Reign (41 page)

"I really don't know. I thought that's what the police were for."

"You know the circumstances. You see any other possibility?"

"That's not what I am paid for. It's you, I believe, who gets a check from the town. Do you have any other questions? It's very late," Steinberg said, glancing at the wall clock, whose hands read one-thirty in the morning.

"No. Not right now."

Steinberg stood up. "Robert
Leibowitz
, who will be Mr. Harper's attorney, is flying down from New York. I trust that he will not be questioned further until Mr.
Leibowitz
arrives."

"Of course not."
God damn
, Munro thought,
I wish I didn't feel like a kid in the principal's office around this guy
. He stood up as well, thanked Steinberg, and was left alone with his thoughts and a feeling of triumph.

He knew it. He knew all along that there was more to that fucking theatre than met the eye. Accidents, bullshit. He had known that it was only a matter of time before a flat-out obvious-as-hell murder took place. But now the question was, had Harper done it all? Did his original alibis stand up? And if they didn't, why had he done the
nasties
? Other than the crime of passion/lovers' quarrel that had killed the Franklin woman, the other deaths didn't fit into any pattern that he had ever heard of. Serial killers didn't coolly and methodically snuff their coworkers over a period of months — that was stupid. It would be impossible to evade capture. If you had a lust to merely kill people, you offed strangers. Hell, you could do that for years and not get caught — the Green River killings were proof of that.

As for a highly motivated series of killings, Munro could understand why Harper might want to kill Hamilton's wife, but why the assistant stage manager? And for crissake, why a janitor? Just to throw the attention off the intended victim? That was right out of Agatha Christie, and as improbable in reality as it was clever on paper.

Still, with all the doubts, one thing was for damn sure — he had the guy who killed Donna Franklin. Locked doors, caught with the corpse, no doubt about it. He had even fucked her before he killed her, if the wadded towel in the bed was any indication. Hell, maybe he'd even done it again while he was strangling her. The State Police lab could determine that.

The son of a bitch was caught with his pants down, all right. It would take more than a fancy New York lawyer to get him out of this. Yeah, Donna Franklin's killer was safely under lock and key, and the royal bastard would stay there.

What a horribly vacillating thing the mind is
, Dennis Hamilton thought, lingering over the breakfast he had made himself. His thoughts had swung between two poles innumerable times that morning. At one moment he was certain that the Emperor had killed Donna Franklin, and at others he believed that it might really be Sid.

In his way Sid had loved Donna, and to Dennis's best knowledge he had never committed a violent act in his life. Still, the unpleasant and newly discovered truth remained that anyone was capable of murder. What Robin had planned to do to Ann was proof of that.

But not Sid
, he thought anew. Not Sid killing Donna. That was unimaginable.

What remained then, behind locked doors and windows? Only a creature to whom doors and windows meant nothing, because he was incorporeal. The Emperor. But he could not have killed Donna, could he, for the very reason that he was incorporeal.

Then that left only Sid, but Sid could not have killed Donna because . . .

And on and on it went. He welcomed this inner debate, as inconclusive as it was, for it kept his mind busy, kept the terrible depression at bay. It seemed that the people on whom he depended, the people he loved, were being taken away from him.
We draw strength from those we love
, the Emperor had told him. God, how true that was. And when those we love are gone, how empty our lives can become. Robin, Donna, Tommy, and yes, even simple Harry
Ruhl
, who had brightened Dennis's days with his sweet, innocent charm.

And now Sid was gone too, Dennis's right hand for over two decades. It seemed callous, and he felt guilty as he realized it, but he would miss Sid most of all. Dennis had not always treated him kindly, but Sid had always stuck by him, and Dennis loved him for it. He would do everything he could, short of perjury, to prove Sid's innocence.

Dennis put the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, then went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. Last night Steinberg had suggested getting someone to replace Sid for the time being, but Dennis had declined. He would do for himself for a change. He felt the need to be alone, with only one exception to his solitude, someone he desperately needed to see and talk to.

Dennis waited for Ann Deems outside, under the marquee. The cold air bit his lungs as he breathed it in, and the sensation pleased him. The pain proved he was still alive.

Terri Deems arrived alone at eight-thirty, and Dennis went back into the theatre lobby and waited in the coat room until she passed, then went back outside. Ann arrived just before nine o'clock. She was bundled in a maroon coat and a gray cloche, and looked, Dennis thought, absolutely wonderful.

She saw him as she began to cross the street from the parking lot, and her steps slowed. He walked across the empty street toward her, and she took his arm. Tears hung in her eyes.

"I heard," she said in a choked voice. "I heard on the radio this morning. Dennis, is it true? Did Sid? . . .”

"No," he said. "It looks that way, but I don't believe he could have. I told you how he felt about Donna."

"And I know how she felt about him. It wasn't so much what she said as how she acted when he came into the office."

They walked inside and sat, still in their coats, on an upholstered bench in the lobby, where he told her everything that had happened the previous night. Ann cried in his arms over the loss of Donna, and they sat in silence for a long time. Finally he spoke.

"I wanted you to know something — about what Terri told you. This may be hard to understand . . . but maybe no harder than a lot of other things that have been happening."

He took a deep breath and looked down at the dark, swirling colors of the giant Oriental rug. He had to tell her. He could not let her think Terri a liar. "I'm afraid that she may have been partially right about the other night. Not that I seduced her — I didn't. That's the truth. But I may have said some things that . . . may have given her the wrong impression. I've been having lapses in memory, in judgment too, I'm afraid. These deaths, these . . .
losses
have hurt me, weakened me. It's as though I'm . . . not myself sometimes." He gathered the courage to look at her. "Can you understand that? And can you forgive me?"

"I can always forgive you," she said, taking his hand. "I know you, Dennis. I've known you for so long, and I know that you're a good man. Terri is . . . well, she's confused. I think it would be easy for her to misunderstand what might be only a sign of approach, of affection, for something else."

"I'm glad you believe me, Ann. I needed you before, but I need you more than ever now."

"You have me. For as long as you want."

"You may regret saying that," he told her, with the hint of a smile. "What do you mean?"

"I don't want this to sound callous, but we're going on with
Craddock
. John and I talked it over last night — poor man, I think it was harder for him than it was for me. He treated Donna like a daughter for years. But we decided it would serve no purpose to delay the show. That's why Donna and Tommy and . . . and Robin were here. And I won't leave the area anyway — not as long as Sid's in jail. It won't be an ideal situation. It'll be harder than ever for the show to come off on time, but we can do it. If we have your help."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Take over
Donna's
position. You know the job, you know everything that it would take someone else months to learn. Donna was irreplaceable, we all know that. But if anyone can come close to what she did, it's you. And John agrees with me."

He had feared she would hesitate, claiming ignorance or inability, but she did not, and love and admiration surged through him as he saw her nod, heard her say, "All right. I'll do it. If you and John think I can, then I can. I only have one request.”

“And that is?"

"I want to move in here. Into the building, in one of the vacant fourth floor suites."

Dennis felt ice in the pit of his stomach. "No, Ann. No."

"Dennis, I have to. I've seen what
Donna's
job was like. She had to be accessible to John at all times."

He sought for an excuse to keep her out of the building. "But what about Terri? You want her to live alone?"

"I never see her now as it is. I think we'd both be more comfortable if we were apart for a while. Maybe that's a coward's way out, but I just can't bear any more confrontations with her."

"No. It's too dangerous."

"Dangerous?"

"
Yes
. There have been four deaths in this building."

"And they all have explanations, Dennis. Tommy and Robin's deaths were both accidental, Harry, as impossible as it seems, had to be a suicide, and . . ." She trailed off.

"And Sid killed Donna? Is that what you think?"

"What else is there to think, Dennis? After what you told me about the two of them being the only ones there? I agree, it seems incredible that Sid could do such a thing, but what other explanation is there? I like Sid too, and if you could give me another possibility I'd grab onto it."

"He didn't do it, Ann."

"You say that as his best friend, but do you really believe it?"

Dennis thought about Sid and Donna and the Emperor's hand going through the wall, his own fingers feeling nothing but air where the Emperor stood, thought about Terri's accusation, thought about how real artists' creations could be. "I don't know," he said. "I really don't know."

"I'm moving in, Dennis. That's the only way I'll agree."

"Then you can't agree," he said, calling her bluff. "You cannot move in here. In fact, Whitney's moving out tomorrow —
Marvella's
daughter finally found a place that's suitable. But even if she hadn't, I'd have the two of them put in a hotel, whether
Marvella
kicked and screamed or not."

"All right, Dennis. I'll stay at home then. But I think you're being too cautious.”

“I don't," he said. "Trust me."

~ * ~

Little work was done in the Venetian Theatre offices that day. Robert
Leibowitz
, Sid's attorney, spoke with Steinberg, Dennis, and Curt for hours, then spent nearly as much time in Sid's suite in the company of a policeman. By late afternoon, Dennis felt exhausted, and when Steinberg asked him to join him for dinner, at first he declined.

"Come on, Dennis," Steinberg said. "It'll be good for you to get away from the building for a while. Besides, your own cooking could be fatal, you know." So he agreed to meet John at six-thirty, when they would walk together to the Inn.

When he arrived in the lobby, he saw Whitney sitting on a chair, swinging her short legs back and forth. When she looked up, her expression was far removed from her usual childish glow of wonder. "Hello, Whitney," he said, smiling at her, but she did not smile back.

"Hello, Mr. Hamilton."

"Waiting for your grandmother?"

She nodded. "We're going to McDonald's. Then we're gonna work in the shop tonight. I'm gonna help."

"Ah. Are you excited about going home?"

"Yeah," she said. "It'll be okay." She looked down for a moment, then said with juvenile candor, "Mr. Hamilton, is it true about Sid? Did he really hurt — kill Donna?"

"I don't know, Whitney. I'd rather believe not."

"I don't think he did," the girl said. "He loved her too much to hurt her. He never hurt me, and he got mad at me sometimes."

Dennis smiled, blessing the trust of children, wishing that it remained in himself. "I think you may be right, Whitney. I hope so anyway."

"Then did someone else do it?"

"I . . . I don't know. It could be, I suppose."

"I'm not afraid.
Grandma'll
take care of me."

"I'm sure she will." As if on cue, the elevator doors opened, and
Marvella
stepped out. "Hello,
Marvella
."

"Dennis," she said, and nodded to him. She looked as though she had been crying. "Awful thing, awful thing."

He nodded back, and without another word she took her granddaughter's hand and they left the building.

Dinner was mercifully bereft of any discussion of the killing, but it was there all the same, a ghostly presence, impossible to ignore, that sat at the table with them over each course, that ingratiated itself in every bite of food, every word they spoke.

"You didn't eat very much," Steinberg observed as the waiter cleared away Dennis's half-eaten dessert.

"Not much of an appetite."

"You need exercise. When's the last time you had a swim?"