She was much calmer now, her breath steady, the deadening shock nearly gone. “All right, Dillon. No one would have any reason to hurt me. It was an accident, a drunk driving a big black car.”
“What about Douglas’s wife?”
“All right, so I did think about her, but that’s just plain silly. She was angry, but surely not angry enough to kill me. If she wanted to kill somebody, she would pick Douglas, not me. The cops pushed me on it and I did give them her name, but no specific circumstances. I noticed those faint white lines on your finger pads. What are they from?”
“I whittle. Sometimes the knife slips and you cut yourself. No big deal. Now, that’s really good. A jealous wife would really make them laugh. It’s not raining as much. Let me see what’s wrong with this very nice car that’s new and shouldn’t have stalled.”
Nothing was wrong. She’d flooded it.
“I should have thought of that,” she said, annoyed and embarrassed.
“You’re excused this time.”
“So it was an accident. I was scared that you’d find the distributor cap missing or the oil line cut.”
“It doesn’t have to have been an accident. It’s possible it was on purpose and if it was, you know what the guy intended, don’t you?”
“Yes, to obliterate me.”
Savich tapped his fingers on the dashboard. “I’ve always thought that trying to hit someone with a car wasn’t the smartest or most efficient way of whacking your enemy. On the other hand, it’s a dandy way to scare the hell out of someone. Yeah, that sounds about right. If, on the other hand, someone did want to kill you, then I wonder why the car came at you when you’d just stepped off the curb and into the street. Why didn’t the guy wait until you were nearly to your own car? You’d have been a perfect target then. That doesn’t sound too professional. All the planning was in place, but the execution was way off.” He shrugged. “As of this point in time, we haven’t the foggiest notion. I’ll run those three letters of the license plate through MAXINE and see what she can dredge up.”
“MAXINE? You got another computer?”
“No. MAXINE used to be MAX. Every six months or so there’s a sex change. I’ve had to accept the fact that my machine is a transsexual. Pretty soon, she’ll start insisting that I stop swearing when I’m working with her.”
“That’s crazy. I like it.”
“Now, back to the accident-”
“It was an accident, Dillon. That’s what the police think.”
“On the other hand, they don’t know you. Now, see if this wonderful ski-hauling four-by-four will start.”
She turned the key and the Navajo fired right up. “Go back to the Bureau, Sherlock, and drink some of Marcy’s coffee. That’ll fix you up. Oh yeah-stay away from Douglas Ma-digan and his wife. Don’t you call him, I will. Where is he staying?”
She sat propped up against pillows in bed, the TV on low, just for background noise, reading the police and autopsy reports on Belinda. She didn’t realize she was crying until the tears hit the back of her hand. She laid down all the pages and let herself cry. It had been so long; the tears had been clogged deep inside her, dammed up, until now.
Finally, the tears slowed. She sniffed, then returned to the reports. Tomorrow she would consult with MAXINE to see if there were any differences, no matter how slight, between Belinda’s killing and all the others. She prayed with all her might that there wouldn’t be a smidgen of difference. Now that she’d studied the reports, she hoped to be able to see things more clearly.
On the edge of sleep, she wondered if indeed Candice had tried to run her down. Just as her father had tried to run down her mother? No, that was ridiculous. Her mother was ill, had been for a very long time. Or just maybe her mother had said that because of what her husband had said so casually about Belinda and her father. It had come out of left field. Who knew?