The Killing Edge (14 page)

“Having an affair?”

“They weren't polishing the brass work.”

Chapter Eight

Will Barnes stepped back from the dining room table and looked at it with satisfaction. He supposed the good silver needed polishing, but in dim candlelight no one would notice. He and L.C. would sit at the foot and head of the table, with a kid on either side. He took two wine glasses from the breakfront and held them up to the light before placing them at the adults' places. Hell, let the kids have a little too.

He moved back to the breakfront and took down two additional wine glasses and placed them at each side of the table, and then laughed at the transparency of his own motives. A little wine for the kids might make them sleepy and ready for bed earlier.

In the kitchen he checked the oven and saw that the leg of lamb was coming along nicely, and that the new potatoes by its side were browning properly. The broccoli was cooked and warming. He'd finish the hollandaise sauce in the blender near dinner time.

He made martinis and poured a finger for taste.

“That's cheating,” a soft voice said from behind him as her arms went around his waist.

Will turned to face L.C. “I didn't hear you.”

“You were too busy catching a quick drink. Shame.” She gave him a brief kiss. “Do I have information for you.”

“You know, I think that's the first time in years I've seen you in a dress.”

“Uh huh.” She reached into her handbag and pulled out a small pad. “You've got to hear. I'm really very excited.”

“A drink first.” He took frosted glasses from the freezer and poured two martinis. He raised his glass. “To Laura in a dress.”

“Oh, come on.” She grabbed his sleeve and led him toward the living room, but stopped at the dining table. “It's beautiful.”

“Us sadistic cops have more sides than you realize.” He followed her to the couch. “You know, L.C., I spend twice as much time worrying over the department budget than I do using a rubber hose on suspects.”

She sat next to him on the couch with her feet curled under her. “I think I've come across something significant. You know Dore Warren?”

“Ought to. Recently we've warned her for driving under the influence. She's evidently gone to pieces since Hal left.”

“More than that. That woman is an absolute fanatic over her husband and Mauve Bridger. It seems that Hal and Mauve had something going last spring and summer. It's what caused the breakup of the marriage.”

Will put his hand on her knee. “Come on, let's not spend an evening with that crap.”

“Dore was going to name Mauve corespondent.”

“And half the women in town.”

“Please pay attention. I've got something here.”

“Honey, Hal Warren had the money, the time and a big boat. It was probably the largest floating orgy this side of Rome.”

“There's more. The night of the murder, Dore left a cocktail party at the Brewer's at seven. I talked to Marcia Brewer and she's positive of the time. But! Dore's maid, Jill Slater, says she didn't get home until almost nine. There's a missing two hours there. And her body. I don't know if you've seen her recently, but she's strong as an ox.”

Will looked thoughtful and sipped on his cocktail. “We're still working on a couple of other angles. It's so damn iffy, I don't even think I have a right to talk to her about it.”

“L.C.!” The jubilant voice called from the doorway.

She waved. “Hi, Chris.”

“You're a mess,” Will said to his son. “You're covered in grease and we're going to eat in a few minutes.”

The boy looked down at his spattered shirt and jeans. “I know. I took the engine out and I'm having trouble. L.C., could you …”

“No!” Will snapped. “Damn it, Chris, I told you to leave the engine alone.”

“I know, Pop, but we had two days off from school cuz of the snow and I didn't have anything else to do.”

“You could have shoveled snow for money.”

“Let me look at it,” L.C. said as she took the boy's arm and followed him to the garage.

Will stepped toward them as the phone rang. “Now wait a minute …” As they disappeared into the garage he angrily snatched up the phone. “Barnes here.”

“Pat Pasquale, Will. I've got something on Stanley Peckham.”

Will glared toward the garage as he told Pat to continue.

After fifty-five minutes Will slammed the blender into the sink. The sauce had gotten cold and he took a pull on his third martini. He could picture the roast in the oven, the perfectly pink leg of lamb gradually turning black. Impatiently, he threw open the garage door and stepped inside.

Chris, tall and blond like his mother, was holding an extension lamp overhead by the ten year old VW, while L.C. bent deep into the rear engine compartment.

“Damn it, Laura! Aren't you done yet?”

“Tighten that one,” she said to Chris. There was a smudge of grease on her cheek and a streak across her breast. “Almost through, darling. We can't stop at this point.” She pushed hair back from her eyes.

“You're a mess.”

She looked down at her blouse. “Oh. Do you have something I can put on?”

He shook his head and led her toward his bedroom. “I've got some army coveralls I use when I go to the range.” He tossed the clothes at her as she pushed down her skirt. He looked at her and swallowed. “Don't do this to me.”

“Tonight, when the kids are asleep,” she whispered in his ear.

“I'll be here, and awake.”

An hour later Will looked morosely down at the well done leg of lamb and the mushy sauceless broccoli. He poured more wine as L.C. and Chris talked animatedly at the foot of the table.

“Where's your sister?” he asked his son.

“I'll get her, Pop.”

He poured more wine into his glass and the boy's. “Early to bed.…”

She smiled. “You know, that cam shaft isn't fitting right.”

“Hi, L.C.” Katherine Barnes stood in the doorway encased in a long white gown pulled tight at the neck and falling over her feet. She smiled radiantly at L.C., and gave her father a wave before sitting at her place. “Meat. Ugh!”

“Since when do we come to the dinner table in our nightgown?” Will asked.

“I am going to wear white for evermore.”

“Do they make white blue jeans?”

“Emily Dickinson always wore white.” The young girl looked toward the ceiling in supplication.
“My life closed twice before its close. It yet remains to see
…”

“If immortality unveil a third event to me,”
L.C. responded softly.

“You know Emily Dickinson?”

“A little.”

“Drink your wine, children” Will said.

As the meal began, Will glanced at L.C. at the end of the table. She returned the look for a long moment before looking back at her plate. “By the way,” he said. “Pat called me. He did some further checking on your friend, the Beast. Seems that he had a buddy clock him in at work the night of the murder. He never arrived at the club until ten.”

“Ten? That gave him plenty of time, but I'm not sure, Will. What about Dore Warren?”

“Stanley already has a record for attacking women. We've put out an APB on him.”

“Aren't you going to talk to Dore or Hal Warren?”

“Not until I finish with Stanley.”

“I still think that Dore …”

“Dore didn't screw Mauve Bridger that day. You're the one who's been harping on the fact that she had sexual intercourse before she was killed.”

“Daddy!” Katherine stood by her place with a look of utter disgust on her face. “At the dinner table.”

“Sit down, hon.”

“I can't listen to you talk that way and watch you eat the flesh of dead animals.”

“Katherine! Damn it! Sit down!”

The young girl gave a perplexed look, a small cry, and ran from the room. Will threw his napkin on the table in disgust. “Now, what in hell is that all about?”

“You forgot that she became a vegetarian last week,” Chris said.

“Oh, Jesus.”

“I'll see about her,” L.C. said.

After he and Chris finished the dishes, Will debated for a short while and then went to the bedroom where L.C. and Katherine were still closeted. From outside the door he could hear the drone of their intent voices, and he returned to the living room to turn on the TV and watch a ball game.

It was after eleven when he went back to his daughter's bedroom and eased the door open.

L.C. sat on the bed with her head against the wall, while Katherine's arms were around the older woman. Will closed the door and went back to the kitchen wondering how much of a hangover he'd have the next day if he had another drink.

“Do you believe that Raleigh Bridger killed his wife?”

Attorney Noah Washington looked uncomfortable for a moment and blinked. “That's not for me to decide, L.C.”

“Oh, come on, Noah. He's dead, they're both dead. There's no attorney-client relationship anymore.”

The diminutive lawyer tented his fingers and stared at the laminated diplomas on the office wall. “There's a very real question of culpability when it comes to the estate. You see, L.C., if Raleigh were responsible for Mauve's death, the probate court would …”

She held up her hand in exasperation. “O.K., never mind. I'm sorry I raised the question.”

“Exactly why did you want to see me?”

“I'm trying to locate Hal Warren.”

“Not you too, L.C.?”

“What does that mean?”

“I'm Hal's attorney also, and can't say more.”

“You know something, Noah? You're a veritable font of information. I am not involved, nor have I ever been involved with Hal Warren. But I do need to locate him. I've called his apartment in New York, and there's no answer. I've checked with the marina on Long Island, and they tell me that his boat left a month ago.”

“He often takes extended trips.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

“Hal Warren is a very wealthy man. As far as I know, he's never held a job, and has devoted his life to doing exactly what Hal Warren wants to do. If his boat is gone, and he's not at his apartment, I can only assume that he's gone South. In fact, it's more than possible. I can tell you this, since it's a matter of record that I handle the trust fund and all of Hal's monetary affairs; his last bank statement shows that he withdrew $10,000 about the time the boat left the marina.”

“What about his mail, his personal affairs?”

“Everything comes to me until I hear from Hal as to where he wants it forwarded.”

“What would happen to the trust fund if something were to happen to him?”

“At the present time, Dore would have the major claim against the estate.”

The man who answered the door looked vaguely familiar, and it annoyed her that she couldn't place him. It didn't seem logical that she'd know the inhabitant of a basement apartment in a large Fifth Avenue apartment building. She looked again at the sign over the door. It still read,
SUPERINTENDENT
.

He folded his arms and leaned against the door frame. “You rang the bell which means there's a good chance that you want something.”

“I'm sorry. You are the super?”

“The sign says I am.”

“I didn't mean to stare. You look familiar and I thought perhaps we'd met.”

He smiled. “You might have seen me on ‘Winds of Hope' two years ago. I played Doctor Albert Saunders until I said the wrong thing to the right person at a party one night. I found out the following week that Doctor Saunders had developed a rare but incurable blood disease.”

L.C. laughed. “I think I had the flu two years ago and must have watched you. Now you're the …”

He sighed. “Such is the life of a thespian. What can I do for you?”

“I'm looking for Hal Warren.”

“He's away.”

“Yes, I know. I have some things in the apartment and he gave me this note.” She handed the superintendent a note typed on embossed paper with a scrawled signature:

To Whom It May Concern:

Please admit Mrs. L.C. Converse to my apartment at 125 Fifth Avenue, New York, in order that she may remove some personal items.

The super flipped the note between his fingers. “It's a little unusual. What items did you want to take?”

L.C. tried to blush. “A few, ah, personal letters.”

The actor nodded knowingly. “Wait until I get my keys.”

The apartment had high ceilings and was immaculate, as if the occupant would momentarily return. At a discreet distance the superintendent followed her passage through the six rooms.

She spent little time in the living room and moved into the bedroom with adjoining dressing room and began to open drawers and feel under clothing as if looking for a packet of torrid love letters. The clothing was arranged very methodically, shirts, socks, underwear, handkerchiefs and accessories. She smiled at the actor-superintendent and slipped into the bathroom and locked the door.

The medicine chest was filled with the usual variety of items: razors, tooth brushes, and shaving cream. There was nothing in the apartment to indicate that a man had packed for a lengthy trip.

The super was leaning against the bedroom door as she left the bathroom.

“One more place.” In the study off the living room she found two electric bills, a phone bill and three advertisements, which she put into her purse. “Thank you very much.”

“Glad you found them,” he replied.

She called Will from a phone booth in the garage where the car was parked. “He's disappeared. There's no sign of his taking anything from the apartment.”