Upstairs, with a cup of strong java, I went to the front parlor and put on a record by the Duke. Mood Indigo. As the somber notes filled the room, I pulled off my boots and stretched out on the sofa. For a few minutes, I let my mind drift. Naturally, it returned to the newspaper wanting me to disappear. I felt angry all over again, angry with myself as well as the paper. The one person I couldn’t be angry with was Sam. Recalling his phone conversation with Ramsey, I knew he’d fought the best battle he could.
I set the coffee down on the table and went to the back parlor. Hamp had a stash in a shoebox behind a dictionary on the bookshelves. The bottle was half-empty—or half-full, depending on how you looked at it. I took it back to the parlor and poured a shot into my coffee. Then I sank back on the sofa and sipped.
I needed advice. Hamp had never told me what to do, even when I asked him to. He’d always said, “Lanie, you don’t need me to solve it for you. You just need me to listen.” And he was a good listener. He never made fun of even my wildest thoughts.
Of course, if I were fair I’d admit that Sam was a good listener, too, or would be if I gave him half a chance. I’d never understood women who emotionally buried themselves when they saw their husbands lowered into the grave. But here I was, one of them.
Sam had questioned my column but printed it anyway. He believed in me—and cared. He cared in a way that no one had bothered to care in many a year. Now, he might lose his job over it.
Then, there was that little boy over on 140th Street. He’d dared put his trust in a stranger. Not once, but twice. And I’d messed up both times.
I had to figure a way out of this.
Sexton Whitfield.
An image of him slumped over the armrest filled my mental movie screen. I closed my eyes, as if that could stop me from seeing it.
Deep in my head, a vein throbbed. Alcohol was the worst thing to drink when I had a headache.
Being stubborn, I took another sip.
Question number one: Who had an interest in killing Whitfield and making it look like suicide?
Whoever kidnapped Esther, of course, and that would be the phantom lover. He was the man who’d attacked me. He’d been angry at me for stirring up a hornet’s nest. Then he’d read my column and realized that I hadn’t fingered him, but actually helped him by identifying his nemesis.
I took a deep breath and leaned back, nursing the cup and feeling deeply disappointed in myself.
Why had I been so quick to assume that the attacker was Whitfield's henchman?
I let the question float through my mind, more as a self-criticism than an angle of inquiry. But then it hit me that the question might be worth serious consideration.
Had he misled me intentionally? Had he wanted me to believe Whitfield sent him? Or had I made that stupid assumption all on my own, with the timing of the attack and my focus on Whitfield simply coincidental? Was there any way to tell?
Well … for him to have wanted me to believe he was Echo, he had to have known about my interest in Whitfield before the column came out. But how could that be? Who knew of my specific interest in the tax collector? Who, other than Sam?
Only one name came to mind.
I thought about it for a while. Then I remembered something. During the attack, I’d used Whitfield's name. I’d spoken it aloud. But, when? Before or after the attacker had issued his warning? I couldn’t be sure.
If the killer hadn’t been aware of Whitfield before attacking me, then my mentioning the tax collector would’ve been enough to alert him, wouldn’t it? The last name, plus the details that appeared in the column would’ve been more than enough to give the killer Whitfield's identity. The column alone had been enough for many.
Dear Lord, what had I done?
I added more kick to my coffee and took a swig. I went over it again and again: the sequence of events, the words the assaulter used. Whether the attacker wanted me to believe he was from Whitfield or whether I’d made the assumption on my own: there was no way to tell and it was an important point.
I grabbed up my bag, dug out my notebook and found Bellamy’s number. The instant I plugged in the phone, it started ringing. I frowned at the thought of another call from one of my colleagues. Of course, it could’ve been Sam and so perhaps I should’ve answered, but I couldn’t take the chance. Finally, the phone stopped ringing. I grabbed it up and dialed. Bellamy answered on the third ring.
“I been meaning to call you,” he said. “You’re getting a bum rap.”
“I’ll be all right. Been doing a lot of thinking.”
“About Whitfield?”
“About him and something else.” I popped the question: “Did you tell anyone about our conversation?”
“Which conversation?”
“The one in which I mentioned Whitfield's name. Did you share that information?”
“I talked to the guys down at the station about it, about getting you to do an article on him. So they knew, yeah.”
That was an unpleasant bit of news. Not only had he used my paper and me, he’d made sure his fellow cops knew about it.
“What about to somebody else?”
“No, of course not. What is this?”
“The night before he was killed, somebody waylaid me—”
“They what?”
“Got into my house and waited in the hallway. When I came upstairs, the guy put a knife to my back. Mentioned my column and Esther.”
“You think it was this Echo guy?”
“I did. I don’t anymore.”
A pause. “And why’s that?”
“Trust me. I’ve got good reason.”
“What—”
“I’ve got to go. Thanks for your help.”
I hung up, wondering. If Bellamy hadn’t let Whitfield's name slip, then—
The telephone jangled under my hand. Annoyed, I snatched it up, ready to give one of my pesky colleagues a piece of my mind.
But it was Sam’s voice that came down the line.
“You actually answered,” he said. “I just heard about Echo. Blackie called. Said he had a feeling you hadn’t told me.”
“I—”
“You have got to stop trying to go it alone. Let me help you.”
Suddenly, I was furious with him. Who was he to want to barge into my nice, tightly confined world? Who was he to demand that I trust him?
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just fine.”
There was a stunned silence. I realized what I’d done. I’d shut him. It was like a gate slamming down. A gate that was meant to protect me, but was just holding me in. The anger faded as quickly as it had come. In its place was sadness and confusion.
“Sam,” I said, horrified. “I’m so sorry. I—”
“It’s OK.”
It wasn’t and we both knew it, but he was being kind and generous.
He’s your second chance.
“Please, don’t worry.” I rubbed my forehead. “I’ve gotten new locks on the doors, and …” I was too tired to finish the sentence. I flopped down on the sofa, picked up a pillow and hugged it. “I’d be okay, if I could just … think this thing through.”
“Then let’s do that. Assuming that Whitfield’s death was murder, not suicide, then we’d have to conclude that the person who was crazy about Esther, who attacked you and killed Whitfield were all one and the same.”
“Yes,” I paused. “And no.”
“Lanie …”
“I keep going over what that guy said when he attacked me, and I’m wondering if he already knew about Whitfield before the column hit the stands. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but if this guy did know, then I want to know how he found out and when. Then there’s the killing itself. I keep wondering: Would this crazy lover have taken the trouble to stage a suicide?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“This guy liked publicity. He was the type who wanted credit for his actions. That phone call Bellamy told me about: Somebody who’d make a call like that—claiming credit when the case was hot and cops were swarming all over it—who’d take a chance like that?”
“He didn’t risk anything. They didn’t follow up.”
“But he didn’t know they wouldn’t. I’m telling you: This guy wouldn’t have made Whitfield's death look like suicide. He would’ve made it about him.”
The other end was silent for two seconds. Then Sam cleared his throat.
“So, let me get this straight. You’re saying you believe that Esther’s crazy admirer attacked you, but you don’t believe he killed Whitfield?”
“I’m saying that this guy’s behavior—even according to his own crazy logic—just doesn’t make sense.”
“But you could be wrong.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I could be. It’s been known to happen.”
We were both silent for a moment.
“Lanie, everybody’s got regrets. I’ve got more than a few. But the present is what we have to deal with. A maniac is on the loose. He could be after you, and …”
He paused. I could hear his breath, feel his warmth, sense the pulse of his heart beating.
“And what?” I whispered.
“And I should be there with you.”
My breath caught. In that moment, he frightened me more than all the Echoes in the world. He could hurt me more deeply than any of them.
After several long seconds, I found my voice. It was to utter one word.
“Come.”