THIRTY-THREE

ANNE SCALASI put her hand up, shielding her eyes from the headlights of my car as I swung into the driveway. She was sitting on my front steps, waiting for me. Apparently she had been waiting a long time.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

I eased myself next to her. “I had an errand to run.”

She looked at her watch. “A little late, isn’t it?”

“I was about to say the same to you.”

“‘Eternal vigilance. We never sleep.’”

“I thought that was the motto of the Pinkertons.”

“Yeah, well, it goes double for homicide cops.”

I leaned back against the steps, looked up at the stars. Anne did not look up or down, just straight ahead. After a moment she said, “The state claimed jurisdiction. I can’t get near the place.”

“The capitol?”

“No, the fucking moon.”

“Let it go, Annie,” I told her.

“I’d like to, I really would.”

I watched the stars some more, then told her what she wanted to hear. “C. C. and Marion did not kill Dennis Thoreau. They had nothing to do with it. Brown, Sherman, Amy Lamb: They had nothing to do with them, either.”

“They’re innocent?” Annie asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say that.”

“Tell me,” Anne said.

“Galen Pivec killed John Brown; thought he was Joseph Sherman, thought he was trying to blackmail C. C. Amy Lamb found out, so he killed her, too. Then he finally caught up with the real Sherman. End of story.”

“Thoreau?”

“Meghan Chakolis,” I answered, lying.

“Why?”

“It was a crime of passion. He was her ex-husband. She still loved him. He was playing around. Want a beer?”

“Bullshit,” Annie said.

I gave her a hard look; I didn’t know if she could see my eyes or not. “What happened to Thoreau and the rest, who killed them and why, had nothing to do with what you did or didn’t do, Annie. I wouldn’t kid you about this.”

“I have the feeling there’s a lot you’re not telling me,” she insisted.

“Yeah, there is,” I admitted. “But giving you the details won’t make any difference. We can’t prove anything.”

We both stood. I unlocked the door, opened it, held it for her. “What about the videotape?” she asked, brushing past me.

“I’m sure it’ll turn up,” I said, following her inside.

I switched on the lights and went into the kitchen to fetch two Summit Ales from the refrigerator. The phone rang. I looked at the clock. Not even the telemarketers call this late, I thought, betting myself a quarter it was Marion Senske with another offer. It wasn’t.

“I didn’t wake you, did I, Taylor?” Lieutenant O’Connell asked.

“What did I do?”

“Nothing, nothing at all. What makes you think you did anything?”

“It is kinda late, Sean,” I reminded him. “This isn’t a social call, is it?”

“Well, lad, as a matter of fact it is. We’re just finishing up here and I thought I should tell you what happened before you read it in the papers.”

“What happened?”

“I killed Heather Schrotenboer tonight.”

“What?”

“Me or Adzick. You know Pete Adzick.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Aasen sent us over to pick her up; he wanted to ask her questions about a bullet fired from her gun. We knocked on the door. She asked who it was. I answered, ‘The police.’ She said, ‘Come in, the door’s open.’ That sounded a little queer to me, so we each took a side and I pushed the door open with my foot. She fired on us …”

“What?”

“Put three rounds into the wall behind us, across the hall. I went in high, Adzick went in low. We fired about eight rounds between us, hit her twice. Forensics said they’d tell us which one did the job if we wanted to know. I don’t want to know. Why would I want to know?”

“Jeez, I’m sorry, Sean,” I said, meaning it.

“I never killed anyone before,” Sean confessed. “Never even fired my gun except on the range.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Can’t figure out why she did it, though, started shooting at us. Why would she do something like that, Taylor? Hmm? Was she frightened? Did she think we were out to get her? Did she think we were, maybe, the Mafia or something?”

I didn’t answer.

“I think she thought we were the Mafia. Isn’t that crazy? Why would she think something like that?”

I didn’t answer.

“I never killed anyone before!”

I had nothing to say. Apparently, Sean didn’t either. After a minute or so I hung up the phone.

“What happened?” Anne asked, sipping on the beer.

Did Heather Schrotenboer belong to me?

Did she?

No, I decided. Randy, maybe. But not Heather. I had a lot of sins to answer for, a lot of penance to do. But not for Heather.

“I’m going to the football game Sunday, Vikes and 49ers,” I told Anne.

“Oh?”

“A friend of mine has tickets.”