Marino had the car searchlight out and the beam was licking over the rusting fire escape against the back of the house. All of the windows were closed, the glass glinting darkly. The seat creaked as he moved the light around the empty yard.
“Go on,” he said. “I’m waiting to hear if you’re thinking what I am.”
I stated the obvious. “The sign. The sign on the fence. If the killer thought she had a dog, it should have given him pause. None of his victims had dogs. If they had, the women would probably still be alive.”
“Bingo.”
“And,” I went on, “my suspicion is you’re concluding the killer must have known the sign didn’t mean anything, that Abby – or Henna – didn’t have a dog. And how could he know that?”
“Yo. How could he know that,” Marino echoed slowly, “unless he had a reason to know it?”
I said nothing. He jammed in the cigarette lighter. “Like if maybe he’d been inside the house before.”
“I don’t think so . . .”
“Cut the playing-dumb act, Doc,” he said quietly.
I got out my cigarettes, too, and my hands were trembling.
“I’m picturing it. I think you’re picturing it. Some guy who’s been inside Abby Turnbull’s house. He don’t know her sister’s here, but he does know there ain’t no damn dog. And Miss Turnbull here’s someone he don’t like none too well because she knows something he don’t want anybody in the whole goddam world to know.”
He paused. I could feel him glancing over at me, but I refused to look at him or say a word.
“See, he’s already had his piece of her, right? And maybe he couldn’t help himself when he did his number because he’s got some kind of compulsion, some screw loose, so to speak. He’s worried. He’s worried she’s going to tell. Shit. She’s a goddam reporter. She gets paid to tell people’s dirty secrets. It’s going to come out, what he did.”
Another glance my way, and I remained stonily silent.
“So what’s he do? He decides to whack her and make her look like the other ones. Only little problem is he don’t know about Henna. Don’t know where Abby’s bedroom is either, see, because when he’s been inside the house in the past, he never got any farther than the living room. So he goes in the wrong bedroomHenna’s bedroom-when he breaks in last Friday night. Why? Because that’s the one with the lights on, because Abby’s out of town. Well, it’s too late. He’s committed himself. He’s got to go through with it. He murders her . . .”
“He couldn’t have done it.”
I was trying to keep my voice from shaking. “Boltz would never do such a thing. He’s not a murderer, for God’s sake.”
Silence.
Then Marino slowly looked over at me and flicked an ash. “Interesting. I didn’t mention no names. But since you did, maybe we ought to pursue the subject, go a little deeper.”
I was quiet again. It was catching up to me and I could feel my throat swelling. I refused to cry. Dammit! I wasn’t going to let Marino see me cry! “Listen, Doc,” he said, and his voice was considerably calmer, “I’m not trying to jerk you around, all right? I mean, what you do in private’s none of my damn business, all right? You’re both consenting adults, unattached. But I know about it. I’ve seen his car at your place . . .”
“My house?” I asked, bewildered. “What-”
“Hey. I’m all over this goddam city. You live in the city, right? I know your state car. I know your damn address, and I know his white Audi. I know when I seen it at your house on several occasions over the past few months he wasn’t there taking a deposition . . . ”
“That’s right. Maybe he wasn’t. And it’s none of your business, either.”
“Well, it is.”
He flicked the cigarette butt out the window and lit another one. “It is my business now because of what he done to Miss Turnbull. That makes me wonder what else he’s been doing.”