[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
More than once Kate had longed to shoot him.
The aftermath of these great passions would almost have been a relief, had he
not been so pathetic and their guilt over feeling relieved so strong. He faded
before their eyes into a small man with a brave mustache, who dove back into
his increasingly unnecessary labors for Lee, cooking elaborate meals, urging
his charge out so he could drive her all over creation, redoubling his efforts
in the men's choir and the gym and the volunteer work in the hospice.
No, all in all, Jon Samson singing love songs was not a sound guaranteed to
gladden the hearts of his housemates.
Kate kept her mouth firmly shut. Lee was the one who bore the brunt of Jon's
Page 43
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
moods, since she was around him all day and Kate was not. And Lee was the one
who had to decide if and when she was ready to do without his services, not
Kate. So Kate said nothing, just stuck her coffee mug in the dishwasher,
kissed Lee goodbye, and strapped on her gun to go to work.
WHEN EMILY LARSEN OPENED the door to Kate and Al Hawkin two hours later, Kate
almost did not recognize her. Her hair, though still a dull black, had been
professionally styled and the gray roots were gone. She also wore a defiant if
amateurish splash of makeup on eyes and mouth, and her caricature housekeeper
dress had been exchanged for slimming khakis and a flowered blouse. More than
exterior changes, however, were the set of her shoulders and spine and the way
her eyes met theirs without flinching. She stepped back to invite them inside,
and was speaking before she had shut the door behind them.
"I'm really glad you came by this morning. Here, come on back to the kitchen,
I've got some coffee on." The house was tidier than it had been when they had
shone their flashlights through its windows on Tuesday night, although Emily
had not been able to do anything about the wear on the shag carpeting and
flowered upholstery. The design sense of the residents leaned more to framed
photos of children than to paintings, the living room had no fewer than three
large arrangements of fake flowers, and one corner was haunted by a
four-foot-long black ceramic panther with a chipped ear. The dust of print
powder still lay over everything, and the house smelled unoccupied. "Can I
take your jackets?" Emily was saying. "No? Well, sit down, I've got a
confession to make."
To a police officer, the wordconfession has a fairly specific meaning, but
the lighthearted way Emily Larsen said it did not encourage Kate to reach for
her notebook to take down her words, and Al showed no sign of wanting to stop
the woman and read her her Miranda rights. Instead they sat with their coffee
cups on the Formica table in front of them and waited.
"I wasn't very up-front with you yesterday, Inspector Martinelli. You knew
that, didn't you? Carla told me what you said, but I had to, well, mislead
you, like, until I was sure what was goin' on.
"You see, I've got this brother, he's three years older than me, and he has
this really bad temper, you know? And I was scared that he'd gotten piss that
he'd gotten PO'd with Jimmy and . . . done it to him. I couldn't reach Cash
until last night that's my brother's name, Cash I couldn't get ahold of him to
ask him if he'd . . . had anything to do with Jimmy's death. I didn't really
think he did, you know, but he has a record, and he and Jimmy had a ... an
argument a while back, so I knew you'd think . . . well, not you personally,
but the police, you know? But anyway, I talked with him and he told me it
wasn't him. And he has a good alibi, too. He was in an AA meeting until
eleven. So that's okay, then. I mean, Cash has done some really stupid things
in his life, but at least this isn't one of them."
Page 44
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"We'll have to speak with him, though, Ms. Larsen," Al told her.
"Of course, he said you would. He works for a company, they clean offices at
night. He said he'd be home in another hour, if you want to see him. Do you
want his address? He lives down in San Jose."
"Thank you. However," Al continued, "the fact remains that someone killed
your husband, and did so not in his usual surroundings. Someone either
kidnapped your husband and took him to San Francisco, or else arranged for him
to be there. The phone company's tracking down the last incoming call he had,
but we also need to have a word with your postman about any mail he might have
delivered."
"Oh. Sure. I mean, would you like me to ask him about it?" "That's okay, Ms.
Larsen," Al told her gently. "We'll take care of it."
FOR SOME REASON, KATE had been anticipating a hulking bruiser of an ex-con, a
younger, fitter version of James Larsen, but the man who opened Cash
Strickland's door and invited them inside was not even as tall as his sister,
and equally round-shouldered. The man's explosions of temper must be rooted in
his resentment at the world's treatment of him rather than in any habitual
aggressiveness; from his hangdog look, he might as well have been wearing ahit
me sign pinned to his back.
Still, alcohol combined with chronic resentment made for a volatile mix, and
both detectives kept one eye firmly on the ex-con as they introduced
themselves and entered his apartment. Their free eyes flicked over the
sparsely furnished room, and Al stuck his head into the adjoining rooms to be
sure there were no unfriendlies waiting behind the shower curtains. Strickland
knew what Al was doing, and waited politely until Al had made his
reconnaissance before offering them seats on the thrift-store sofa and plastic
chairs. A well-thumbed Bible lay on the coffee table beside a couple of folded
newspapers. On one wall hung what Kate had seen advertised as a "sofa-sized
oil" depicting a tree-shrouded lake; on another Strickland had thumbtacked up
the poster of a mewing kitten on a tree branch, with the inspirational caption
"All God's Creatures Need a Hand."
"You're here about Jimmy, aren't you?" he asked them.
"That's right, Cash," said Hawkin.
"Em told me you'd been askin' her questions. I hope to God you don't think
she had anything to do with it. She wouldn't hurt a fly."
Page 45
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"No, she has an alibi for Monday night. She seems to think you do, too."
"I was at my AA meeting. Had dinner with my sponsor, helped set up the chairs
at about seven-thirty, maybe seven-forty-five, stayed at the meeting until it
finished about ten. I helped clean up afterward. Came back here, changed my
clothes, got to work at eleven."
"Anybody see you come home?" Hawkin asked. Not that Strickland could have
driven to San Francisco and back in an hour, but leave no stone criminal
unturned was Hawkin's motto.
"Couple of my neighbors were sitting outside havin' a smoke and a brew. Guy
in two-thirty-four his wife won't let him smoke inside 'cause of the kid," he
explained.
"Tell me about your brother-in-law," Al requested.
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]