It was almost three in the morning. The unanticipated adrenaline rush of the early evening had killed Nina’s urge to fall asleep, and she sat in her little room reading a history of the Boer War by the light of her bedside lamp. Haskill was still unaware of Rigby’s arrest, as was the nephew, but word would be out before long. The old man wouldn’t much care—he’d probably think it was funny—but Jerry might pay closer attention, might even be smart enough to look into the relationships among the assorted players involved, particularly if Rigby’s motive became public record.
She started at the sound of a floorboard creaking above her head. Someone was walking so slowly, it was plain that they were either trying hard not to be detected or were extremely infirm. She turned out the lamp and quietly moved to the door. Upstairs, the floorboards griped at a glacial but clearly deliberate rate. Barefoot, she mounted the back staircase and, arriving at the top, peeked around the corner. There she was treated to the sight of a barefoot Jerry Haskill tiptoeing like a cartoon burglar toward his uncle’s room.
Still unaware of Nina’s presence, Jerry opened the door with exquisite care and peered inside. Was the redheaded alkie nurse awake? Was he there to seduce the woman? Surely not, but who knew with an oddball like Jerry. Maybe he was going to wake his uncle and talk about the Kushik?
She was going to be very fucking glad when this was all over with, Haskill in the ground, the paintings sold, the money in her bank account. Working with these basket cases was taking its toll on her equilibrium.