Now or Never (13 page)

The rain was still bouncing down as they pulled into a gas station half an hour later. They emptied a couple of plastic bags and tied them over their hair to keep it dry, then ran to the restroom, giggling like a pair of silly schoolgirls. They washed their hands and faces but had no toothbrushes, so they got a pack of spearmint gum from the machine instead, and then they were on their way again.

“Darn,” her mother said as they turned onto the highway. “I meant to get gas.”

Mary Mallory checked the gauge—they still had half a tank. She stared out of the window at the cascading waves of water thrown up by the passing logging trucks, barreling down the highway as though they owned it.

“Mom, I’m hungry,” she said an hour later, over the pop music blasting on the radio.

“You’re hungry? Again?” Her mother threw her a disbelieving
glance as she lit another cigarette. “Seems to me you’re always hungry these days.” Then she grinned. “It must be the sea air.”

Mary Mallory, who had breathed nothing but second-hand cigarette smoke for the past hour, thought a breath of sea air wouldn’t be a bad thing. She rolled down her window, but all that came in was a blast of icy wind and a torrent of water.

“Close the darned window, Mary Mallory, or I’ll catch my death,” her mother exclaimed, shivering.

Mary Mallory rolled up the window again and reached into the back for a fuzzy blue mohair sweater. “Here,” she said, offering it to her mother. She didn’t seem to notice, but she placed it round her shoulders anyway.

They just kept on driving and driving through the pouring rain—for hours, it seemed to her. Then the engine began to cough and splutter. Her mother frowned and shoved her foot harder on the gas pedal. Mary Mallory looked at her, alarmed.

Her mother edged the big old car to the side of the road as the engine gave a final cough, then died. She stretched her arms over her head, easing the ache of the long ride out of her spine. “Well, I guess this is it,” she yawned. “We’re out of gas. It’s the end of the line, Mary Mallory. Here we are, and here we stay.”

Mary Mallory rolled down her window. She poked her head out and read the sign immediately in front of them.

It said,
YOU ARE NOW ENTERING GOLDEN, OREGON, POP
. 906.

H
ARRY HAD PUT
in a long hard day, and it wasn’t over yet. He had other cases on his workload besides Summer Young, and he had one more visit to make—to the Mass General—before he could go home, pour himself a bourbon, take a long shower, put on some music, and think about Mallory Malone’s possible reaction to his enigmatic note.

He had deliberately not put his name on the card and he suddenly thought it would be pretty funny if she had no idea who the flowers were from. “Nah,” he told himself with a reminiscent grin, “of course she’ll know. Malone is one smart woman.” He had been going to say “cookie” but caught himself in time. Ms. Malone
ma’am
would not appreciate being termed a “cookie.”

He eased the Jag into a spot between a red Ford Explorer and a gunmetal Volvo station wagon, automatically noting their license numbers as he did so. It was the cop’s built-in reaction from his days in the patrol car, always with an eye open for stolen vehicles or wanted criminals on the run. Storing the numbers in his head, he walked across the lot to the Emergency entrance.

A couple of hours ago, he had been called to the scene of what at first had looked like a hit-and-run but on closer investigation was more like a gang killing. Except that the victim did not seem too ready to expire. Without a body,
a homicide cop was out of a job, but Harry was checking anyway, to make sure the situation hadn’t changed.

The waiting room smelled of disinfectant and blood, and as usual it was fraught with tension. The wounded and the sick waited their turns patiently. Babies were screaming, distraught parents were pacing, and silent relatives were waiting in white-faced vigils to hear the news—bad or good—about their loved ones.

“Evening, Suzie,” he said to the young nurse at the desk. “Keeping you busy tonight?”

“Don’t they always?” Suzie Walker gave him a special smile that told him she wouldn’t mind if he asked for her phone number, but she had seen Harry a dozen times at the hospital and he never had. “I guess you’ve come to see the hit-and-run victim. He’s been moved into a ward—third floor on the left. And by the way, Detective Rossetti beat you to it.”

“Story of my life.” Harry grinned, taking the steps two at a time just to prove to himself he wasn’t really tired. Then he loped down the hallway to where Rossetti was loitering, coffee cup in hand.

“How’s he doing?” Harry asked, heading for the coffee machine.

Rossetti took a final bite of his tuna on rye. “Pretty good,” he mumbled, his mouth full, “for a guy with two broken legs and a fractured skull. He went right over the top of the vehicle. Smacked his head good. Lucky for him, he didn’t break his neck. Unlucky for us, because he claims he can’t remember much about it. Just the color of the van—white.”

Harry walked back, carrying his coffee. “No point in hanging around, then.”

“Gaylord and Franz are in charge now.” Rossetti drained his cup and heaved a sigh of weariness. “Tomorrow is another day, Prof. I don’t know about you, but I’m
beat. I’m gonna have an early night.” He glanced uncertainly at his watch. “Well, maybe ten is a bit
too
early.”

“Only if you’re sleeping alone, Rossetti. And if I’m to believe you, that never happens.”

Rossetti refilled his cup and they ambled back down the corridor, sipping their coffee.

Harry said thoughtfully, “We’re not having much luck recently, vehiclewise. A black truck or van in the Summer Young case, and a white van in the hit-and-run. Think the fates are against us, Rossetti? Or are we too stupid to find the clues staring us in the face?”

“What clues?” Rossetti looked gloomy. “All we know is that the butler didn’t do it.”

“Oh, we’ve got plenty of clues, Sherlock. Forensics says the fibers found in Summer’s car were cashmere. Black cashmere.”

Rossetti gave a low amazed whistle. “Seems our man has expensive taste in sweaters. Maybe he knows a good discount outlet. Or else he’s got money. You got the guys checking the stores?”

Harry nodded. “And checking the manufacturers and importers. The crime lab says the fiber is not the cheaper kind of cashmere. It’s the long-staple good stuff, from the belly of the best goats, possibly Mongolian. The manufacturer is probably European, most likely Scottish. That’ll narrow our search to the more expensive stores and boutiques.”

“What else?” Rossetti demanded.

“The hairs found on her clothing are Caucasian. And they were dyed. Their true color is gray.”

“You think he was deliberately disguising himself? Or he’s just an older guy trying to look younger?”

Harry shrugged. “All we know is that he’s older than we thought.”

They waved to Suzie Walker as they passed the desk, calling good night.

Rossetti looked admiringly back at her. She was young and pretty, with fiery red hair and wide green eyes. He’d been trying to get a date with her for months.

“When’re you gonna relent, Suzie, and go out with me?” he called.

“When you grow up, Detective Rossetti,” she replied without lifting her eyes from the notes she was reading.

Harry laughed. “Great technique, Rossetti. Works every time, huh?”

“Win some, lose some, Prof. You just gotta bet the numbers, that’s all.”

They pushed open the door and stood for a minute on the steps looking out across the parking lot, discussing the progress forensics was making.

“One more thing,” Harry said. “They found particles of nitrogen in the dust taken from the Miata. Probably a fertilizer, the sort you can buy at a garden store to use on your roses.”

Rossetti looked gloomy. “Are we gonna have to check out every gardener/handyman in Boston?”

“Nope.” Harry grinned. “In Massachusetts. And the odds still are that he’s an ordinary family man who enjoys a bit of gardening on weekends.”

“When he’s not enjoying killing, you mean.”

Harry sighed. “You got it, Rossetti.”

The man in the gunmetal Volvo wagon watched them standing on the steps, through his binoculars. He knew who they were. If he could lip-read, he would have known what they were saying, the image was so sharp. He’d bet a hundred they were talking about him, though.

The idea pleased him, and so did the fact that they had nothing on him. They didn’t even know what he looked like, and he had left them no clues. Besides, they were still working on the past, while he was already looking to the future.

He patted the Polaroid camera, waiting on the seat next
to him. It was like an old friend—it always came through for him. He knew Suzie Walker’s shift finished in fifteen minutes and he glanced anxiously at the two detectives, still talking on the steps. If they didn’t leave soon, they would ruin his photo opportunity.

He breathed a sigh of relief when Harry Jordan finally slapped his friend on the shoulder and they yelled cheerful good nights.

Jordan was striding across the parking lot toward him. The Volvo’s windows were black-tinted, but he wasn’t taking any chances on the sharp-eyed detective noticing him. He slid down onto the floor and pulled the plaid rug over himself.

He lay as still as his victims had, his breathing quiet and even. He had no fear—he knew he was cleverer than the police, he had already proven that many times. The police didn’t even know yet exactly
how many
.

He heard the detective’s footsteps, then the sound of the Jag being unlocked. Suddenly there was a ferocious barking—a dog was scrabbling at the door of the Volvo. He held his breath nervously.

“Squeeze, what the hell’s gotten into you?” Harry yelled angrily. He grabbed its collar and hauled the dog away, running his hand anxiously over the Volvo’s paintwork.

Squeeze lunged forward against the wagon. He stuck his nose in the slightly open window, sniffing and growling.

Harry hesitated. It wasn’t like Squeeze to behave so aggressively. He peered into the Volvo’s window, but the tint was too dark to see much. He noted that it was locked and wondered about the alarm. He took a look at the license plate—the tax sticker had been renewed recently. There were no dents or scratches. It looked like a perfectly normal well-kept vehicle. It probably belonged to a family with several children and a couple of dogs. That
must be it. The dogs would ride in the back where the window was open. Squeeze had caught their scent and didn’t like it.

“You crazy mutt.” Harry hauled him back. “You could have cost me a new paint job.”

Still growling, the dog jumped reluctantly into the back of the Jag.

The door slammed; there was the sound of the engine starting, then the squeal of tires as Jordan drove away.

The man began to laugh, a great rumbling burst of laughter as he thought of Detective Harry Jordan’s dog, who knew a killer when he smelled one. He thought Squeeze was a whole lot cleverer than his master.

It was almost time. He sat up, camera at the ready. He was about to make Miss Suzie Walker a star.

In the car on his way home, Harry remembered he hadn’t eaten anything since a blueberry muffin at Ruby’s at seven that morning. He stopped off and picked up a pepperoni pizza, eating a slice as he drove. The dog was slobbering down his neck, dying for some. He laughed.

“No chance, fella,” he said. “I’ll put up with the bone on the antique carpet, but you’re not gonna slobber greasy pizza over my coach hide.”

When he got home, the red light was flashing on the answering machine in the kitchen. He opened a can of Alpo for the dog, took another bite of the pizza, and pressed the play button.

There was just the faint sound of music in the background. He cocked his head to one side, smiling as he recognized the Elgar. Then her voice came on.

“Thanks, Harry,” she said softly.

He stared at the machine, waiting for more. But that was it. He rewound the tape and played it back. Then he threw back his head and laughed. Malone knew when to
be a woman of few but meaningful words. And there was a definite purr in her voice when she had said
Harry
.

Still smiling, he poured himself a shot of Jim Beam, tossed in a few ice cubes, picked up the box with the pizza, and walked into the living room. He checked the VCR, then rewound the tape.

Hurling himself into his old leather chair, he switched it on. Mallory Malone’s face was right there in his living room. That same bright, sunshiny smile that had been specially for him last night now lit up the screen for millions of viewers. Her eyes gleamed like wet sapphires as she spoke movingly of the English billionaire’s brain-damaged wife, locked silently away in an institution. And then she showed stills of the old goat cavorting naked with three young beauties.

“This man can forget,” she said in her low gentle voice. “But should we? Ask yourselves that question when you lie sleepless in bed tonight, just the way I shall, thinking about her. Ask yourself if there should not be some justice in the world for abused women like her. Ask yourself if this might not have been you.”

She looked directly into the camera for a second, then lowered her delicious lashes, her eyes cloudy with unshed tears. In that second she had taken the audience into her world, she had involved them in the cause of the abused wife.

Harry thought she was either a great actress or she really meant it. Then he remembered that brief instant at dinner, when she had looked so lost and forlorn. “The least interesting woman in the world,” she had called herself. At that moment, he could have sworn she meant it.

Mallory was more than just an enigma: she was a woman with secrets, and she was holding out on him.

Picking up the phone, he dialed her home number.

“Hello?” she said in a sleepy voice.

He glanced guiltily at his watch. It was eleven thirty. “Ms. Malone?” he said. He heard her sigh.

“Call me Mallory.”

“Mallory.” He enjoyed saying her name.

“Yes, Harry?”

“I didn’t realize it was so late. I’m sorry,” he said, smiling and not sorry at all.