Out on the Cutting Edge (26 page)

she said. "Exhausted."

"I didn't get a lot of sleep last night. And I've been going all day after an early start."

She drew me inside, closed the door. "Why don't you take a nap right away," she urged. "Do you think you could do that?"

"I'm wound too tight. And I've still got things I have to do."

"Well, at least I can give you a decent cup of coffee. I went out today to one of those yuppie havens where they sell fifty different blends, one more expensive than the next. I think they price it by the bean, and they can tell you where it came from and what kind of animal crap they spread on the fields. I bought a pound each of three different coffees and this electric drip machine that does everything but drink it for you."

"Sounds great."

"I'll pour you a cup. I had them grind it for me. They wanted to sell me a grinder so that every cup I brewed would be at the peak of freshness, but I figured you have to draw the line somewhere."

"I'm sure you're right."

"Taste it, see what you think."

I took a sip, set the cup down on the table. "It's good," I said.

"Just good? Oh, God, I'm sorry, Matt. You had a long day and it was a hard one, too, wasn't it? And I'm running off at the mouth. Why don't you sit down? I'll try to shut up."

"It's all right," I said. "But I'd like to make a phone call first, if you don't mind. I want to call Warren Hoeldtke."

"Paula's father?"

"He should be home now."

"Would you like me to go out while you make the call?"

"No," I said. "Stick around. In fact, you can listen while I talk to him. It'll save saying the same thing twice."

"If you're sure."

I nodded, and she sat down while I picked up the phone and dialed his home number, not bothering to make it collect this time. Mrs.

Hoeldtke answered, and when I asked for him she said, "Mr. Scudder?

He's expecting your call. Just a moment, I'll get him."

When Hoeldtke came on the line he said hello as if bracing himself. "I'm afraid the news is bad," I said.

"Tell me."

"Paula is dead," I said. "She died the second weekend in July. I can't be sure of the precise date."

"How did it happen?"

"She spent the weekend on a boat, she and a gentleman friend and another couple. The other man had a speedboat, some sort of cabin cruiser that he kept at a marina on City Island. The four of them went out on open water."

"And there was an accident?"

"Not exactly," I said. I reached for my cup and had some of my coffee. It was very good coffee. "Boats, fast ones, are in demand these days. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that drug smuggling is a big business."

"Were these other people drug smugglers?"

"No. Paula's companion was a securities analyst. The other man was also on Wall Street, and the other woman ran a crafts gallery on Amsterdam Avenue. They were respectable people. There's no evidence that they even used drugs, let alone dealt in them."

"I see."

"Their boat, however, was one that would lend itself to smuggling.

That made it an attractive target for pirates. This sort of piracy has become very common in the Caribbean. Boat owners down there have learned to carry firearms on board and fire at any other vessel that comes too close. Piracy is less common in northern waters, but it's getting to be a problem. A gang of pirates approached the boat Paula was on, pretending to be a ship in distress. They managed to get on board, and then they did what pirates have always done. They killed everyone and made off with the ship."

"My God," he said.

"I'm sorry," I said. "There's no gentle way to say it. From what I've been able to determine, it was over very quickly. They came onto the ship with their guns drawn and they didn't waste any time before firing them. She wouldn't have suffered long. None of them would have."

"Dear God. How can things like this happen in this day and age?

Piracy, you think of men with gold earrings and peg legs and, and, parrots. Errol Flynn in the movies. It seems like something out of another

time."

"I know."

"Was there anything in the newspapers about this? I don't recall seeing anything."

"No," I said. "There's no official record of the incident."

"Who was the man? And the other couple?"

"I promised someone I'd keep their names out of it. I'll violate that promise if you insist, but I'd rather not."

"Why? Oh, I can probably guess."

"The man was married."

"That was my guess."

"And the other couple was married as well, but not to each other.

So there doesn't seem to be any purpose served by revealing their names, and their surviving families would prefer being spared the embarrassment."

"I can appreciate that," he said.

"I wouldn't keep it under wraps if there were an investigation to pursue, something for the police or the Coast Guard to go after. But the case is closed before it could ever be opened."

"How do you mean? Because Paula and the others are dead?"

"No. Because the pirates themselves are dead. They were all shot down in a dope deal that went sour. It happened a couple of weeks after the piracy, and otherwise I very likely would never have found out anything substantial. But someone I met who knew people on the other end of that dope deal felt free to talk about what he knew, and I got as much of the story as I did."

He had a few more questions and I answered them. I'd had all day to get my story right, so I was prepared for the questions he raised. The last question took a long time coming; I'd expected it early on, but I guess he was reluctant to ask it.

"And the bodies?"

"Overboard."

"Burial at sea," he said. He was silent for a moment, and then he said, "She always loved the water.

When she--" and his voice broke. "When she was a little girl," he said, back in control again, "we spent our summers at the lake, and you couldn't get her out of the water. I called her a water rat, she would swim all day if we let her. She loved it."

He asked if I would hold on while he passed on what I'd reported to his wife. He must have covered the mouthpiece with his hand because I didn't hear anything at all for several minutes. Then she came on and said, "Mr. Scudder? I want to thank you for all you've done."

"I'm sorry to bring you this kind of news, Mrs. Hoeldtke."

"I must have known," she said. "I must have known ever since it happened. Don't you think so? On some level, I think I must have known all along."

"Perhaps."

"At least I don't have to worry anymore," she said. "At least now I know where she is."

Hoeldtke came on again to thank me, and to ask if he owed me money. I told him he didn't. He asked if I was sure of that and I said I was.

I hung up, and Willa said, "That was quite a story. You found out all that today?"

"Last night and this morning. I called him this morning to let him know it looked bad. I wanted to let him prepare himself and his wife before I gave him the details."

" 'Your mother is on the roof.' "

I looked at her.

"You don't know that story? A man's on a business trip and his wife calls him and tells him the cat is dead. And he has a fit. 'How can you say something flat out like that, you could give a person a heart attack. What you have to do is break it to a person gently. You don't call up and say in one breath that the cat climbed up on the roof and fell off and died. First you call up and tell me the cat is on the roof.

Then you call a second time and say people are trying to get the cat down, the Fire Department and all, but it doesn't look good. Then, by the time you call me a third time, I've prepared myself. Then you can tell me the cat is dead.' "

"I think I can see where this is going."

"Of course, because I led off with the punch line. He goes on a business trip and he gets another phone call from his wife, and he says hello, how are you, what's new, and she says, 'Your mother is on the roof.' "

"I guess that's what I was doing. Telling him his daughter was on the roof. Were you able to follow the whole thing by hearing one side of the conversation?"

"I think so. How did you find all this out? I thought you went looking for a crook who used to know Eddie."

"I did."

"How did that lead to Paula?"

"Luck. He didn't know anything about Eddie, but he knew people who took off the pirates in a dope deal. He put me on to somebody, and I asked the right questions, and I learned what I had to learn."

"Pirates on the open sea," she said. "It sounds like something out of an old movie."

"That's what Hoeldtke said."

"Serendipity."

"How's that?"

"Serendipity. Isn't that what you call it when you look for one thing and find something else?"

"It happens all the time in the kind of work I do. But I didn't know there was a word for it."

"Well, there is. What about all that business with her phone and answering machine? And all her clothes and things moved out, but the bed linens left."

"None of it amounted to anything. My guess is she took a lot of her clothes along on the weekend, and probably had other things stowed at an apartment her boyfriend was maintaining. When Flo Edderling went into her room, it looked empty to her, with nothing much visible except for the bedclothing. Then,

while the room was open, one of the other tenants probably appropriated whatever was left, thinking that Paula had left it behind on purpose. The answering machine was left on because she thought she was coming back. None of it turned out to be a clue to anything, but it kept me playing with the case, and then I lucked out and found the solution almost by accident. Or whatever you called it."

"Serendipity. Don't you like the coffee? Is it too strong?"

"There is no such thing. And it's fine."

"You're not drinking it."

"I'm sipping it. I've had gallons of coffee already today, it's been that kind of a day. But I'm enjoying it."

"I guess I don't have too much confidence in it," she said. "After all those months of instant decaf."

"Well, this is a big improvement."

"I'm glad. So you didn't learn anything more about Eddie? And what was on his mind?"

"No," I said. "But then I didn't really expect to."

"Oh."

"Because I already knew."

"I don't follow you."

"Don't you?" I got to my feet. "I already knew what was on Eddie's mind, and what happened to him.

Mrs. Hoeldtke just now told me that she knew all along that her daughter was dead, that the knowledge had to have existed on some level. I knew about Eddie on a more conscious level than the one she was talking about, but I didn't want to know about it. I tried to shut out the knowledge, and I went out there hoping I'd learn something that would prove me wrong."

"Wrong about what?"

"Wrong about what was eating at him. Wrong about how he got killed."

"I thought it was autoerotic asphyxiation." She frowned. "Or are you saying that it was actually suicide?

That he really had the intention of killing himself?"

" 'Your mother is on the roof.' " She looked at me. "I can't break it gently, Willa. I know what happened and I know why. You killed him."

"It was the chloral hydrate," I said. "And the funny thing is it wouldn't have flagged anybody's attention but mine. He only had a very small dose of chloral in him, not enough to have any pronounced effect on him. Certainly not enough to kill him.

"But he was a sober alcoholic, and that meant he shouldn't have any chloral hydrate in him. As far as Eddie was concerned, sobriety was unequivocal. It meant no alcohol and no mood-changing or sedative drugs. He'd tried dicking around with marijuana shortly after he came into the program and he knew that didn't work. He wouldn't take something to help him sleep, not even one of those over-the-counter preparations, let alone a real drug like chloral hydrate. If he couldn't sleep he'd have stayed awake.

Nobody ever died from lack of sleep. That's what they tell you when you first get sober, and God knows I heard it enough myself.

'Nobody ever died from lack of sleep.' Sometimes I wanted to throw a chair at the person who said it, but it turned out they were right."

She was standing with her back to the refrigerator, one hand pressed palm-first against the white surface.

"I'd wanted to find out if he died sober," I went on. "It seemed important to me, maybe because it would have been his one victory in a life that had been nothing but a chain of small defeats. And when I learned about the chloral I couldn't let go of it. I went up to his apartment and I gave it a pretty decent search. If he'd had any pills there, I think I would have found them. Then I came downstairs and found a bottle of chloral hydrate in your medicine cabinet."

"He said he couldn't sleep, that he was going nuts. He wouldn't take a drink or a bottle of beer so I gave him a couple of drops in a cup of coffee."

"That's no good, Willa. I gave you a chance to tell me that after I searched his place."

"Well, you made such a big deal out of it. You made it sound as though giving a sedative to an alcoholic was like giving apples with razor blades in them to Halloween trick-or-treaters. I sort of hinted at it.

I said he might have bought a pill on the street, or somebody might have given him one."

"Coral hydrate."

She looked at me.

"That's what you called it. We had a conversation about it, and you were very good about getting the name of the drug wrong, as though this were the first time you were hearing about it. That was a nice touch, casual as could be, but the timing wasn't so good. Because I was hearing it all just a few minutes after seeing a bottle of liquid chloral in your medicine chest."