Fire In The Blood
ESCOTT'S HAND dipped and held still. "He's got a pulse." When he tried to peel back an eyelid, Summers flinched.
"G'way," he moaned.
"Easy now, Mr. Summers, we're friends. I'm Charles Escott, we met yesterday-
"Lemme "lone."
"Harry," I said. "It's me, Fleming. Remember from last night? At the Top Hat?"
"G'tahell."
"Never mind that, just tell us where it hurts."
"All goddamn over."
We spent a few minutes checking him for broken bones and bullet holes.
Summers's answers to questions concerning his health were brief and grudging. The only time he showed any energy was when Escott stated his intent to take him to the hospital.
"Uh-uh. I'm not hurt that bad."
"You could have internal injuries, Mr. Summers."
"I've been in fights before. I know when to go in. I don't need to go in."
Escott decided not to press things. "Are you able to walk?"
"What's the rush?"
"We're all rather visible here. Besides, my car is infinitely more comfortable than the street."
The offer of a better place to rest penetrated Summers's some-what dented skull and he allowed us to stand him up for the short walk to the Nash. We put him in with more care than Chaven had taken hauling him out, not that he was in any condition to appreciate our efforts. Once installed in the backseat, he heeled over on his side to hug his gut.
"You sure about not taking him to the hospital?" I asked.
"Humoring him will be much less difficult at this point. I'd also like to avoid official scrutiny until we find out how and why he ended up in Kyler's company."
"Okay, but if he starts looking really bad, he's going in."
"Absolutely."
Escott drove home and made good time getting us there. He parked out front for a change; the steps were broader and safer than the ones to the back door. I was thankful to see that he'd had my own car picked up and returned from the Boswell. I had a stinking idea that I might need it later.
Summers was reluctant to move, but we somehow got him out and into the house. Escott started the hot water running in the kitchen sink, then went upstairs for medical supplies while I settled our reluctant guest at the table. I made a quick raid on the liquor cabinet in the dining room. Summers needed no persuasion to drink down the triple I offered him.
"What happened?" I asked.
He snorted once as though I was a complete idiot and shook his head. His eye caught on the sleeve of my coat. "What about you?"
"I trimmed my nails and the scissors slipped. Why'd Kyler do this to you?"
He stared into his drink.
"What do you know about McAlister's death?"
"G'tahell."
"What about Marian's bracelet?"
He stared at the table.
Escott had returned with an armful of stuff and was watching quietly from the hall doorway. He raised a questioning eyebrow. I shrugged. He walked in and dropped a load of towels, bandaging, and iodine on the table.
The water was running hot now, and Summers eschewed further help as he staggered to the sink to clean himself up. I ducked back to the dining room to find him another drink. Escott followed.
"Want one?" I asked.
"Please. The usual, but leave out the tonic this time."
I opened the gin bottle and poured generously, feeling a strong tug of regret that I couldn't join him. Physically, I could no longer tolerate the stuff, but the emotional need was still there: it'd been a hell of a night and I wanted to get drunk. I handed Escott his glass and tried not to watch as he took his first sip.
He looked past the dining room door at Summers, who was sluggishly washing his face. "He's not going to be especially cooperative," he said.
"I've already noticed that."
"You may have to nudge him along."
Occupied with Summers, he didn't notice my hesitation. "I think we'll get more from him if he works up to talking on his own."
"Unless it takes him all night."
"You in a hurry?"
"Possibly. It's Kyler that I'm concerned about."
"Because of Harry?"
He took another sip. "Consider this: Kyler could have dropped him at any point in the city he wished. Why, then, should he leave him with us?"
"It's a spit in the eye. He's sure he's got us pinned. We're all supposed to be too scared now to go running to the cops."
"And are we?"
He was serious, so I gave him a serious answer. "I'm still thinking it over."
"Are you, now? What about the ultimatum for you to leave town?"
"Or die. Don't forget that."
"Doesn't give one much of a choice, does it?"
"Yeah, and they're both lousy. Kyler must have been scared himself when I went out like that."
"Not that I can blame you for your action. Hodge's last assault was motivation enough for any desperate measure, and you certainly looked desperate. I must compliment you on your decision to pay him back in kind."
"Thanks, I spent hours thinking it over."
"Hodge might well be doing the same thing," he said with meaning.
"You're just full of encouragement, Charles. Hodge I can handle. I know his type: he's garbage, which means he's nothing-it's Kyler that's got me worried."
"Indeed?"
"I'd be a dunce not to be."
"Buy why? What have you to really worry about?"
He'd sliced right into it and wasn't going to be fobbed off with a light excuse this time. Mindful of Summers in the next room, I lowered my voice. "Last night I started showing off and pulled a couple of fast ones with Leadfoot Sam. Mostly I scared the shit out of him, because he didn't know what he was seeing-or wasn't seeing. All he wanted was to get away from me and stay there because he couldn't handle any of it."
"And Kyler is of a different sort than Leadfoot?"
"He's either smarter or dumber, depending how you want to look at things.
Smarter because he knows I'm different and could be a threat, dumber because he hasn't the sense to leave it alone. You were standing right there, you saw what was going on."
"Then you did try to hypnotize him?"
"Three times. Nothing happened. I was going up against a brick wall and bouncing right off. The ball drops away and the wall just sits there and doesn't notice a thing."
"The only time that's ever happened to you was with-
"Yeah, another vampire. I know."
"Is Kyler... ?"
"There's one other possibility-also a rather unpleasant one."
"You've got my attention already."
"It concerns Kyler's mental state. Do you recall the problem you had with Evan Robley a few months back?"
I did, and the memory of the experience was still uncomfortably clear.
"You tried to break through to the man and could not."
"Only because the poor guy went over the edge without a rope. I see what you're getting at, but aren't the situations just too different? Evan was going through a horrible emotional shock and had lost control; Kyler's his exact opposite. I never met anyone who was so totally sure of himself."
"Yes, each an extreme opposite to one another-but both able to resist your influence. It's probably not a conscious resistance.
cither. Mr. Robley was so affected by his grief that for a time he was simply unaware of your presence."
"But that changed later," I pointed out.
"Because Mr. Robley was nearly recovered from his shock. He went over the edge, but managed to climb back. By contrast, Kyler is in a similar mental state, but able to function as though he were normal."
It sank in. Deep. And I didn't want it.
"I hasten to add that whatever is wrong with Kyler need not claim a severe emotional shock as its source, as in the case of Mr. Robley. Some people are born that way, or so it would seem."
"Charles, any way you look at it, Kyler's loony-bin material."
"Possibly. For now, all we may do is speculate, basing our speculations upon a single piece of negative evidence."
"What? That I can't influence him, so he has to be nuts? It sounds good to me."
"But there's also your personal reaction to the man, as well us my own. Earlier tonight you compared him to a snake. Having met him, I'm inclined to heartily agree with your assessment." He rubbed the spot on his back where he'd been punched.
"Which isn't exactly the kind of hard evidence you like."
"Ah. but I do set much store in instinctual reaction. We may have no conscious reason why certain individuals repel us but it is generally a good idea to give such inner reactions sober consideration. Time and again I have relied upon it and have thus far suffered no regrets."
Like the time he'd followed an amnesiac vampire around to see what made him tick. "Okay, no arguments from me there."
He finished off his gin. "No arguments, indeed. But you may yet end up having to do something to protect yourself from him."
"Are you trying to talk me into taking on Kyler?"
"I'm attempting to set out all the options in my own mind. Verbalizing them sometimes helps. As for having another direct confrontation with Kyler, that is your decision entirely."
I wasn't so sure about that. "I wouldn't even know where to find him."
"To quote our abbreviated friend Pony Jones, 'maybe he'll find you."
"Yeah," I said glumly. Which was what I was really afraid of, and anyone standing next to me could get caught in the cross fire.
In the kitchen, Summers had shut off the water and was gingerly dabbing his face with a towel. I finished pouring out a second drink for him and we went in.
Once all the blood had been washed away, the damage looked only slightly less alarming. One eye was swollen shut; the other had a cut over the brow. The rest of his inventory included various bruises in tender spots, a split lip, and a broken nose.
"If you are still adverse to the idea of a hospital, I know of a doctor you may see,"
Escott offered. He put down his used glass and stepped over to the refrigerator, pulling out an ice tray.
"I'll be all right," Summers insisted, dropping back into his seat at the table.
"What d'you want, anyway?"
"You may recall that I was engaged by Mr. Pierce to locate his daughter's missing bracelet. Have you seen it, by any chance?"
Summers gave him a go-to-hell look. Escott ignored it and took the tray to the sink. He produced an ice pick from a drawer and began chopping. "Two people have died over this business so far, Mr. Summers. Vaughn Kyler is involved and I believe you know to what extent and why. We want you to tell us-
"And get another going-over? No, thanks."
Escott scraped the shards of ice onto a towel, bundled it up, and offered the makeshift ice bag to Summers. He accepted with some suspicion, then cautiously held it to his closed eye.
"I've no wish," said Escott, "to involve the police just yet..."
"You leave them outta this, it's none of their business."
"If not, then it is most certainly mine, since Kyler was kind enough to drop you into my hands. He would not have done so if he were at all worried over the information you can give us."
"I don't know anything."
"Then you are at no risk in telling us about it. Why did Kyler do this to you? What did he want from you?"
Summers said nothing.
"Very well, then let's try it this way: Kyler was most interested in locating a friend of Stan McAlister's, and so, apparently, was someone else. That friend was shot today, Kyler claims he did not do it. Perhaps you did."
"I dunno what you're talking about."
Escott's lips thinned and we exchanged a look. Summers was a poor liar. "You know enough to have tried to keep it to yourself; otherwise he wouldn't have expended so much effort upon you. And whatever it is, it's quite important, or you wouldn't have put up so much resistance."
Summers fiddled with the towel to pack the ice into a smaller bundle. The crunch and click were loud in the quiet kitchen.
"What did you tell him?"
"I didn't say anything, not to him and not to you."
"I see. So Kyler did not get the information he needed; that or he knew it already and only wanted you to confirm it for him, which you did in some way or he would not have released you."
"I didn't say anything."
"There are forms of silence that may speak volumes to the right observer, and I've no doubt that Kyler is an observant man. What did he ask of you?"
"Nothing."
Escott raised one brow at me to let me know it was my turn. The tension that had turned my hands into fists now traveled up my arms and down my back. I was expected to give Summers the works, to put him under, and then steal from his mind. That had been our pattern in the past and I'd followed it freely enough und with little thought. A fast suggestion or a brief question for a simple answer wouldn't be good enough this time. Refusal would only prompt Escott to question me, and I'd either have to not answer or lie to him, and I didn't want to do either.
"If you're done, then I want to go home," Summers rumbled.
"Yeah, we're done," I told him.
Both of them looked surprised.
"We don't need him, Charles, any more than Kyler did."
Escott frowned for a long moment.
"Think about it," I said. "Kyler doesn't care who killed Stan McAlister or if Kitty gets the blame for it, that's not his business. All he seems to want is the bracelet. He puts out word that he wants to meet Stan's friend, who probably has it. He guarantees their safety and promises money at the end of things. But someone beat him to the meeting and the friend is shot. It makes him look bad, as though he went back on his word. He doesn't like looking bad. The bracelet's nothing to him now, he's going after the person who crossed him up. He can't get to Kitty, Pierce, or Marian; they're too well protected, so he picks up Harry to get some answers. It's easy enough to figure out just what Harry knows."
Summers's bruised face got darker.
"Which takes us back to Stan McAlister. You could have killed him, Harry. You once took a swing at him for looking at Marian the wrong way."
"How did- ' He clamped his mouth shut. He'd assumed, inaccurately, that Marian had told me all about it.
"Jealousy's a damn good motive. And though it's just possible that you could have talked him into letting you come up with him to Kitty's flat, Stan wouldn't have been dumb enough to turn his back on you. But you wouldn't have stood behind him and used an iron skillet and then a carving knife to make sure of the job, you'd have simply smashed his face in.
"But none of that happened. Someone else killed Stan. It wasn't Kitty, all she did was walk in and run out. Not smart, but the kid was too scared to think straight. The only others with a motive are the Pierces."
Summers's heartbeat, already high, jumped higher.
"Sebastian Pierce wanted the bracelet back; he hired us to get it. That could have been a move to provide him the cover he needed to murder Stan and avoid being a suspect. But I don't think he's the type to try anything complicated. Besides, he's got enough money and connections to order up anything he pleases and have the job done right. If his goal had been to kill Stan he'd have been a lot more efficient about it. That leaves us with Marian-"
"No it doesn't. She didn't do anything."
"Then it won't hurt if I speculate about it-just so we can eliminate her from things."
Summers subsided, all but growling, and glared at something inside him. He wasn't going to like what I had to say but hadn't worked up to the point of stopping me before I said it.
"This started out as a theft, with us hired to recover the goods, but Stan was a blackmailer, not a thief. Suppose he didn't steal the bracelet, but that it was given to him? You said last night that she went with you because you did some time. Marian likes to break rules, and going out with tough guys is part of the thrill for her.
"Now, Stan had a nasty little blackmail racket going. While he got naked with any girl who had some money put aside, his partner was in the next room taking photos of all the fun and games. Later on, he'd show the results to the girl, making a convincing threat, and collect his living from them if they fell tor it.
"He had a real talent for finding women who liked rubbing shoulders with his kind of lowlife. Maybe Kitty's one of 'em, I don't know, but he'd made friends with her and she had the kind of high-brow connections that took him straight to Marian Pierce.
"We'll leave out the details of how and when and just suppose that he started blackmailing Marian, but for once, instead of cash like before, he decides to go for something really big and demands her bracelet as payment. He gets it, but it's eventually missed. Her father suspects a straight theft, and we're brought in to recover it.
"But Marian's got her eyes open for trouble and spots us, picking me out to pump for information at the club. When she tailed, she went to Stan and told him what was going on, and he ducked out. He didn't go straight back to his hotel, because he had a date with Kitty. I figure he went to the Angel Grill to find her."
"Could he have not broken his appointment and apologized later?" asked Escott.
"The man must have surely been in too much of a hurry."
"You've got to include the stuff I got from his partner."
"What stuff is that, specifically?"
"That Stan had fallen in love with Kitty. As far as we've learned, she's the only one he didn't blackmail, though she certainly fits into the pattern he set with all the other women he's known."
"Negative evidence," he cautioned.
I shrugged. "Maybe so, but it accounts for why he didn't rush directly home to the Boswell to start packing. He went to the Angel, missed her or heard she'd left, then drove home. When he did arrive, Kitty warned him off, and he bolted for her place.
Now he and Marian had their heads together at the club, but they didn't have much time for talk, and Marian probably had a lot to say. Stan could have let drop where he'd be and Marian decided to meet him there."
"Or Stan could have asked her to follow him."
"Yeah?"
"To obtain ready cash from her," he explained.
I nodded. If McAlister had wanted a quick exit from Chicago, he'd have had a hard time trading the bracelet for train tickets. "Okay, so when Stan turned up at Kitty's place, Marian was waiting for him. They go inside with Stan's key and eventually end up in the kitchen, probably looking for a drink. Now we've got two different things for them to talk about at this point: Stan could be demanding more money from Marian, or Marian could be wanting to get the bracelet back."
"Or both?"
"Either way it ends up in a fight. Stan makes the mistake of turning his back on her and she hits him with the first thing that comes to hand, which was an iron skillet. It must have killed him outright. She might not have known he was dead, but she was mad enough to kill him."
Escott shook his head once, not as a denial of what I was saying, but as a caution not to say it. Summers was hunched low over the table. He didn't need to hear the details of the knifing that had been done to make sure McAlister died.
"She searches the body and finds Stan's wallet and the gun his partner said he carried. She takes them and closes up afterward with his key, leaving Kitty to find Stan, and us to find Kitty. Then Marian runs like hell. She ran right to you, Harry, because she knew you'd give her an alibi..."
Summers had at last worked up to his breaking point, only now he was far beyond just telling me off. He swung the ice-filled towel, using it like a cold, wet blackjack. I'd been expecting something like that and dodged. It hit my shoulder instead of my face. The towel came open and ice exploded across the kitchen. I made a grab for his arms, but he was too fast and, twisting the other way, made a lunge for the counter.
Correction: he made a lunge for the ice pick on the counter.
He got it.
He was too crazy to do much beyond blindly striking out at anything that moved, which included Escott. Escott aborted his attempt to grab at the ice pick and hauled himself back just in time to avoid a stab in the chest. Summers started after him.
"Harry!"
My shout got his attention. He turned and sliced air in my direction. His expression was fixed midway between red-faced fury and helpless frustration. With or without the bruising, he was unrecognizable. My idea of calming him down and talking him into dropping the ice pick was not going to work. He gave me no time to try, anyway, and rushed toward me.
The kitchen wasn't that big a room and only got smaller with (he three of us playing tag around the table and chairs. The ice pick made the place positively claustrophobic. I was too busy watching it to see where my feet were going. My leg bumped a chair over while I backed away. It toppled in the wrong direction and I nearly fell on it. Summers turned my distraction into an opportunity for himself and went in under what little guard I had left.
The point of the damned thing missed the underside of my chin only because Summers's foot skidded on a piece of ice. I caught his arm just below the wrist, turned him fast so that I was behind him, and grabbed his other arm. He shifted his weight automatically like a dancer and rammed an elbow into my stomach. It didn't do me any good, nor did his heel when he raked it down my shin and onto my foot.
Escott cut in, fastening onto Summers's left arm. I let go and put all my concentration on the hand with the ice pick, using both of mine to slam it down hard against the old oak table. Nearly an inch of the business end embedded itself into the wood. Summers's hand shot past the handle. He let out with a roar of outrage when it connected with a muffled crack against I he hard wood. The roar went up the scale, lost its force, and died off. His knees abruptly gave way and he sank to the floor. The knotted muscles in the arm I held went as limp as wet rope.
The incident hadn't lasted more than a few seconds. His encounter with Kyler had left him too sore to fight for long and he was puffing like an Olympic runner.
Between gasps, he called us every name he could think of, and a few more besides before finally winding down.
Escott was breathing hard through his teeth. It was more from anger than from physical need. He wasn't used to having homicidal maniacs tearing around his house. "At least we know just what led up to his beating earlier tonight," he said.
"Yeah, he and Kyler both have short fuses."
"I cannot say that I'm terribly sorry over it."
"Is that how it happened, Harry?" I asked.
"G'ta hell," he moaned.
I let go of my grip and stood away from him. He continued to kneel, leaning on the table as though in awkward prayer. Escott released him, curling his lip disapprovingly at the ice pick. With a slight effort, he removed it from the table to put it away in a drawer. He'd forgotten his compulsive neatness for once and the omission had nearly cost us both. Knowing him, he was probably more embarrassed than anything else. I decided to forget about it, since it was a cinch that Escott wouldn't.
"You were saying something about Marian Pierce?" he asked.
"Yeah." I looked down at Summers's bowed back. He was going through hell and I knew exactly what he felt like. "She killed him, Harry. And she told you all about it, didn't she?"
"It's not her fault," he insisted. "None of it was her fault. He was coming after her.
The son of a bitch was tryin' to rape her, for God's sake. It was self-defense."
Self-defense. I glanced at Escott and saw confirmation of my own disbelief. It was just remotely possible. Summers had accepted her story, but then he was in love with her; he needed his illusions.
"And she asked you for an alibi?"
"She didn't have to ask," he snarled.
"No, I guess she didn't." I looked at Escott. "My best guess is that when she couldn't find the bracelet she went to the Boswell, but too many people were there first, and she could figure they were all looking for it themselves."
"And from the hotel, she began to follow Miss-McAlister's partner." Escott was still throwing out a smoke screen to protect Doreen's identity. I was glad of that.
"Or me," I added, "until I finally ended up at the studio. While the partner and I were busy at the bar down the street, Marian broke in and searched the place. Again, she came up with a blank."
"And this is where Kyler comes in."
"She needed help, so she called in a professional. We don't know her connection to him yet, but I'm ready to start looking for it. What's Pierce's number?"
Escott gave it, his brows drawing together and his mouth falling into a hard, thin line.
I eventually got hold of the housekeeper, identified myself, and asked a few fast questions. The news was good. Pierce, his daughter, Kitty, and Griffin were with the police and had been for most of the evening. Lieutenant Blair was probably doing a thorough job on them, and for once I had reason to silently bless his zealous attitude.
Hanging up, I drew Escott back out of earshot and filled him in. "I'm going over to Pierce's. Can you meet me there later?"
"Certainly, but-"
I jerked a thumb toward Summers. "You'll have to take him in to the hospital, after all. I broke his arm, only he doesn't feel it yet."
Escott looked surprised again.
Excuses always sound self-conscious. I cut off the one I was about to make and stuck to cold fact. "It snapped when I slammed it on the table. I felt it go."
The situation was beyond reasonable comment, so he didn't make one. "Very well, I'll take him in. What are you planning to do at Pierce's?"
"A little illegal searching. Kyler's had a big head start, but maybe I'll get lucky.
That's the other reason he dumped Harry with us-to keep us busy while he goes after the bracelet. Odds are he'll want to go after Marian, too, so you'll have to call Blair and fill him in so he can keep her safe."
"Arrest her, you mean."
Anger that I'd been unaware of and holding down flared quietly with that possibility. "Yes, goddammit. If she's the one who shot Doreen I want her put away."
Then his question was suddenly there again. It was the same one he'd wanted to ask a few scant hours ago in his office when he first knew something was wrong for me. Telepathy was not a part of my changed condition, but I could almost hear his
"why?" bouncing between my ears. He was asking for something beyond the simple and obvious need for justice; what he wanted was an explanation of my personal motive.
There were dozens, but the top dog of them all was guilt. If I hadn't been curious or been made drunk and stupid by the easy power the hypnosis granted me, if I hadn't... hadn't...
The room seemed very closed up. The silence added to my discomfort. I tried to ease it with talk. "While you're at the hospital, would you check on her for me? See how she's doing?"
"Certainly," he promised, his voice also carefully neutral.
He had pockets of privacy for himself and was perceptive enough to recognize and respect them in others, but this particular one touched too close to our work to be avoided. He wouldn't let it pass, not later, when there was time for talk.
He watched my face. God knows what he made of the expression there. Probably a lot more than I ever wanted to reveal. I could have stood there all night telling him how I'd lost control, how sheer appetite and self-indulgence had brought me that close to killing her. The words only clogged in my throat.
And the worst part was that as much as the experience had shaken and frightened me, the insistent desire was still there, and it was very, very strong.
It wanted-no, I wanted...
Doreen had provided only the merest sample of what the full sensual potential must be. I'd cut off far too soon. She wouldn't have minded if I'd gone on; she wouldn't have cared.
She hadn't cared. The overwhelming pleasure had been there for her as well.
I wanted... to finish what had been started. The craving for her blood was like an itch inside my mind, one that I could reach but didn't dare scratch. Dear God, it wasn't enough that I'd raped the woman, I was ready to do it again until she died from it.
I palmed my car key and walked out.
Quickly.
I don't remember the trip over to the Pierce estate. One moment I was just starting my car and the next I was rolling through a lush neighborhood of tall trees and large, rich houses. It was like the kind of travel that happens to you when you dream, except I was sure I didn't dream anymore, at least not in a way that could be remembered upon awakening. No real sleep, no more dreams. I wondered if the lack could make me go crazy. Or maybe it was like the liquor in Escott's cabinet, with no true need beyond what was generated in my own mind.
If I could only apply that to Doreen.
No. I don't want to think about her.
I managed to blank her and everything else out long enough to get to the right address, then my mind shifted over to safer and simpler areas, like how to sneak onto the estate unseen. Easy for me, not so easy for my car-I wasn't about to leave it someplace and hike.
The entrance to the front drive had big stone gateposts to punctuate the ends of a long brick wall, but no gates hung from them. I ignored the opening and went on to circle the rest of the block. This property took up the whole of it. The brick wall was unbroken until I made my second turning and found another, narrower driveway.
Small blue and white tiles set into the cement of the curb spelled out Pierce Lane. A sign on a second, and less ostentatious, set of gateposts informed me that this was a private drive and to keep out. There were gates on this, the hack door, but they'd been left wide open.
It was a mixed blessing: I was able to sail right in, but it left me wondering if anyone else had done the same or was about to do so. Kyler was very much on my mind and I was realistically expecting him to be here ahead of me, and if so... well, I'd think of something.
For starters, I cut off my headlights and coasted forward, going easy on the gas pedal. I was anticipating a quick walk up to the main house, getting inside, and locating Marian's room. Once there, I planned to quietly tear it apart until I found the bracelet. But that idea got tossed out as I rounded a gentle curve and saw lights on in the guest house.
Some member of the household staff could be doing a little late cleaning up after Kitty's invasion, but I was too suspicious to take that on faith. I swung the wheel over. The car had just enough momentum to run up the curve in the drive and slot itself next to the guest-house garage. At least it was out of view from the house.
Anyone coming in by way of Pierce Lane would spot it. but cars and garages were a natural pair and hopefully the two blended together enough to be overlooked.
I remembered not to slam the door shut and took my time approaching the house.
The kitchen curtains were the kind that covered only the bottom half of the window. They were still effective, since the uncurtained top half was some eight feet from the ground. I got around the height problem by going transparent and floating up.
The lights inside were clinically bright to my night-conditioned eyes. It took a second to blink things into focus. I got a fast impression of the usual furnishings plus one guest sitting at the dining table.
Marian Pierce.
She was still in her collegiate costume; draped on the table was a dark overcoat and her purse. Next to them was an ashtray, and from the nervous way she was smoking, she'd have to empty it fairly soon. Everything about her tense, restless posture howled that she was waiting and impatient about it. As I looked on, she glanced twice at her watch, once to get the time, and again because she'd forgotten what she'd seen.
I could wait around outside until whomever she was expecting showed, but that course of inaction was dismissed as quickly as it came to mind. Instead, I went solid, dropped lightly to the ground, and knocked on the back door.
She probably jumped and froze for a few seconds; it took her about that long before her quick footsteps approached. A bolt scraped and the door opened a crack. I bulled in before she could see me and change her mind.
She backed up until she was stopped by the table and stared as though I were a new kind of fashion in unexploded bombs. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.
"Just checking up on things. What about yourself? I thought you were with the others talking to the cops."
She grabbed at the conversational opening with visible relief. "They finished with me. I got bored and took a cab home."
"So why are you here instead of home?"
"I'm just getting Kitty's things together."
"Uh-huh." I made no effort to sound like I believed her.
She bit back what promised to be a couple dozen sharp replies and decided to go for sympathy. "All right, if you must know, I'm here because this place feels less like a prison than the main house."
"Yeah, the poor-little-rich-girl problem. I know, I saw My Man Godfrey."
She ignored my mouth running off with itself and slid to one side until the table was between us. She tried to make it look like a casual movement and failed. She was a lousy actress.
The muscles in my neck went stiff when she dug into her coat pocket, but she only produced a pack of cigarettes and made a business of shaking one out and lighting it. "Carole Lombard had it easier. She was able to do whatever she liked."
"And you're not?"
"Not without everyone knowing about it."
"Everyone being your father?"
"Don't you have some secrets from your family?"
More than you could imagine.
She took a long drag on the cigarette and let the smoke flood upward. "You said you were checking up on things. What does that mean?"
"Driving around and thinking." Or not thinking, as the case had been. "I came up the back way and saw the lights."
"And found me," she concluded, with a stunning smile that put my back hairs up.
Our last talk had ended on a decidedly sour note, and she wasn't the sort of person to forgive and forget. "Aren't you the lucky man?"
"That depends on whether or not you can come clean about you and Stan." My voice was going thick.
She didn't blink. She was a very good actress, after all, good enough to give me a serious twinge of doubt when I least needed it. "Stan?"
"You and Stan," I repeated.
No reaction. My doubt grew and shifted, like a large animal stuck in a small cage.
"Escott and I talked to Harry tonight. He told us everything."
"What about Harry?" she asked. Her tone held the perfect balance of puzzlement and irritation.
"Only that I had it right earlier. You got him to lie for you."
"I don't understand." Perfect again.
I was wrong and hating it. I needed to blame someone for Doreen, so I picked out a spoiled brat with bad manners instead of...
When I didn't reply, she broke away with a puzzled shrug. As she moved, her eyes swept past her wrist, checking the time again. Whoever was to meet her was overdue. We could be interrupted any moment.
I noticed her things on the table and gave myself a mental kick. She said nothing when I picked up her purse and turned it over, scattering its feminine clutter. The bag itself was still heavy. There was a pocket in the pale silk lining. From it I drew out a small .22 revolver. In the same pocket was a black velvet pouch. I shook it open.
An explosion of red and silver sparks spilled into my hand.
Everything turned and returned. It happened that easily and quickly.
The bracelet felt heavy. One person was dead over it, maybe two, God forbid. The thing weighed a ton. I let it slip softly back into the velvet bag.
She'd almost stopped breathing. Her large eyes darted from it to my face.
I ignored the bracelet and opened the gun's cylinder. It held five shots. I pushed the rod. Two bullets and three empty shell casings dropped out, rolling a little.
That got a reaction, but not the kind you could see. It was as if a totally different person had dropped in and taken over her body. The change was sudden and complete; what was so frightening about it was that she still looked the same.
The floor seemed to swell under my feet, as though I were on a boat and the sea beneath it were fretful from an oncoming storm.
The doubt in me vanished forever.
I was staring at a killer.