear.
“I’ll do it as easy as I can.”
“I know.”
He stood up, dropped two singles on the Formica.
“You find out anything about the mystery woman, let me know.”
He was being nice again. I appreciated it.
“Take care, Dwyer,” he said.
Then he was gone.