Sleep of the Innocent (27 page)

“It could be worse,” said Sanders. “You set off the alarm and collected a lot of police protection.”

“And I'm starved,” she added plaintively. “I haven't had any breakfast. I didn't like to use their kitchen, somehow.”

“Well, take Sergeant Lucas back next door with you and get yourself some breakfast,” said Sanders. “We're off.”

“Will she be . . .” Rob Lucas's voice trailed off in an unasked question.

“Safe? She should be. Safe as anyone is, anyway. See you later, Rob.”

“Are you sure of this?” asked Sanders as they headed for the car.

“Yeah,” said Dubinsky. “We just want to get there before they're all finished downtown, that's all. Someone will be there with a warrant.”

Eight minutes later they pulled up in front of a boxy, four-story, pale yellow apartment building, surrounded by the grimy detritus of spring. Another gray-suited man slid out of a dark blue Pontiac parked ahead of them and walked back.

“You got it?” asked Dubinsky.

The newcomer patted his jacket pocket.

“Is he back yet?”

He shook his head.

“Give it to me, then. You wait here. We might need you later.”

The apartment was on the top floor. The superintendent had looked at the warrant, considered the possibility that they were capable of breaking down the door, and had ridden up with them, grumbling, in the elevator. “I dunno,” he said as he unlocked the door. “I could get in real trouble about this, you know. He don't like people going in his apartment. Not even to fix things. I won't be responsible,” he added, in final and total rejection of the entire procedure, and left.

It was a low-ceilinged, large-roomed two-bedroom apartment with a rather grubby and old-fashioned kitchen. Buildings like it went up in thousands in the fifties and have remained, squatting in a homely fashion, in areas where it doesn't make financial sense to rip them down and replace them with even homelier structures. The two men looked around, and headed in opposite directions.

Sanders started in the bedroom, moving with an easy rhythm through a large chest of drawers, on the principle of beginning with the easy stuff. Nothing. He opened the closet and looked in jacket pockets; no better luck. Two suitcases stood upright on the shelf above. As he pulled them down, a green tweed hat, narrow of brim and countrified, fell with them. He picked it up with a grin and started for the kitchen. First blood.

A low whistle greeted him as he walked into the room. “You got something?” he asked.

Dubinsky was standing on a chair, his head in a cabinet next to the stove. “Maybe,” he said, his voice muffled somewhat. “This ceiling is false. Leads into the kitchen fan, I think.” He pushed up one side of the cream-colored, dirty board that formed the ceiling inside the cabinet. There was a thump as something moved. “Here,” he said, “take this crap.” And he began handing piles of plates down to his partner. “I need some room.” Dubinsky raised the board an inch or two and began to slide it over. It moved about five inches and stopped. “Shit,” he muttered, and then reached into the opening he had just created. “There it is,” he said. “Or at least, there something is.” And with infinite delicacy, he pulled and twisted and maneuvered until a small, elegant, dark brown attaché case with gold hinges and clasps dropped down into his hands.

Sanders had it from him before he could blink. “Locked?” he asked.

“It was,” said Dubinsky, climbing down. “But it looks like someone already did a number on the lock.” He shoved a pile of dirty dishes to one side and set the attaché case down on the counter, pushed in the half-moon-shaped fastenings, and opened it up.

There, lying in piles, each one fastened with a paper wrapper, was about as much neat, clean, sparkling new money as either of them could remember having seen in one place before. “A million?” said Sanders.

“Bit more,” said Dubinsky in the confident tones of one who is never wrong. Suddenly he raised a warning hand. “The elevator.” In a second he was lounging in the kitchen door, blocking it completely.

Sanders shifted quietly over and leaned back against the counter.

They heard the rattle of a key in the door and then furious footsteps across the living room. A disembodied voice struck Sanders's ears before the face appeared in the doorway. “What in hell do you guys think you're doing?”

“Hi, Eric,” said Sanders. His voice was suspiciously mild, even conciliatory. “We needed a word with you. The super let us in.”

“So I heard,” said Eric Patterson, giving Ed Dubinsky a friendly push into the kitchen. He glanced at their lounging bodies and relaxed. “I must talk to him. He's not supposed to do that.” Suddenly his eye fell on the pile of dishes—clean dishes—sitting on the counter beside the stove. One glance at the cupboard, its door discreetly shut again, and his hand darted into his jacket, returning furnished with a cumbersome police-issue revolver. “Move, Ed,” he said. Dubinsky shifted over a foot or two, revealing the open attaché case. “I thought so. Come on, move. All the way over beside the Inspector.” Patterson edged over to take Dubinsky's place, reaching back with one hand to shut the lid on the case. Without taking his eyes off his two colleagues, he picked up the money and began to back slowly out of the room. “Sorry, pals. But this is mine.”

At the precise moment when the plainclothes officer grabbed Eric Patterson in an enormous hug from behind, Dubinsky and Sanders were flinging themselves in opposite directions down to the floor. Patterson's bullet ricocheted alarmingly between stove and refrigerator before coming to its final rest peacefully under the counter. By the time the two men raised their heads, Patterson's hands were cuffed behind his back.

“Nicely done,” said Sanders.

“We didn't have anything to worry about anyway,” said Dubinsky. “Patterson's a crummy shot. Always was.”

They were interrupted by the ping of the elevator and a light knock on the door. Dubinsky darted by Patterson and moved swiftly and noiselessly across the living room.

The knock was repeated, louder this time.

“Listen, Patterson, you asshole. I know you're in there. I saw you go in. You damn well better answer the door.” The voice was odd, hoarse, and high-pitched, as if the speaker had a cold.

“Glory days,” murmured Dubinsky. “A two-for-one.” He opened the door in one swift movement, reached out, and grabbed the man standing there, first by the hair, then by his arm. “Hi, Randy,” he said. “We wanted to talk to you.”

But the thin-faced bookkeeper was, for once, at a loss for words.

“The nurse is arranging an appointment with Allen Kresnick to look at that arm. Since broken bones aren't really my thing,” said the doctor. Grainne sank into an expensive leather chair in the soothing, dark-paneled office. “It would be helpful, of course, if we could send over the original X-rays. Where did you say you had it looked after?”

Grainne's eyes widened in panic. “Uh—”

“We didn't, actually,” said Lucas. “As a matter of fact, I set it.”

Dr. McCaul turned to him in disbelief. “You? When did you take up medicine, Rob?”

“I did a fairly comprehensive course in first aid,” he said casually. “As part of my police training. Under the circumstances, it was all that could be done. I doubt if Miss Hunter remembers much about it—she had a high fever at the time.”

“And you treated her for that as well.”

“Sort of,” he said modestly.

“That's quite a course the police department runs. And I suppose you just happened to have plaster around—” Lucas opened his mouth to speak but was cut off. “—in case you felt like doing some sculpture or something.” He wrote busily as he spoke. “You're in remarkably good shape in spite of it all, Miss Hunter. You need to take it easy for a while still—eat well, build yourself up. That other problem should clear up by itself. The foot has healed beautifully. I'd like to see you in two weeks; call me if you have any problems before that. And, Rob,” he added, “restrain yourself from amateur surgery, will you?”

“What other problem, my beloved?” said Lucas.

“I'm not your beloved, and it's none of your business,” said Grainne sharply.

“Yes, you are. I might not be
your
beloved, but you certainly are mine, and I shall cling to you like glue as long as I possibly can. But I am willing to admit that it's none of my business,” he said humbly. “I'm getting rather arrogant about your physical well-being, I suppose. I keep trying to play Pygmalion, and you're nothing at all like Galatea. I probably wouldn't like you if you were.”

Hurt feelings vibrated underneath the inconsequential talk, and Grainne winced. “Well, I can't discuss it here on the street, anyway. Really. Take me down there,” she said, pointing to a small pastry shop a few steps below ground level, “and buy me an espresso—no, a cappuccino—and a huge pastry, and I'll tell you.”

Grainne finished her giant-sized chocolate éclair, pushed aside her plate, and pulled the cappuccino in its glass cup closer to her. She began to stir the whipped cream and chocolate shavings into it with the dedication of an artist trying to create a smooth, perfect color. She looked up, opened her mouth, turned pink, and stirred again.

“What is it?” asked Lucas. Vague alarms stirred in his brain. “You're all right, aren't you? There isn't something that he told you—”

“What do you mean?” she asked. “Are you afraid I have AIDS or something? I don't. Neilson was terrified of infection. He took more precautions than—”

“That was the last thing on my mind,” interrupted Lucas, remembering the contents of Neilson's drawers.

“Anyway, it's less drastic than that. But along the same lines—”

“Along the same lines?” said Lucas, puzzled. “You mean— No. I would have noticed.”

“Don't be stupid,” she snapped. “And try to get your mind away from whatever sexually transmitted disease course you once took. Pregnancy, you idiot—that's what we were discussing. I'm over a week late, and the thought had occurred to me that we had spent a lot of time in bed without really giving much consideration to consequences.”

He picked up her hand. “Nothing could please me more,” he said gravely, “as long as—”

“Well, nothing could please me less right now. I've finally reached the point where I know I can face school next year and really work and—” She paused, and her eyes filled with tears. “Would it really?” she asked. “Is that how you honestly feel? Or are you just being gallant and nice?”

“I was going to add, as long as you were pleased. But yes, that's how I feel—for God's sake, Grainne, I love you. How else would I feel?”

“Well, your Dr. McCaul says he doesn't think I am. He muttered about shock and weight loss and fever and all those things. He recommended I eat more and get healthy and come back in two weeks. Then he'll be able to tell. I think I'll have another pastry.”

“Whoa,” said Lucas. “We're going out for dinner in a couple of hours.”

“Well, all right. I wish I had another piece of respectable clothing to put on,” she said, looking down at the overlong skirt she was wearing.

“Don't let Tricia hear you say that, or she'll rush you over to Holt's and buy out the store before you can catch your breath. She's itching to give you something besides a couple of cast-off outfits. I told you my family was dangerous,” he said. “Grainne, will you marry me?” he added in a rush. “And don't answer. Not unless it's a yes. Not yet.”

She looked doubtfully at him and then returned to the earnest contemplation of her coffee. “Look, Robin, you know you don't mean it. Once you recover from all this shock and everything, you'll see I'm not what you thought I was. I'm a very ordinary sort of person. And I can get very edgy and irritable when I'm working. A couple of weeks of me, and you'll be looking for someone else. Why don't you wait and see how you feel in two or three months?”

Lucas burst into laughter. “You certainly aren't what I thought you were. But people never are, are they? Usually you're presented with some wonderful package, and underneath it you keep getting nasty little flashes of meanness and stupidity. But you, my love, you're hard and bitter on the outside, and then inside every layer gets more fascinating until you're down to the diamond at the core. I may even be down to the real you by now. But I'll wait, if that's what you want. How about until tomorrow?”

“Do you often go in for these flights of poetic fancy?” she asked.

He flushed. “Not that often,” he said steadily. “But you won't get rid of me by embarrassing me. I'm determined when I know what I want.”

“Damn it all,” she said, rubbing her temple with her right hand. “I have to get ready, and I have to think. Robin, I need time to think. I'm so confused. And I must find a place of my own. As soon as I'm feeling a little more agile.” She waved her cast in the air. “I can't keep drifting along, living with your stepmother, borrowing her clothes, being pampered, as though nothing mattered anymore.”

“I have a nice big apartment,” he said. “It's a little untidy at the moment,” he admitted. “I haven't put it back together yet. You could help me—I mean, picking out new dishes and things. I hated the old ones anyway. I bought them in one of my to-hell-with-it-all, back-to-the-people moods. And there's room for a piano—even a grand, if you'd like one.”

“Stop it, Robin! You're making me dizzy.” She smiled to take the sting out of the words. “Take me back to the safety of your wicked stepmother's house. You know,” she added, as she stood up, “your wicked stepmother is really quite—”

“I know, I know. Stop making me feel like a louse. She's not nearly as awful as I said. But wait until you meet my father. . . .”

“Is this seat taken?” Harriet's slightly mocking voice cut through Sanders's reverie. He jumped, startled, and half rose as she settled herself into place opposite him. The maître d' snapped her napkin out of the wineglass it was decorating and dropped it onto her lap. “I'll just have some of that,” she said, reaching for the bottle of red wine on the table. As her hand moved, prepared to help itself, the horrified man snatched the glass away and disappeared.

“Harriet, you're going to have learn to be civilized if you eat in places like this. That's not a wineglass. You know that. It's a napkin glass,” said John. “Here, have some of mine.”

Harriet waved the proffered glass away. “I'll wait. Restore my credit with the waiter. Anyway, as you no doubt noticed, that was a white-napkin glass. It's important to be precise. Red-napkin glasses are a different shape.” Harriet's face remained solemn, but her green eyes glinted with malicious laughter, making his heart lurch like a lovesick adolescent's. The last few days without her had seemed unbearably long.

He picked up her hand and brushed it lightly with his lips. “You won't believe how much I've missed you, Harriet. I think I got used to having you around all the time. It feels like months.”

Harriet's pale cheeks turned pink; she touched his face lightly with one finger and withdrew it hastily. “Then why are we dining here in formal splendor? Instead of eating in some cheerful ethnic haunt? I realize you owe me, John—and I mean, really owe me—for solving your case for you. How many women could recognize someone after four years from a police photograph? But this!” She waved a hand around. “Or is this a belated apology for abandoning me all week?”

His lips tightened. “For chrissake, Harriet, don't. I apologize. I know I should have called, but it's been hellish over there. And a lot of work. I'm only here because I couldn't stand it anymore.”

Harriet brushed aside his complaints with a wave of the hand. “Pay no attention. I'm just bitching. Because I'm starved, and this is the kind of place that serves one minute chunk of meat decorated with two snow peas, a strip of carrot, and a teaspoon of sauce. And I haven't eaten since that Chinese food on Monday. Not properly.” As she reached for John's wine, the waiter rushed over with a new glass and filled it. She raised it solemnly. “
Salut
,” she said, and tasted the wine. “This is a spectacular bottle of wine,” she admitted. “What's happening?”

“Where do you want me to start? Try this—Rob Lucas invited us to dinner. He pays, his choice of restaurant. That's how it goes. And at the moment we seem to be trapped and helpless—we don't even get menus. They told me to sit here, and a bottle of wine appeared. And then you appeared. And all we need now is a loaf of bread.”

“Don't look now,” whispered Harriet, “but here it comes.” She giggled.

Right after the basket of rolls was insinuated into the middle of the table, a pale young woman with a riot of short curly brown hair and enormous gray eyes walked unsteadily through the tables toward them. Her arm was in a grubby cast, supported and partially hidden by a black silk sling; she was swathed dramatically in more black silk, with a ruffle that started at the bust and fell to the floor on one side. She sat down and smiled uncertainly. “I'm Grainne,” she said. “And you must be Harriet, because I know he's Inspector Sanders.” She nodded in John's direction. “Rob is back there issuing instructions of some sort. And if I look peculiar, it's because—”

“Don't apologize. You look marvelous,” said Harriet. “That's a spectacular dress.”

“It's Robin's stepmother's. It's not a very good fit. And I'm sure it's not supposed to trail on the ground like that. Most of my clothes seem to have disappeared somewhere. . . .”

“You didn't seize her clothes as evidence, John, did you? That's going too far.”

“We don't do things like that, do we, Rob?”

“Like what?” asked Rob Lucas as he slipped into the fourth chair.

“Like seizing all my clothes as evidence,” said Grainne.

“It's a thought,” said Lucas. “It would keep you from disappearing again. Much more effective than a subpoena.”

The conversation was cut short by the arrival of plates on which were arranged small slices of something, decorated with a dark reddish brown sauce.

“What is it?” asked Grainne, who appeared to be torn between apprehension and curiosity.

“I hope you don't mind. I ordered ahead,” said Lucas apologetically. “This way you can get what you want. It should be a partridge galantine with game sauce. Since Grainne likes red wine,” he explained, rather obscurely, “and we're celebrating her return to the world. Even if she doesn't have any clothes.” He raised his glass with a tentative smile.

Everyone took a hasty gulp of wine, and silence, heavy and uncomfortable, fell across the table. Grainne glanced quickly around, helped herself to a roll, and concentrated her gaze on Sanders. “I don't know about the rest of you,” she remarked casually, “but I want to know what's going on. And since Rob is slung out, or suspended—”

“No, no,” said Sanders hastily. “On leave, pending an inquiry. That's different.”

“Whatever. He claims he knows nothing. You'll have to tell us.”

Sanders picked up his wineglass and put it down again. He shrugged. “What the hell. What did you want to know?” he asked, nodding at Grainne.

“What about the policeman?” prompted Harriet.

“Patterson? Nothing. He's been sitting in a cell since Tuesday and hasn't said a bloody word to anyone—except his lawyer. He figures he's laughing as long as he keeps his mouth shut. He knows you didn't see him. That means you can't make a positive ID.”

“How does he know?”

“My guess is that you looked straight at him in that apartment and didn't react. That's the only thing he's said so far. To use his words, our evidence isn't worth a pinch of shit and go ahead.”

“But the money! You said that Patterson had more than a million dollars belonging to Carl and that would be proof enough,” said Grainne, turning accusingly to Rob. “How did Patterson get his hands on it?” she asked curiously. “Carl was so damned suspicious of everyone.”

“That was the last million or so that Neilson was able to squeeze out of the company in cash without blowing the whistle on himself,” said Sanders. “Randy was supposed to deliver it to him before he left the country for good. And Patterson had it, all right,” said Sanders. “And we'll get him. Randy is talking so fast, we need revolving teams to get it all down. He swears he never killed anyone—Patterson shot Neilson and the man at the cabin and wounded you,” he added, counting off each one on his fingers. “And killed the Wilson girl. You're lucky the guy really is a lousy shot.”