I leaned back against the wall. My mouth flooded with something that tasted like blood. I closed my eyes tightly, conscious of the thudding of my heart and the clamminess in my palms. While Guy Malek slept, someone had crept along this hallway in the darkness last night, toting a blunt object of sufficient brute matter to extinguish his life. Less than a day ago. Less than a night. Perhaps it had taken one blow, perhaps several. What troubled me was the notion of that first bone crushing crack as his skull shattered and collapsed. Poor Guy. I hoped he hadn’t wakened before the first blow fell. Better he slept on before the last sleep became final.
The ringing in my ears went on, mounting in intensity like the howling of wind. I was weighted with dread. Occasionally in nightmares, I suffer from this effect -an overpowering urge to run without the ability to move. I struggled to make a sound. I would have sworn there was a presence, someone or something, that hovered and then passed. I tried to open my eyes, almost convinced I’d see Guy Malek’s killer passing down the stairs. My heartbeat accelerated to a life-threatening pitch, thrumming in my ears like the sound of running feet. I opened my eyes. The sound ceased abruptly. Nothing. No one. The ordinary noises of the house reasserted themselves. The scene before me was blank. Polished floor. Empty hall. Incandescent light from the chandelier. Glancing back down the corridor, I could see that the X’s of crime scene tape was simply tape again. I sank down on the stairs. The whole of the experience had surely taken less than a minute, but the rush of adrenaline had left my hands shaking.
Finally, I roused myself from the step where I’d been sitting for God knows how long. From somewhere downstairs, I could hear a mix of male and female voices, and I knew without question that Donovan, Bennet, and Jack had returned from the police station, arriving while I was still in Bader’s office. Below me, the library door stood open. Tasha and Christie must have gone to join them. Faintly, from the direction of the kitchen, I could hear the clatter of ice cubes and the clink of bottles. Drink time again. Everybody in the house seemed to need alcohol along with extended psychiatric care.
I completed my descent, anxious to avoid encountering the family. I returned to the library, peering in with caution, relieved to see the room empty. I grabbed up my handbag and shoved the file down in the outside pocket, then headed for the front door, heart still pounding. I pulled the door shut behind me, careful to soften the sound of the latch clicking into place. Somehow it seemed important to slip away undetected. After my experience on, the stairs-whatever it was-I was incapable of making superficial conversation. It didn’t seem unreasonable to suppose that someone in this household had murdered Guy Malek and I’d be damned if I’d make nice until I knew who it was.
FIFTEEN
Back in my neighborhood, parking spaces were at a premium and I was forced to leave my VW almost a block away. I locked the car and trotted to my apartment. It was fully dark by then and a chill shivered in the trees like wind. I crossed my arms for warmth, clutching the strap of my handbag as it bumped against my side. I used to carry a handgun as a matter of course, but I’ve given up that practice. I moved through the gate, which gave its usual welcoming squeak. My place was dark, but I could see the lights on in Henry’s kitchen. I didn’t want to be alone. I headed for his backdoor and rapped on the glass.
He emerged moments later from the living room. He gave a half wave when he saw me and crossed to let me in. “I was just watching the news. The murder’s on all channels. Sounds bad.”
“Awful. It’s vile.”
“Have a seat and get warmed up. It’s gotten nippy out there.”
I said, “Don’t let me interrupt. I’ll be fine sitting here.”
“Don’t be silly. You look cold.”
“I’m freezing.”
“Well, wrap up.”
I put my bag down and grabbed his afghan, folding its weight around me like a shawl as I slid into his rocking chair. “Thanks. This is great. I’ll be warmer in a minute. It’s mostly tension.”
“I’m not surprised. Have you eaten supper yet?”
“I think I had lunch, but I can’t remember what I ate.”
“I’ve got beef stew if you want. I was just about to have a bowl myself.”
“Please.” I watched as Henry adjusted the flame under the stew. He took out a loaf of homemade bread, sliced it thickly, and placed it in a basket with a napkin folded over it. He assembled bowls and spoons, napkins, and wine glasses, moving around the kitchen with his usual ease and efficiency. Moments later, he set bowls of stew on the table. I left his rocking chair and shuffled over to the kitchen table still wrapped in his afghan. He pushed the butter in my direction as he settled in his chair. “So tell me the story. I know the basic details. They’ve been blasting that across the TV screen all afternoon.”
I began to eat as I talked, realizing how hungry I was. “You may know more than I do. I’m too smart to stick my nose in the middle of a homicide investigation. These days it’s hard enough to put a case together without an outsider interfering.”
“You’re not exactly an amateur.”
“I’m not an expert either. Let the techs and forensic specialists give it their best shot. I’ll keep my distance unless I’m told otherwise. My stake’s personal, but it’s really not my business. I liked Guy. He was nice. His brothers piss me off. This is great stew.”
“You have a theory about the murder?”
“Let’s put it this way. This is not a case where some stranger broke in and killed Guy in the middle of a robbery. The poor man was asleep. From what I heard, everybody’d been drinking, so he more than likely passed out. He wasn’t used to hard liquor, especially in massive quantities, which is how the Maleks go at it. Somebody knew where his room was and probably knew he was in no condition to defend himself. I tell you, with the possible exception of Christie, I’ve developed such an aversion to that family I can hardly bear to be under the same roof with them. I feel guilty about Guy. I feel guilty about finding him and guilty he came back. I don’t know what else I could have done, but I wish I’d left him in Marcella where he was safe.”
“You didn’t encourage him to return.”
“No, but I didn’t argue that strenuously either. I should have been more explicit. I should have detailed their attitude. I thought the danger was emotional. I didn’t think anyone would go after him and bludgeon him to death.”
“You think it was one of his brothers?”
“I’m tempted by the idea,” I said reluctantly. “It’s a dangerous assumption and I know I shouldn’t jump to conclusions, but it’s always easier to pin suspicion on someone you dislike.”
By eight-thirty that night, I was back in my apartment with the door locked. I sat at the kitchen counter for what felt like an hour before I worked up the courage to call Peter and Winnie Antle, who’d been following the story on the Santa Maria news station. The entire church congregation had come together earlier that evening, shocked and saddened by the murder. I hoped to cushion their loss, though in reality their faith provided them more comfort than I was able to offer. I told them I’d do what I could to keep in touch, and I broke the connection feeling little or no solace. Once the lights were turned out, I lay in my bed with a stack of quilts piled over me, trying to get warm, trying to make sense of what had happened that day. I was weighted with dread. Guy’s death had generated something far worse than grief. What I experienced was not sorrow, but, a heavy regret that was wedged in my chest like an undigested lump of hot meat. I didn’t sleep well. My eyes seemed to come open every twenty minutes or so. I changed positions and adjusted the covers. First I was too hot, then too cold. I kept thinking the next arrangement of limbs would offer sufficient comfort to lure me to sleep. I lay on my stomach with my arms shoved under my pillow, turned on my back with my shoulders uncovered. I tried my left side, knees pulled up, arms tucked under, switched to my right side with one foot sticking out. I must have set the alarm without thinking about it because the next thing I knew, the damn thing was going off in my ear, bringing me straight up out of the only decent sleep I’d managed all night. I turned off the alarm. I refused to run. There was no way I was budging from the chrysalis of heat generating quilts. Next thing I knew, it was nine-fifteen and I felt compelled to drag myself out of bed. I had a date with Jonah Robb down at the police station. I checked my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Nice. My color was bad and I had bags under my eyes.