I was back in my study paying bills when I heard a car pull in, gravel crunching beneath tires. I assumed it was Abby until the doorbell rang.
I looked through the peephole at Pat Harvey zipped up in a red windbreaker. The hang-ups, I thought. She had made certain I was home because she wanted to speak to me face-to-face.
She greeted me with "I'm sorry to impose," but I could tell she wasn't.
"Please come in," I said reluctantly.
She followed me to the kitchen, where I poured her a cup of coffee. She sat stiffly at the table, coffee mug cradled in her hands.
"I'm going to be very direct with you," she began. "It has come to my attention that this man they arrested in Williamsburg, Steven Spurrier, is believed to have murdered two women eight years ago."
"Where did you hear this?"
"That's not important. The cases were never solved and have now been linked to the murders of the five couples. The two women were Steven Spurrier's first victims."
I noticed that the lower lid of her left eye was twitching. Pat Harvey's physical deterioration since I had seen her last was shocking. Her auburn hair was lifeless; her eyes were dull; her skin was pale and drawn.
She looked even thinner than she had been during her televised press conference.
"I'm not sure I'm following you," I said tensely.
"He inspired their trust and they made themselves vulnerable. Which is exactly what he did with the others, with my daughter, with Fred."
She said all this as if she knew it for a fact. Pat Harvey had convicted Spurrier in her mind.
"But he will never be punished for Debbie's murder," she said. "I know that now."
"It is too early to know anything," I replied calmly.
"They have no proof. What was found inside his house is not enough. It will not hold up in any court, if the cases ever go to court. You can't convict someone of capital murder just because you found newspaper clippings and surgical gloves inside his house, especially if the defense claims the evidence was planted to frame his client."
She had been talking to Abby, I thought with a sick feeling.
"The only evidence," she went on coldly, "is the blood found inside the women's car. It will all depend on DNA, and there will be questions because the cases occurred so long ago. The chain of custody, for example. Even if the prints match and the courts accept the evidence, there is no certainty that a jury will, especially since the police have yet to find the murder weapons."
"They're still looking."
"He's had plenty of time to dispose of those by now," she replied, and she was right.
Marino had discovered that Spurrier worked out at a gym not far from where he lived. The police had searched his rented locker, which not only locked with a key but had had a padlock on it. The locker was empty.
The blue athletic bag Spurrier had been seen carrying around the gym had never been found, and never would be, I felt sure.
"What do you need from me, Mrs. Harvey?"
"I want you to answer my questions."
"Which questions?"
"If there is evidence I don't know about, I think you'd be wise to tell me."
"The investigation is not over. The police, the FBI are working very hard on your daughter's case."
She stared across the kitchen. "Are they talking to you?"
Instantly, I understood. No one directly involved in the investigation was giving Pat Harvey the time of day.
She had become a pariah, perhaps even a joke. She was not going to admit this to me, but that's why she had appeared at my door.
"Do you believe Steven Spurrier murdered my daughter?"
"Why does my opinion matter?" I asked.
"It matters a great deal."
"Why?"
I asked again.
"You don't form opinions lightly. I don't think you jump to conclusions or believe something just because you wish to. You're familiar with the evidence" - her voice trembled - "and you took care of Debbie."
I could not think of what to say.
"So I'll ask you again. Do you believe Steven Spurrier murdered them, murdered her?"
I hesitated, just for an instant, but it was enough. When I told her that I could not possibly answer such a question, and indeed, did not know the answer, she did not listen.
She got up from the table.
I watched her dissolve in the night, her profile briefly illuminated by the interior light of her Jaguar as she got in and drove away.
Abby did not come in until after I had given up waiting for her and had gone to bed. I slept fitfully and opened any eyes when I heard water running downstairs. I squinted at the clock. It was almost midnight. I got up and slipped into my robe.
She must have heard me in the hall, for when I reached her bedroom she was standing in the doorway, her pajamas a sweat suit, feet bare.
"You're up late," she said.
"So are you."
"Well, I…"
She didn't finish her sentence as I walked inside her room and sat on the edge of the bed.
"What's up?"
she asked uneasily.
"Pat Harvey came to see me earlier this evening, that's what's up. You've been talking to her."
"I've been talking to a lot of people."
"I know you want to help her," I said. "I know you've been outraged by the way her daughter's death has been used to hurt her. Mrs. Harvey's a fine woman, and I think you genuinely care about her. But she needs to stay out of the investigation, Abby."
She looked at me without speaking.
"For her own good," I added empathically.
Abby sat down on the rug, crossing her legs Indian style, and leaned against the wall.
"What did she say to you?" she asked.
"She's convinced Spurrier murdered her daughter and will never be punished for it."
"I certainly had nothing to do with her reaching such a conclusion," she said. "Pat has a mind of her own."
"Spurrier's arraignment is Friday. Does she plan to be there?"
"It's just a petit larceny charge. But if you're asking if I'm worried Pat might appear and make a scene…"
She shook her head. "No way. It would serve no purpose for her to show up. She's not an idiot, Kay."
"And you?"
"What? Am I an idiot?" She evaded me again.
"Will you be at the arraignment?"
"Sure. And I'll tell you exactly how it will go. He'll be in and out, will plead guilty to petit larceny and get slapped with a fifteen-hundred-dollar fine. And he's going to spend a little time in jail, maybe a month at most. The cops want him to sweat behind bars for a while, break him down so he'll talk."
"How do you know that?"
"He's not going to talk," she went on. "They're going to lead him out of the courthouse in front of everyone and shove him in the back of a patrol car. It's all meant to scare and humiliate him, but it won't work. He knows they don't have enough on him. He'll bide his time in jail, then be out. A month isn't forever."
"You sound as if you feel sorry for him."
"I don't feel anything for him," she said. "Spurrier was into recreational cocaine, according to his attorney, and the night the cops caught him stealing the license tags, he was planning to make a buy. Spurrier was afraid some drug dealer would turn out to be a snitch, record his plate number, maybe give it to the cops. That's the explanation for the stolen tags."
"You can't believe that," I said heatedly.
Abby straightened out her legs, wincing a little.
Without saying a word, she stood up and walked out of the room. I followed her to the kitchen, my frustration mounting. As she began to fill a glass with ice, I placed my hands on her shoulders and turned her around until we were face-to-face.
"Are you listening to me?"
Her eyes softened. "Please don't be angry with me.
What I'm doing has nothing to do with you, with our friendship."