Chapter Fifty-Seven

“Merrill Wick didn’t kill her husband.” Furyk sat at the small kitchen table in the apartment he’d never been to before, looking around at the detritus of half a dozen carry-out meals that probably dated back a couple of weeks. He was afraid to think what the bathroom might look like. He took another bite of the folded-over slice of pizza, eating the way you do if you’re hurrying to a meeting, trotting down 7^th Avenue in New York after stopping at one of the sell-by-the-slice places on every corner. Prole stood over the sink and scarfed hers down the traditional way.

Her reply was slightly garbled, trying to escape a mouthful of cheese and crust. “Bullshit.”

Prole looked good, untucked blouse and bare feet, shoes kicked off as she walked in the door but blouse already pulled out of the high-waisted slacks while still driving home. Furyk didn’t let her see his appreciation, wanting to avoid having her react and smack him upside the head.

She swallowed enough to follow up. “We don’t need to worry ‘bout building a case since Slick Perry is going to take a plea deal. Nutso wife offs her cheating hubby, or something like that. That’s just my opinion.”

Furyk took a few sips of beer. Cheap stuff, but cold. “And if she didn’t do it?”

Prole got the implication and gave him a sneer as she picked up her matching bottle. “Yeah, that’s right, what I want most in the world is for some innocent rich chick to spend a few years in a nut house while a killer walks free.” The sneer faded, mostly because she didn’t really feel it and knew Furyk was asking a reasonable question. “Besides, you wanting to save a stray isn’t a very good defense.”

“What was the window the coroner gave for time of death?”

“Funny you should ask. The guy’s as smart as he is goofy. Figured from the lung puncture that Wick lived 41 minutes after the attack, give or take a few. Counted the number of breaths and blood flow, or something. Seemed pretty sure. So figuring the loving wife isn’t lying about seeing him die and the loyal daughter called the cops right away, at 11:43, then she shoved the knife into him around 11:00 p.m. Why, you got an alibi? Maybe you were watching the late news with her around then?” Prole laughed at her own joke.

Furyk got up and walked toward Prole. She kept a wary eye on him, bottle still in her hand. He passed her and went to the fridge. A purple pen hung from a small erasable white board by a length of threadbare red yarn. The board was covered with doodles, phone numbers, and cryptic notes, the ink dry and crusted. Furyk used the moisture on his hand from the cold beer bottle to wipe clean the middle of the board, getting a film of purple on his palm.

“Hey, I need that stuff!” She didn’t. The board probably hadn’t been used in months.

Furyk wrote three numbers in a column. 11:00 p.m., 11:17 p.m., 11:43 p.m. Across from the first he wrote: Stabs husband. Then across from the second: Buys crap on television. And across from the final time: Goes down to watch husband die.

Prole had finished her beer while he’d been writing and stared at the board. Brushing Furyk aside, she pulled open the fridge door and got another, twisted the cap, and took a sip.

“Okay, genius, what’s this? Prime time programming line-up?”

Furyk went around her and sat back down at the tiny table. “Merrill stabs her husband a dozen times in the kitchen. Then she goes up to her room, catches a few minutes of TV and orders some Elvis lamp or tiny figurines or whatever by phone, then pops back down to the kitchen to see how Carl is doing. I saw the receipt and time-stamp from the purchase. Make sense to you?”

Prole shook her head. “And I thought you were the Great Detective – or ex-detective. So there’s a receipt. Anyone could order stuff and have it sent anywhere. Doesn’t mean shit.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re right – the daughter must have called on her cell phone from the movie that was just letting out and ordered the crap. Go ahead and pull the logs. While you’re there, just for fun, do the same for the telephone line in the Wick’s bedroom. Just to prove that’s not where the call came from.”

“Okay, it’s easy enough to find out. I’ll check it. But even if, so what? She’s nuts. Didn’t Dahmer catch some TV between killing and eating those guys? Makes sense to me.”

Furyk knew he’d caught her attention. Prole would check it out the next day. It wouldn’t make sense if that’s what the records showed. Merrill didn’t kill Wick. Furyk was sure.

“Pizza’s cold. Want to go get some real dinner?”

Prole laughed and finished her second beer, but hesitated for a second before pointing the bottle at the door. An image of Tina coming out of Furyk’s house the other night hung vividly in her mind. “Get outta here.”

Furyk smiled and grabbed another piece of pizza as he left the table. He liked it when Prole punched him on the arm as he went by and out the door.