Laura Lippman (14 page)

The detective walked over to her. “You might want to heed the same advice, miss.”

“Are you taking me in?”

“We’ve got a few questions to ask you. Unless you want to change your mind and file a rape complaint, then we’ll make sure you get to the emergency room. How about it?”

It was first light now, a pale, ghostly rim of color showing at the horizon. Tess was aware of people streaming out on their lawns in bathrobes and night-clothes, staring curiously.

“Were you here waiting for us?”

“We had officers waiting here for him and officers following you. You threw us off when you left the restaurant in only one vehicle—but not for long.”

“You brought the cops here? You brought the cops to me, to this house?” Crow called out from the patrol car. “Jesus, Tess, how fucking stupid could you be? I trusted you, and you screwed me again.”

“I didn’t—”

Two cops were pushing Tess into another patrol car now, slamming the door, so her protestations to Crow were cut off.

“I want a lawyer,” she said, but it came out as a undignified whimper. Specifically, she wanted Tyner, and she almost cried at the thought of how far away he was. Lord help her, she’d give anything to hear that cranky old bastard screaming on the phone at her.

“You won’t need one, miss,” said the detective, who had taken his place in the passenger seat. “You’re not being charged with anything. We’d just like to take you downtown and ask you what you know about your friend, Mr. Ransome.”

“I know he couldn’t kill someone under any circumstances.”

The detective had sorrowful, cocker spaniel eyes. “Then maybe you don’t know him quite as well as present circumstances would suggest.”

C
hurch bells were ringing in the distance before anyone bothered with Tess at the police station. They had left her in a room, not under arrest as far as she could tell, but not free to go, either, judging by the officer posted outside her door. At last she was in the famed “box,” as everyone in Baltimore knew to call it since
Homicide
had become the city’s official religion. She had spent the balance of the night in a plastic chair, her body desperate to sleep, her mind refusing. Talk about a mind-body problem. These two were like some long-married couple—the resentful insomniac mind kept jabbing the body every time it drifted off, hissing:
How can you sleep at a time like this
? Body begged wearily for its due, arguing that they would both be better off if they got a little rest. And so it had gone, all night long.

She was almost crazed with exhaustion by the time a man entered the room, carrying a wax paper bag and two Styrofoam cups of coffee. It was the sad-eyed plainclothes cop from the night before, the one who had arrived late, then ridden downtown with her. She remembered he seemed angry or troubled, but that might have been the fragment of a not-quite dream.

“Detective Al Guzman,” he said. “Homicide. And you’re Theresa Monaghan, according to your various licenses.”

She nodded, letting the full version of her name pass. She wasn’t going to form words until strictly necessary. The coffee was black and bitter—she usually took hers with a generous portion of half-and-half—but she needed the caffeine, so she sipped at it. Awful. The bag held an elephant ear and she broke off several flaking layers and dropped them into her coffee to sweeten it. Guzman watched approvingly, as a mother might watch a finicky child.

“Sorry for last night,” he said. “You were caught in an unavoidable confluence of events, I’m afraid. Wrong place, wrong time. Wrong guy.”

She let a lift of her shoulders pass for a reply.

“You know Ed Ransome before you came to Texas, or was he just, uh, a new friend? You can tell me. There’s no law here against getting involved with the wrong man. Couldn’t build enough prisons to hold all the women guilty of that crime.”

It was a cornball thing to say, but he smiled as if he knew it was a cornball thing to say, and she found herself thawing a little. Guzman was not a handsome man, and his body was shaped like a squash, with its narrow shoulders and paunchy midsection. But he had a kind face that invited confidences and confessions—those big brown eyes and a glossy mustache whose shape mirrored the gentle, downturned mouth beneath it. Perhaps if she told him everything she knew, she would be allowed to go home and sleep. She thought longingly of La Casita, then remembered that Esskay was there alone. Maybe they would let her call Mrs. Nguyen at least, so she could feed the dog, get one of the hookers to take her for a walk. It would be so good to crawl into bed next to her.

But what was best for Tess wasn’t necessarily best for Crow.

“I’m a private detective, which you know, since you’ve obviously gone through my wallet. Crow—Ed Ransome to you—is an old friend. An old boyfriend.” That wasn’t revealing anything, given the way the police had found them. Coitus interruptus by SWAT team. At last a form of birth control that was one hundred percent reliable. “His parents asked me to find him and I did. End of story.”

“I think it’s just the beginning,” Guzman said, then waited, with those big brown eyes and that so very sad smile. He was letting the silence do the work, hoping Tess would rush into it out of nervousness. Exhausted as she was, she couldn’t help admiring the technique.

“This is really good,” she said. “This elephant ear. It’s the best I’ve ever had.”

Guzman followed her little sidestep effortlessly, the Arthur Murray of the box. “It’s from Mario’s, in El Mercado. You been there yet?”

She shook her head.

“I keep forgetting, you’re not just another tourist. El Mercado, the River Walk, the missions—those are the places the tourists go.”

“And the Alamo.”

“
Claro que sí
. Not that I have much use for the Alamo.”

“Why?”

“Do I look like John Wayne?” he asked. “Or even Fess Parker?”

“Oh, yeah—your people were on the outside.”

“Not
my
people. My people run a shoestore in Guadalajara. Besides, there were Mexicans inside, too, you know. No, it just doesn’t mean anything to me. There’s a lot of stuff in San Antonio like that. This stupid All Soul Festival, for example. Gus Sterne’s brainchild.”

“Gus Sterne?” Tess had heard of the festival, and heard of Gus Sterne, the cousin who had raised Emmie until their falling-out. She hadn’t heard the two were connected.

“Yeah, Gus Sterne. I know he raises all this money for scholarships, but to me, it’s a sacrilege, using Day of the Dead as some hook for another week of parties and parades that also happen to promote his barbecue restaurants. Yet the City Hall folks, the tourism gurus, say it’s a big deal. They say it’s going to be bigger than the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival one day. ‘As if,’ my twelve-year-old daughter would say.”

As if she would say as if
. That locution was only a thousand years old in teen-speak. Under different circumstances, Tess might have smiled at the thought of this streetwise cop who couldn’t keep up with his own daughter’s vocabulary.

“Anyway, I don’t care,” Guzman said. “I’ll make some overtime.”

“Umph,” Tess said, hoping it sounded like a polite, neutral agreement. Her lips were covered with pastry flakes and there was no napkin she could see. The back of the hand would have to do. But then her hand was covered with pastry, which made her giggle. God, she was so fatigued, it was like being stoned. Where had she read that British secret service agents had to undergo seventy-two hours of sleep deprivation as part of training?

“I remember when I used to make overtime working cases, not pulling parade duty. The bad ol’ days. Now the homicide rate’s at a twenty-year low.”

“Really.” Although Tess couldn’t put much energy in her reaction, she was impressed. Baltimore had fallen back from its body-a-day high, but not by much. In fact, the stats indicated Baltimore’s killers were simply getting more efficient: fewer shootings, but a higher fatality rate. Way to go, kids. If you can’t bring up your reading scores, at least you’re improving as marksmen.

“It gives us time to solve cases,” Guzman said. “Old ones, as well as new ones. Today’s technology can solve yesterday’s murders. We cleared a twenty-five-year-old case last month. I was counting on Tom Darden to help me clear another one, one almost as old. You remember Tom Darden? You made his acquaintance up near Twin Sisters, as I recall. Stocky fellow?”

Not so stocky with his chest hollowed out by a gunshot blast, Tess thought. Somewhere in her body, a warning signal was going off, or trying to go off—it seemed almost as far away as the city’s church bells.
See
? her body screamed at her mind.
You should have let me sleep, then we could cope with this
. The mind replied testily:
Oh shut up and make some adrenaline
.

“You know who Tom Darden is, Miss Monaghan?”

“He’s the man I found.”

Guzman smiled approvingly, a teacher with a slow student who had finally, after much prodding and many hints, come up with the right answer.

“That the only time you’ve ever seen him?”

“As far as I know. I don’t really know what he looked like when he was alive.”

Another smile, another nod. “Good point. They keep making bigger and better guns, but there’s still nothing like an old-fashioned shotgun for ripping open some guy’s face, is there? That gun we found under your friend’s bed, it was old, but it could do the job, couldn’t it? A beauty. Matches a gun that belongs to Marianna Barrett Conyers. I just talked to her on the phone. She confirmed that she keeps it up at her weekend place. What do you want to bet that it’s not there anymore?”

Tess said nothing, but in her mind she was making another quick inventory of the limestone cottage. No bullets in any of the drawers she had pulled open, no locked gun cabinet, but she recalled a rack above the fireplace. Empty, it hadn’t registered as being of any significance. Could have been a plate-holder for all she knew, or some other piece of decorative bric-a-brac. A gun rack. Go figure.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Guzman said. “I’m not going to shed any tears over Darden. In fact, I was counting on watching him die one day. I just thought it would be through lethal injection, a few more years down the road. The thing, is, I wanted to talk to him first about some old business, and now I can’t do that. And although I’m indebted to your friend, I can’t really let it go, you know? Even lowlifes have rights.”

Tess started to nod, then stopped, not sure what she would be agreeing with.

“Unless—” Guzman paused as if struck by a sudden brainstorm, only he was a little too stagey. “Unless, of course, your friend killed him in self-defense. I can see that. He’s staying up there with Emmie Sterne, and this bad guy breaks in. Your friend gets scared and grabs the gun. Bang, bang, bang, lots of blood and screaming. Everybody panics. It’s natural. He stashes the guy in the pool house, cleans up real good, and hits the road. Then you come along, looking for your old buddy, and you find the body. Only you don’t bother to tell the sheriff why you’re really there. That how it happened?”

“If it did, wouldn’t it be a matter for Sheriff Kolarik? His county, his body.”

Perhaps the slow student was moving a little too fast now. For whatever reason, Guzman was no longer smiling and nodding at her.

“Believe me, Sheriff Kolarik would love to have you return as a guest of the county. Problem is, we know where Darden was found, but we don’t know where he was killed. He was last seen alive in San Antonio, about two weeks ago, with his old buddy Laylan Weeks. Sheriff Kolarik doesn’t mind if I make a few inquiries down here, seeing as the weapon appears to have shown up and all. Under your friend’s bed. And seeing as Tom Darden might be the link to something where the stakes are a lot bigger.”

“I hate to undermine your theory, but Crow Ransome doesn’t know how to use a gun.” At least, he hadn’t when Tess last saw him. Or had he? Perhaps his knowledge of firearms had been something else he had mentioned in passing.
My father abandoned a shot at the Nobel Prize to run off with my mother the famous sculptor and, by the way, I’m a crack shot
. It was possible. Anything seemed possible just now. “He’s also not stupid enough to hide a murder weapon under his own bed. Who hides anything under the bed, anymore? I haven’t put anything there since I was twelve and trying to read
Lolita
.”

“That Russian book they made into the dirty movie on Showtime?”

Tess decided not to challenge his characterization. “Yeah.”

“Man, I’d jump up and down if my twelve-year-old was trying to sneak a book like that. The only thing she has under her bed is a stash of makeup that her mother won’t let her wear until she’s sixteen.”

“If you want her to read a certain book, all you have to do is ban it. Better yet, hide it wherever you hide your own contraband—my mom used the linen closet. Your daughter will find it there and start sneaking it out, gulping it down when you’re out of the house. Leave a little Balzac behind, and she’ll take it from there.”

“Naw. Estrella doesn’t know our hiding places.”

“If you’ve got a twelve-year-old in the house, she knows where everything is. Including the dirty videos and drugs. Well, no drugs in a detective’s house, I guess. But the videos and the booze, even contraband chocolates.”

Guzman blushed. “Yes, well. Anyway, you came looking for your old boyfriend. Why did he go missing in the first place?”

The postcard with Crow’s picture, the one that had started this whole mess, was in the pages of Tess’s datebook. She worried for a moment that some police officer might be pawing through it even as she and Guzman spoke, then remembered the datebook was back at La Casita. With Esskay and the double bed with the polyester spread, which suddenly seemed the most wonderful bed in the world to her.

“He was trying to strike out on his own, make it as a musician. Nothing sinister.”

“How did he hook up with Emmie Sterne?”

“They met in Austin.” Had she just been lulled into telling Guzman something he didn’t know? “Or maybe here. I’m not sure. She was looking for a guitarist, he was looking for a singer.”

“What about Gus Sterne, her cousin. He have any connection to this band?”

“Not to my knowledge. Someone told me they were on the outs.”

“Yeah? Everyone in this town loves her cousin, and she hates his guts? That’s pretty strange, don’t you think?”

“I’d say it was about par for the course as families go.”

Guzman extended his index finger, as if awarding a point.

“So you know the whole story about Emmie Sterne, then? The poor little princess, orphaned before she was even three years old? A daddy she never knew, a mommy she barely remembers.”

“Marianna Barrett Conyers told me how both Emmie’s parents died in accidents.” If he had already spoken to Marianna about the shotgun, he knew she had been there. She wasn’t giving him anything new.

“Accidents?” Guzman did a double-take, neat as any professional comic. “I suppose you could call it that. I mean, rich people have fancy words for everything, so why not? Horace Morgan shot his head off after his wife left him. I guess you’d call that an accident. Meanwhile, Lollie Sterne died in a really big accident. An accidental triple homicide that Tom Darden was going to help me solve.”

Tess suddenly remembered where she had learned that invaluable bit of trivia about British secret service agents and sleep deprivation: It had been on the VH1 “popup” video for Duran Duran’s “A View to a Kill.” Gee, if only VH1 had provided more invaluable training for the up-and-coming private investigator. For example: what to do when you got hit with a fact so important, so central to everything that you had been doing, that it felt like someone had slapped you across the face with a wet towel.