But he was nervous about ringing the bell again. She was an uptight character, that was for damn sure. Who knows how she might react, even though he was being real polite, just returning her mug? Even though he’d gotten rid of the chaplain for her? He bounced the mug up and down on his knee and tried to balance out between how cold he was and how offended she might get.
* * *
fu/lfuny filtfl*( 331
s/
]il6 taxi drove on, through Gresham, through Kelso, through Sandy. Route 26 picked up a name, Mount Hood Highway. The grade steepened. The old V-8 dug deep and rumbled upward.
“Who is it?” Harper asked.
“The key is in Poulton’s report from Spokane.”
“It is?”
He nodded. “Big and obvious. But it took me some time to spot it.”
“The UPS thing? We went through all of that.”
He shook his head. “No, before that. The Hertz thing. The rental car.”
A
Jfty/Me&t came back up the basement stairs with a screwdriver in her hand. It was the third-largest she had, about eight inches long, with a blade fine enough to slip between the can and the lid, but broad enough to make an effective lever.
“I think this is the best one,” she said. “You know, for the purpose.”
The visitor looked at it from a distance. “I’m sure it’s fine. As long as you’re comfortable with it. You’ll be using it, not me.”
Scimeca nodded.
“I think it’s good,” she said.
“So where’s your bathroom?”
“Upstairs.”
“Want to show me?”
up ”
Sure.
“Bring the paint,” the visitor said. “And the screwdriver.”
Scimeca went back to the kitchen and picked up the can.
“Do we need the stirring stick too?” she called.
The visitor hesitated. New procedure, needs a. new technique.
“Yes, bring the stirring stick.”
The stick was about twelve inches long, and Scimeca clasped it together with the screwdriver in her left hand. Picked up the can by the handle with her right.
“This way,” she said.
She led the way out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Across the upstairs hallway and into her bedroom. Across the bedroom and into the bathroom.
“This is it,” she said.
332
l”fc<4 The visitor looked it over, and felt like an expert on bathrooms. This one was the fifth, after all. It was medium-budget, probably. A little old-fashioned. But it suited the age of the house. A fancy marble confection would have looked wrong. "Put the stuff down on the floor, OK?" Scimeca bent and put the can down. The metal made a faint liquid clonk as it hit the tile. She folded the wire handle down and balanced the screwdriver and the stick across the lid. The visitor came out with a folded garbage sack, black plastic, from a coat pocket. Shook it out and held it open. "I need you to put your clothes in here." 4/ ile got out of the car, with the mug in his hand. Walked around the hood and into the driveway. Up the looping path. Up the porch steps. He juggled the mug into the other hand, ready to ring the bell. Then he paused. It was very quiet inside. No piano music. Was that good or bad? She was kind of obsessive, always playing the same thing over and over again. Probably didn't like being interrupted in the middle of it. But the fact that she wasn't playing might mean she was doing something else important. Maybe taking a nap. The Bureau guy said she got up at six. Maybe she took a siesta in the afternoon. Maybe she was reading a book. Whatever she was doing, she probably wasn't just sitting there hoping he'd come to her door. She hadn't shown any inclinations along those lines before. He stood there, indecisive, his hand held out a foot away from her bell. Then he dropped it to his side and turned around and went back down the steps to the path. Back down the path to the driveway. Back around the hood of his car. He got in and leaned over and stood the mug upright in the passenger footwell.