C is for Corpse (15 page)

“Why do you do this stuff, Kitty? You're playing right into Kleinert's hands.”

“Terrific. I didn't know you came up here to lecture me.”

“I came up to search Bobby's room. I'm looking for the little red address book he asked you about last Tuesday. I don't suppose you have any idea where it might be.”

“Nope.” She bent over, using a rolled-up dollar bill like a straw, her nostril forming a little vacuum cleaner. I watched the coke fly up her nose, like a magic trick.

“Can you think who he might have given it to?”

“Nuh-un.” She sat back on the bed, pinching her nose shut. She wet her index finger and cleaned the surface of the mirror, running her fingertip across her gums then, like a remedy for teething pains. She reached for her wineglass and settled back against the bed pillows, lighting a cigarette.

“God, that's great,” I said. “You're tagging all the bases today. Do a little coke, knock back some wine, cigarettes. They're going to have to run you through Detox before you hit Three South again.” I knew I was baiting her, but she got on my nerves and I was spoiling for a fight, which I suspected would feel better than grief.

“Fuck you,” she said, bored.

“Mind if I sit down?” I asked.

She gestured permission and I perched on the edge of the bed, looking around with interest.

“What happened to your stash?” I asked.

“What stash?”

“The one you kept in there,” I said, indicating the bed table drawer.

She stared. “I never kept a
stash
in there.”

I loved the little note of righteous indignation. “That's funny,” I said. “I saw Dr. Kleinert pull a whole Ziploc bag full of pills out of there.”

“When?” she said in disbelief.

“Monday night when they carted you away. Quaaludes,
Placidyls, Tuinals, the works.” Actually, I didn't really believe the pills were hers, but I was curious to hear what she had to say.

She stared at me for a moment more, then eased out a mouthful of smoke, which she neatly channeled up her nose. “I don't do any of those,” she said.

“What'd you take Monday night?”

“Valium. Prescription.”

“Dr. Kleinert gave you a prescription for Valium?” I asked.

She got up with annoyance and started pacing the room. “I don't need your bullshit, Kinsey. My stepbrother was buried today in case your memory's short. I got other things on my mind.”

“Were you involved with Bobby?”

“No, I wasn't ‘involved' with Bobby. What do you mean, like some kind of sexual thing? Like was I having an
affair
?”

“Yeah, like that.”

“God, you are so imaginative. For your information, I didn't even think about him that way.”

“Maybe he thought about you that way.”

She stopped pacing. “Says who?”

“Just a theory of mine. You know he loved you. Why wouldn't he have sexual feelings as well?”

“Oh come on. Did Bobby say that?”

“No, but I saw his reaction the night you were hospitalized. I didn't think it was strictly brotherly love I was looking at. In fact, I asked Glen about it at the time, but she said she didn't think there was anything going on.”

“Well, there wasn't.”

“Too bad. Maybe you could have saved each other.”

She rolled her eyes, giving me a look—God, adults are such geeks!—but she was restless and distracted. She located an ashtray on the chest of drawers and stubbed out her cigarette. She lifted the lid to a music box and let a few notes of “Lara's Theme” escape before she snapped it shut again. When she looked at me again, she had tears in her eyes and she seemed embarrassed by that.

She pushed away from the chest of drawers. “I gotta pack my stuff.”

She went into the closet and hauled out a canvas duffel. She opened her top dresser drawer and snatched up a stack of underpants, which she shoved into the duffel. She bumped the drawer shut and opened the next one, grabbing T-shirts, jeans, socks.

I got up and moved to the door, turning back with my hand on the knob. “Nothing lasts, you know. Not even misery.”

“Yeah, sure. Especially not mine. What do you think I do drugs for, my health?”

“You're tough, right?”

“Shit, why don't you go work in a rescue mission? You got the line down pat.”

“One day some happiness is going to come into your life in spite of you. You ought to keep yourself alive so you can enjoy it.”

“Sorry. No sale. I'm not interested.”

I shrugged. “So die. It won't be that big a deal. It
sure won't be the loss that Bobby's death was. So far, you haven't given the world a thing.”

I opened the door.

I heard her bump a drawer shut. “Hey, Kinsey?”

I looked back at her. Her smirk was almost self-mocking, but not quite.

“Want to do a line of coke? My treat.”

I left the room, closing the door quietly. I felt like slamming it, but what would be the point?

I went down to the living room. I was hungry and I needed a glass of wine. There were only five or six people left. Sufi sat next to Glen on one of the sofas. I didn't recognize anybody else. I crossed to the buffet table that had been set up on the far side of the room. The Chicano maid, Alicia, was rearranging a platter of shrimp, consolidating hors d'oeuvres so the plates wouldn't look all ratty and half eaten. God, there was a lot to this business of being rich. It had never occurred to me. I thought you just invited people over and turned 'em loose, but I could see now that entertaining requires all kinds of subtle monitoring.

I filled a plate and picked up a fresh glass of wine. I chose a seat close enough to the others so I wouldn't seem rude, but far enough away so I wouldn't have to talk to anyone. I have a shy streak that surfaces in situations like this. I'd rather have chatted with some hooker down on lower State Street than try to exchange pleasantries with this crew. What could we possibly have discussed? They were talking about long-term paper. I took a bite of salmon mousse and
tried to keep an interested look on my face, like maybe I had a lot of long-term paper I was hoping to unload. Such a nuisance, that shit, isn't it?

I felt a light touch on my arm and glanced over to see Sufi Daniels easing into the chair next to mine.

“Glen tells me Bobby was very fond of you,” she said.

“I hope so. I liked him.”

Sufi stared at me. I kept eating because I couldn't think what else to say. She was wearing an odd outfit: a long black dress of some silky material with a matching jacket over it. I assumed it was meant to disguise her misshapen form with its slightly hunched back, but it made her look as if she were about to perform with some big philharmonic orchestra. Her hair was the same lank, pale mess it had been when I met her the first time and her makeup was inexpert. She couldn't have been more different from Glen Callahan. Her manner was faintly patronizing, like she was just on the verge of slipping me a couple of bucks for my services. I might have been short with her, but there was always the chance that she had Bobby's little red book.

“How do you know Glen?” I asked, taking a sip of wine. I set the glass down on the floor near my chair and forked up some cold shrimp in a spicy sauce. Sufi's gaze flickered over to Glen and then back.

“We met in school.”

“You've been friends a long time.”

“Yes, we have.”

I nodded, swallowing. “You must have been around
when Bobby was born,” I remarked, just to keep things going.

“Yes.”

Shit, this is fun, I thought. “Were you close to him?”

“I liked him, but I can't say we were close. Why?”

I retrieved my wine and took a sip. “He gave someone a little red book. I'm trying to figure out who.”

“What sort of book?”

I shrugged. “Addresses, telephone numbers. Small, bound in red leather, from what he said.”

She suddenly began to blink at me. “You're not still investigating,” she said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement tinged with disbelief.

“Why not?”

“Well, the boy is dead. What difference could any of it possibly make?”

“If he was murdered, it makes a difference to me,” I said.

“If he was murdered, it's a matter for the police.”

I smiled. “The cops around here love my help.”

Sufi looked over at Glen, lowering her voice. “I'm sure she wouldn't want this pursued.”

“She didn't hire me. Bobby did. Anyway, why do you care?”

She seemed to catch the danger in my tone, but it didn't worry her much. She smiled thinly, still superior.

“Of course. I didn't mean to interfere,” she murmured. “I just wasn't sure what your plans were and I didn't want Glen upset.”

I was supposed to make comforting noises back to her, but I just sat there and stared. A bit of color rose in her cheeks.

“Well. It's been nice seeing you again.” She got up and wandered over to one of the remaining guests, engaging in conversation with a pointed turning of her back. I shrugged to myself. I wasn't sure what she'd been up to. I didn't care either, unless it pertained to the case. I glanced over at her, speculating.

Soon after, almost at a signal, people started getting into their good-bye behavior. Glen stood by the archway to the living room, being hugged, having her hands pressed in sympathy. Everyone said the same thing. “You know we love you, sweetie. Now you let us know if we can do anything.”

She said “I will” and got hugged again.

Sufi was the one who actually walked them to the door.

I was on the verge of following when Glen caught my eye. “I'd like to talk to you if you can stay on for a while.”

“Sure,” I said. I realized for the first time that I hadn't seen Derek for hours. “Where's Derek?”

“Taking Kitty back to St. Terry's.” She sank into one of the couches, slouching down so she could rest her head on the back. “Would you like a drink?”

“Actually, I could use one. Shall I fix you one while I'm at it?”

“God, I'd love it. There's a liquor cabinet in my den if we're low out here. Make it Scotch. Lots of ice, please.”

I crossed the hall and went into the den, fetching an old-fashioned glass and the bottle of Cutty Sark. When I reached the living room again, Sufi was back and the house was mantled in that dull quiet that follows too much noise.

There was an ice bucket on the end of the buffet table and I plopped a couple of cubes into the glass with a set of those sterling-silver ice tongs that look somehow like dinosaur claws. It made me feel sophisticated, like I was in a 1940s movie wearing a suit with shoulder pads and stockings with a line up the back.

“You must be exhausted,” Sufi was murmuring. “Why don't I get you into bed before I take off?”

Glen smiled wearily. “No, that's all right. You go ahead.”

Sufi had no other choice but to bend down and give Glen a buss and then find her purse. I handed Glen the glass with ice, pouring Scotch into it. Sufi made her final farewells and then left the room with a cautionary look at me. A few moments later, I heard the front door shut.

I pulled a chair over and sat down, propping my feet up on the couch, cataloguing my current state. The small of my back ached, my left arm ached. I finished off the wine in my glass and added Cutty Sark.

Glen took a long swallow of hers. “I saw you talking to Jim. What did he have to say?”

“He thinks Bobby had a seizure and that's why he ran off the road. Some kind of epilepsy from his head injuries in the first accident.”

“Meaning what?”

“Well, as far as I'm concerned, it means if
that
accident was really a murder attempt, it finally paid dividends.”

Her face was blank. She dropped her gaze. “What will you do now?”

“Hey, listen. I still have money left from the retainer Bobby gave me. I'll work 'til I find out who killed him.”

She met my eyes and the look she gave me was curious. “Why would you do that?”

“To settle accounts. I believe in clearing the ledger, don't you?”

“Oh yes,” she said.

We stared at each other for a moment and then she raised her glass. I lifted mine and we drank.

When Derek came in, the two of them went upstairs and, with Glen's permission, I spent the next three hours in a fruitless search of her den and Kitty's room. Then I let myself out and went home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

By Monday morning at eight o'clock I was in the gym again, working out. I felt like I'd been to the moon and back. Without even thinking about it, I looked for Bobby, realizing a millisecond later that he was gone and wasn't ever going to be there again. It didn't sit well with me. Missing someone is a vague, unpleasant sensation, like gnawing anxiety. It isn't as concrete as grief, but it's just as pervasive and there's no escaping it. I kept moving, working out hard, as though physical pain might blot out its emotional counterpart. I filled every minute with activity and I suppose it worked. In some ways, it's like rubbing Ben-Gay on a sore back. You want to believe it's doing you some good, but you can't think why it would. It's better than nothing, but it's no cure.

I showered, got dressed, and headed over to the office. I hadn't been there since Wednesday afternoon. There was several days' mail piled up and I tossed it on the desk. The message light on my answering machine was blinking, but I had other things to attend to first. I
opened the French doors and let some fresh air circulate, then made a pot of coffee for myself. I checked the half-and-half in my little refrigerator, sniffing at the carton spout. Borderline. I'd have to replace that soon. When the coffee was done, I found a clean mug and filled it. The half-and-half formed an ominous pattern on the surface, but it tasted O.K. Some days I drink my coffee black, some days with cream for the comfort of it. I sat down in my swivel chair and propped my feet up, punching the replay button on the answering machine.