Jane shot off the chaise. She ran her hands through her hair for a few seconds, getting her bearings, then yanked on her jeans and boots, pulled off her T-shirt and replaced it with a clean sweatshirt. She’d never heard David’s voice sound so weak and just plain weird before. With Mouse hot on her heels, she dashed to the front door.
Cordelia was still up, lying on the couch in the living room, reading a book. One of her cats was perched on her stomach, one was draped around her neck, while the third and largest, Lucifer, was on top of the card table grazing through the remnants of the poker game food. “Who just called?” she asked, lowering the book.
“David.”
“Something wrong?”
“Will you take care of Mouse? I’ll be right back.” She grabbed her wallet and shoved it in her back pocket, then shut the door and rushed for the stairs.
She found David huddled near the railing on the fourth-floor landing. Something dark was smeared all over his clothing. Glancing down at his white Nikes, she saw that they were soaked with the same dark-colored liquid. “Is that blood?”
He gazed up at her with a strange expression. “Am I awake, Jane? Tell me!”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you real or part of a dream?”
“I’m real,” she said, bending down and staring deep into his eyes.
“Jesus,” he said, turning his face away. “This is total crap! I can’t live like this! I can’t even tell what’s real anymore.” He plucked his shirt away from his chest, stared at it, started to cry.
“David, listen to me. Look at me.”
He lifted his eyes.
“What happened?”
“Luberman. He’s dead. I think. No, he has to be dead. He’s down one floor, on the landing.”
“Did you—”
“No. I mean … I don’t know. No!”
“Then how did your clothes get so covered in blood?”
“I … I kicked him.”
“That’s it? That’s all?”
“It’s not my fault. He deserved to die!”
Jane wasn’t sure what to do. “Okay, let’s think this through. I’ll run down and see what’s what. You stay put.”
He nodded. But he seemed far away, disconnected.
“David?” she repeated.
“What!”
“Stay here.”
“Where the hell am I gonna go?”
She gripped his arm to steady him, then headed down.
On the third floor she found Luberman lying in a pool of his own blood, his head tilted to one side, his eyes lifeless. She didn’t want to get too close, but from what she could see, his T-shirt was soaked in blood on both the front and the back. One leg looked like it might be broken. Noticing that a trail of blood led down to the next level, she followed it all the way down to the locked security door. As she pushed through out into the chill night air, she discovered the answer to her next question—how Luberman had gotten into the building.
Leaning down, Jane pressed her fingers to the guard’s neck, but from the moment she saw him, she knew he was dead.
Luberman had most likely shot the guard and entered the stairwell. He was bleeding, so maybe the guard had managed to get off a round before Luberman killed him. But the guard’s gun was still in its holster, so that didn’t work. And where did David come in?
Jane flipped open her cell and punched in 911. She reported the murders, then stood for a moment on the dock outside the building to get her bearings. Finally, she called Nolan.
“Christ, Jane. It’s the middle of the night.” His voice was a deep rumble in her ear.
“I think you better get over to the Linden Building.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Luberman. He’s dead. And so is one of the security guards.”
“On my way,” said Nolan without a moment’s hesitation. “Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better.”
“You’re not hurt?”
“No.”
“Did you call the police?”
“Right before I called you.”
“Good. Just hold on.”
She stood for a moment more under the bright security light, staring out at the dark parking lot. She felt dazed, unable to make sense of anything. Going back inside, she rushed up the steps. When she swung around to the landing on four, she found the stairwell empty.
David was gone.
The police arrived with sirens blaring within two minutes of her 911 call. Two squads. Three men and one woman. Under other circumstances, Jane might have gone looking for David, but she had to talk to the police first.
The lead cop, a ropy, athletic-looking black guy who introduced himself as Sergeant Dreashon Johnson, took her aside and asked her a bunch of questions while the rest of the officers fanned out.
“What happened to your face?”
“I fell off a horse.”
“Sure you did.” He checked out her bruises for another few seconds, then went on with his interrogation. While they were talking, he stopped several times to confer with the other officers. They were almost finished with the interview when Nolan roared up in his SUV. He killed the motor and slid out.
“Why, Mr. Nolan,” said Johnson, hands rising to his hips. “What a surprise.”
Trotting up the steps, Nolan put a hand on Jane’s shoulder but removed it when he saw her face. “What the hell happened?” He tipped her face up to the light.
“Fell off a horse when I was in Nebraska.”
“She must figure we’re pretty stupid,” said Johnson with a smirk.
Nolan turned to him. “It’s been a while, Drea.”
“That it has.”
Nolan was almost a foot taller than Johnson and probably had a good fifty pounds on him. Johnson didn’t seem comfortable with Nolan standing so close. He moved back a few steps. “Got a couple of dead men on the premises, though I expect you already know that. This lady here says she’s a friend of yours, that you been handling a case involving the guy inside. Privately.”
“That’s right.” Nolan’s gaze shifted to the dead guard.
“Well, it’s public now. In a big way. Since you did me the favor of showing up at the scene, I’m gonna need you to answer some questions.”
“Am I done?” asked Jane.
“For now,” said the sergeant. “We need to talk with your friend, Mr. Carlson. Have any idea where we might find him?”
“None,” said Jane.
“Well, I guess we’ll just have to look under every rock until he crawls out.”
She didn’t like the sound of that.
“Mind if I take a look inside?” asked Nolan. “And I need to check on my client, Joanna Kasimir. She lives in the building up on four.”
The sergeant didn’t answer right away. One of his officers had pulled him aside.
From the moment Nolan got out of his car, Jane got the impression that there was a certain friction between Nolan and Johnson. Most of Nolan’s friends called him simply that—Nolan. The Mr. Nolan thing was done for a reason. She figured these two weren’t old buddies.
As Johnson continued to confer with one of the officers, Nolan bent down to get a closer look at the dead guard. “Looks like a twenty-two. Close range.”
“That’d be my guess,” said Johnson, returning to the conversation. “Notice the blood trail. You can’t see it very well in the dark, but it begins way on the other end of the building. I’ll wager it starts even before that.”
“You think Luberman was injured before he got to the Linden Building?” asked Jane.
“Shot, yeah. That’s exactly what I think. But we’ll have to wait for confirmation.” He frowned at Nolan a moment, then led the way inside.
As soon as they made it to the third level, Nolan crouched down to view the bloody scene at close range. Jane stood back and watched.
“Look at this,” said Johnson. He took a pen out of his pocket, crouched down and pressed it against Luberman’s right thigh. A piece of metal was wedged underneath.
“What is it?” asked Nolan.
“A knife. A damn odd one.”
Jane bent over to take a look. “It’s a Global.”
“A what?” asked the cop.
“I own a couple of restaurants in town, so I’m pretty familiar with cutlery. It’s an Asian vegetable knife manufactured by a company called Yoshikin, sort of on the order of a small chef’s knife. They’re marketed under the name Global.”
“Do you use them in your restaurants?”
“No.”
“How about this building? Know anyone who has a set of them?”
“Afraid not.”
“What are you thinking?” asked Nolan, glancing over at the cop.
“Somebody used the knife on Luberman, or maybe he had it as a backup and somebody took it away from him and cut him?”
“Not clear yet,” said Johnson, removing the pen but remaining in his crouch. “Lots of unanswered questions about these two murders.”
“If I’m free to go,” said Jane, “I’d like to get back upstairs. I’m feeling a little … sick to my stomach.” The sight of the knife had startled her, though she wasn’t about to let on to either man about her concerns. Not until she had a chance to check it out.
“Sure,” said Johnson. “But we may need to talk to you again.”
“I’ll be around.”
“And if you see your friend, Mr. Carlson, tell him the police want to talk to him. No big deal. Nothing to be frightened of. We just need to know what he saw.”
No big deal, my ass, thought Jane. “I will.” Turning away, she nearly bumped into Joanna, who was rushing down the stairway in her satin bathrobe. She looked wild-eyed.
“What’s going on?” she all but screamed. Seeing Luberman lying on the floor, she turned around and doubled back up the stairs. Halfway up she slowed, then stopped. Looking over her shoulder, she said, “Is he—” She started back down, her eyes full of horror—and something else. To Jane, it looked like elation.
“Ma’am, you can’t be in here,” said Johnson, standing up to block her from coming any closer.
“He is!” she cried.
“He’s dead,” said Nolan, moving over to the stairway, looking up at her. “Sergeant Johnson, this is my client, Joanna Kasimir.”
“But … how did he get in?” she demanded.
“It’s all over now,” said Nolan, moving up a couple of steps. “Let’s get you back to your loft. I’ll explain everything, as much as I know.”
“Have you seen David?” asked Jane.
“David?” Her eyes edged sideways, as if the wall had just spoken.
“Yes, we talked for a while around midnight and then I went to bed. But he must have gone out.”
“Come on, Joanna,” said Nolan, pressing a hand to the small of her back, leading her up the stairway. “This is no place for you.”
As they moved away, Jane struggled to put it all together. David had most likely gone out to sleep in his car. That meant it was possible, even likely, he’d seen Luberman shoot the guard and enter the building. And then what? Had David gone inside himself? Had he stabbed Luberman with the vegetable knife in an effort to protect his sister?
Jane had too many questions and not enough answers. Instead of returning to Cordelia’s loft, she raced back down the stairs and jumped in her car. The scary fact was, she was the only person she knew who owned a set of Global knives. Since David had access to her kitchen, she had to check if that particular knife was missing. She prayed it was there safe in her kitchen drawer, that the murder knife had come from somewhere else. But praying wouldn’t make it so.
Jane parked her car a couple of doors down from her house. A dim light burned in one of the bedrooms upstairs, but otherwise the place was dark. Thank God she had nothing to fear from Gordon anymore, not that it mattered much at the moment.
Unlocking the front door, she stepped into the foyer and felt along the wall until she found the light switch. The smell of polyurethane nearly knocked her over. Retreating back outside, she removed her boots and then entered again, this time in her stocking feet. Thankfully, the floor seemed to be dry enough to walk on. She glanced into the living room, thinking how strange it was to see it without furniture. The new floor looked beautiful. She wanted to turn on all the lights, get a better look at it, but that would have to wait.
Flipping on the overhead light in the kitchen, she walked hesitantly over to the drawer where she kept her knives.
“Please,” she whispered. She opened it slowly, staring down at the empty slot where the vegetable knife should have been. Her throat tightened. She closed her eyes.
Above her, she heard the floor creak.
“David?” she called. A hit of adrenaline burst inside her like a bomb. “David, is that you?” She dashed back to the foyer and bolted up the steps to the second floor. “David, it’s me!”
She glanced down the hall toward the bathroom, noticing that the door to the third floor was open. She rushed for the stairway and took the steps two at a time. For many years she’d rented out her third floor. But it was empty now.
“David! Stop! We have to talk!”
When she reached the top, she saw that the door to the outside stairway was open. “David, wait!” She plunged through the screen door, out onto the landing just in time to see him leap from the stairway into the backyard.
“David! Please!”
But it was too late. He’d already rushed across the backyard, jumped the fence, and disappeared into the alley. As she stood looking down into the yard, an electric chill ran through her. Why wouldn’t he talk to her?
She stood there for a few seconds more, her mind racing in too many directions, and then closed the door and went back downstairs to the second level. He’d probably come here because it was the only safe place he could think of—until her presence chased him out. She glanced into the guest bedroom, then walked down the hall to the bathroom.
“Good God,” she said, sucking in her breath, seeing David’s bloody clothing in a heap on the floor. There was blood in the sink and blood on several of her towels. Checking behind the shower curtain, she saw that the showerhead was still dripping water. He must have just finished when she’d come in. He’d taken a shower, cleaned himself up. But he hadn’t had enough time to get rid of his clothes—or, put another way, the evidence.
Rushing back to her bedroom, Jane could tell by the disordered look of her closet that he’d rummaged through it until he’d found something to wear. Sweats, most likely, since they weren’t anywhere near the same size.
And that left her with another difficult question. What did she do with his clothes? By all rights, she should turn them over to the police. She sat down on her bed and dropped her head in her hands. Luberman deserved to die. Isn’t that what David had said? She didn’t disagree, but she couldn’t protect a murderer.
Could she?
If she did, she was pretty sure it would make her an accomplice. If—and it was a big if—he had murdered Luberman. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that the David she used to know could kill a man. He might have beaten Luberman to a bloody pulp, and enjoyed every minute of it, but murder? No. And yet, David wasn’t the same man she used to know.
The longer Jane sat on her bed, the clearer the moral question became: Could she live with herself if she turned his bloody clothes over to the police without first making sure he was guilty? She knew what the law required, but her own sense of loyalty required, in this instance, something different.
Jane ran downstairs and retrieved a large plastic garbage bag from a box under the sink. After stuffing David’s clothing inside, she spent the next couple of hours cleaning the bathroom. She doubted she got all the blood evidence, but then the police would have no reason to examine her house. She hoped. She took the garbage bag out to her garage and hid it in a box with a bunch of gardening tools.
The sun was coming up when she finally drove away.