“A sleep-over date. Just like our mamas warned us about.”
“How was it?”
“I’m not telling,” I said. “What kind of crossword puzzle did you concoct this week?”
“An easy one. All doubles. Prefixes-‘bi,’ ‘di,’ ‘bis,’ ‘dis.’ Twin. Twain. Binary. Things like that. Try this one: six letters ‘double impression.’”
“Already, I give up.”
“‘Mackle.’ It’s a printer’s term. Kind of a cheat but the fit was so nice. Try this. ‘Double meaning.’ Nine letters.”
“Henry, would you quit that?”
“‘Ambiguity.’ I’ll leave it on your doorstep.”
“No, don’t. I get those things in my head and I can’t get ‘em out.”
He smiled. “You run yet?”
“No, but I’m on my way,” I said, hopping up again. I crossed the grass, glancing back at him with a grin. He was putting suntan oil on his knees, which were already a gorgeous shade of caramel. I wondered how much it really mattered that there was a fifty-year difference in our ages. But then again, I had Charlie Scorsoni to think about. I changed clothes and did my run. And thought about him.
Monday morning, I went in to see Con Dolan at Homicide. He was talking on the phone when I got there, so I sat down at his desk. He was tipped back in his chair, feet jammed against the edge of the desk, the receiver laid loosely against his ear. He was saying, “uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh,” looking bored. He scanned me with care, taking in every detail of my face, as though he were memorizing me all over again, running me through a computer file of known felons, looking for a match. I stared back at him. In moments, I could see the young man in his face, which was sagging now and worn, pouches beneath his eyes, hair slicked down, cheeks turning soft at the jawline as though the flesh were beginning to warm and melt. The skin on his neck had collapsed into a series of fine folds, reddened and bulging slightly over his starched shirt collar. I feel an ornery kind of kinship with him, which I never can quite identify. He’s tough, emotionless, withdrawn, calculating, harsh. I’ve heard he’s mean, too, but what I see in him is the overriding competence. He knows his business and he takes no guff and despite the fact he gives me a hard time whenever he can, I know he likes me, though grudgingly. I saw his attention sharpen. He focused on what was being said to him and it made his temper climb.
“All right now, you listen here, Mitch, because I’ve said all I intend to say. We’re getting down to the short strokes on this and I don’t want you fuckin’ up my case. Yeah, I know that. Yeah, that’s what you said. I just want it clear between us. I gave your boy all the breaks I mean to give so either he cooperates or we can put him right back where he was. Yeah, well you talk to him again!”
Con dropped the phone down from a height, not exactly slamming it but making his point. He was done. He looked at me through a haze of irritation. I put the manila envelope on his desk. He put his feet on the floor.
“What is this?” he said snappishly. He peered in through the flap, removing the letter I’d found in Libby Glass’s effects. Even without knowing what it was, he held it by the edges, his eyes raking the contents once and then going back again with caution. He glanced up at me sharply. He tucked it back in the envelope.
“Where’d you get it?”
“Libby Glass’s mother kept all her stuff. It was shoved in a paperback book. I picked it up Friday. Can you have it checked for fingerprints?”
The look he gave me was cold. “Why don’t we talk about Sharon Napier first?”
I felt a spurt of fear, but I didn’t hesitate. “She’s dead,” I said reaching for the envelope. He smacked his fist down on it and I drew my hand back. We locked eyes. “A friend of mine in Vegas told me,” I said. “That’s how I knew.”
“Horseshit. You drove up there.”
“Wrong.”
“God damn it, don’t lie to me,” he snapped.
I could feel my temper flare. “You want to read me my rights, Lieutenant Dolan? You want to hand me a certification of notification of my constitutional rights? Because I’ll read it and sign it if you like. And then I’ll call my attorney, and when he gets down here, we can chat. How’s that?”
“You’ve been on this business two weeks and somebody shows up dead. You cross me up and I’ll have your ass. Now you give it to me straight. I told you to keep out of this.”
“Uh-uh. You told me to keep out of trouble, which I did.”
You said you’d like a little help making the connection between Libby Glass and Laurence Fife and I gave you that,” I said, indicating the manila envelope.
He picked it up and tossed it in the trash. I knew it was just for effect. I tried another tack.
“Come on, Con,” I said. “I had nothing to do with Sharon Napier’s death. Not in any way, shape, or form. What do you think? That I’d run up there and kill somebody who might be of help? You’re crazy! I never even went to Vegas. I was down at the Salton Sea talking to Greg Fife and if you doubt my word, call him!” I shut my mouth then and stared at him hotly, letting this bold admixture of truth and utter falsehood penetrate his darkened face.
“How’d you know where she was?”
“Because I spent a day and a half on a trace through a Nevada P.I. named Bob Dietz. I was going to drive to Vegas after I talked to Greg. I put a call through first and found out somebody’d put a bullet in her. How do you think I feel about that? She might have filled in a few blanks for me. I’ve got it tough enough as it is. This goddamn case is eight years old, now give me a break!”
“Who knew you intended to talk to her?”
“I don’t know that. If you’re implying that somebody killed her to keep her from talking to me, I think you’re wrong but I couldn’t swear to that. She was stepping on a lot of toes up there from what I hear. And don’t ask me the particulars because I don’t know. I just hear she was treading on somebody’s turf.”
He sat and stared at me then and I guessed that I must have hit a vein. The rumors my friend in Vegas had passed on must have lined up with whatever the Las Vegas Police Department had turned up. I was personally convinced that she’d been killed to shut her mouth, that someone had followed me and had gotten to her just in time, but I was damned if I was going to have a finger pointed at me. I couldn’t see that purpose it would serve and it would only prevent me from getting on with my own inquiries. I still wasn’t entirely easy about the fact that someone else had probably tipped off the Las Vegas PD about the shooting. One more minute in her apartment and I’d have been in a real jam, which might have closed down my investigation for good. Whatever regret I felt for my involvement with her death wasn’t going to be expiated by my being caught up in the aftermath.
“What else have you found out about Libby Glass?” he asked me then, his tone shifting slightly along with the subject.
“Not a lot. Right now, I’m still trying to make a few pieces fall into place, and so far I’m not having much luck. If that letter really was written by Laurence Fife, then at least we can nail that down. Frankly, I hope it wasn’t, but Nikki seems to think the writing is his. There’s something about it that doesn’t sit well with me. Can you let me know if the prints match?”
Con pushed impatiently at a stack of files on his desk. “I’ll think about that,” he said. “I don’t want us to get buddybuddy over this.”
“Believe me, we will never be close friends,” I said, and for some reason his expression softened slightly and I almost thought he might smile.
“Get out of here,” he said gruffly.
I went.
I got in my car and left the downtown area, taking a left on Anaconda down to the beach. It was a gorgeous day-sunny and cool, with fat clouds squatting on the horizon. There were sailboats here and there, probably planted by the Chamber of Commerce to look picturesque for the tourists who straggled along the sidewalk taking snapshots of other tourists who were sitting in the grass.