“Did you see anyone else while you were in the building?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t touch anything at her apartment — search for anything?”
He frowned. “Of course not.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police?”
“I was afraid.” He bowed his head. “Now I am ashamed.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Miss McCone, you will not understand.”
“Try me.”
“You have no idea what it is to be an Arab in this city. There are many of us; for the most part we are in trade, with small shops and grocery stores. Every year many of us are robbed, and some are killed. The robbers are never caught, the killers never brought to justice. The police have no respect for us; they do not try to give protection. So we have contempt for the police — and fear.”
It was true that Arab shopkeepers had been frequent targets of violence. Less prosperous ethnic groups within the city disliked and distrusted them. But Mr. Moe’s paranoid little speech sounded strangely hollow. I watched him silently, wondering at his real reason for failing to report Molly’s death.
Under my gaze, he shifted restlessly. “I have told you the truth. You will keep your part of the bargain?”
“Yes, I’ll keep my part.” I watched him a moment more, unable to gauge his truthfulness. Mr. Moe turned away.
“I have work to do now, Miss McCone. Please go.”
I could have hung around outside to see who Mr. Moe was waiting for, but, in light of this new information, it seemed relatively unimportant. Instead, I went home — to check on Linnea’s latest trauma.
14
When I opened the door to the apartment, the stereo blasted at me. Inside, I stepped on something and groped for the light switch. A box of chocolate creams had been overturned on the floor, a toilet brush incongruously lying among the candies. I stared in disgust at the gooey mess on my shoe.
“Oh, Jesus,” I muttered. The brush I had ordered from Sebastian the day before, but the chocolates could only mean Greg had been here. Had he questioned Linnea about the murder? Was that what had upset her?
I slipped out of my shoes and apprehensively went down the hall. The loud stereo meant my friend was drunk, at only seven in the evening.
She sat on the floor of the main room, crosslegged in front of the turntable. Her hair straggled from the childish braids, and a half-full fifth of Scotch stood on the floor beside her. The cat, terrified of the noise, cowered behind one of the chairs while Linnea swayed and cried to the Rolling Stones.
The Stones had been at the peak of their popularity during Linnea’s courtship and early marriage. It didn’t matter that their music wasn’t particularly heart-wrenching. When Linnea sank into depression, she turned to their records, and to the bottle.
I went over and snapped the stereo off. Linnea raised her tear-streaked face. It was drawn into lines of suffering, but a self-satisfied light glowed in her eyes. I was taken aback: Was it possible she actually enjoyed her misery?
“Why’re you doing that, for Christ’s sake?” she demanded. Her tone was vague, and she glanced distractedly at the on-off switch.
I took a deep breath, telling myself: Don’t let her make you feel guilty. This is not your fault.
“I turned it off because I want to talk to you. I can’t do that with it on.”
“Talk to me? That’s just fine! Now you want to talk to me, after I’ve been calling and calling all day.” She reached for the switch.
“Leave it off!” I spoke more sharply than I’d intended. Modulating my voice, I went on. “I’m sorry you couldn’t reach me, but I’ve been busy. I’m free now, though, and we need to talk.”
I sat down in one of the easy chairs, trying not to look too closely at the drink stains and cigarette burn on one arm. “Come over here so I don’t have to shout.”
She came, dragging the bottle and a smudged glass. She set them on the table between us and began to pour.
“No more Scotch, Linnea.”
She looked up, eyes wide. “Christ, what is this? I need a drink, Sharon. I called you and left messages, but you didn’t...”
“Listen, Linnea.” Impatience wore my voice ragged. “I’m not your mother. Or your husband. Or some kind of keeper. I have a job to do, and I can’t come running every time you get upset.”
“Upset? You bet I’m upset!” Defiantly, she poured the Scotch. “What did you think you were doing, sending that guy over here to ask me questions?”
I thought of Greg’s chocolate, and alarm flashed through me. “I didn’t send him.”
“Oh, sure you didn’t! Oh, sure! It was a cute excuse, but I saw right through it.” She gulped her drink. “He came in here like he owned the place. The creep!”
It was crummy of Greg to use the excuse of bringing chocolate to interrogate my friend! “What did he ask you?”
“Now you’re interested, are you? After I called all day, now Ms. Big Shot Detective is interested.”
I felt like slapping her, so I laced my fingers tightly together. “I asked, what did he want?”
My tone quelled her sarcasm. “He kept saying Molly had left something with me for safekeeping. He insisted I give it to him. But I didn’t know what he was talking about. I told him I didn’t, but he wouldn’t believe me.” Her voice descended to a childish whine. “Why wouldn’t he believe me?”
“I don’t know,” I said absently. Why did Greg think Molly had left something with Linnea? Was it possible she had secreted away some clue that would provide the answer to her death? After all, her apartment had been searched. I asked, “What happened then?”
“He kept on at me. I got scared. I took the chocolate and threw it at him. I screamed that I would call the cops. He just laughed at me.”
I could imagine Greg’s amusement. “And then?”
“He left. He just took off.”
Fury bubbled up to replace my anxiety. This time Greg had gone one step too far. He had presumed on our friendship, counting on me not to file a complaint. Well, he’d soon learn differently.
“Okay, Linnea,” I said. “It’s over, and I’ll see it doesn’t happen again.” Controlling my anger, I turned Greg’s strange idea over in my mind. The something Molly had wanted kept safe must be a new lead. Greg had probably learned of Linnea’s presence from one of the other tenants and — if he had also learned that Molly had been with her late on the day of the murder — he might have supposed Linnea was the one safeguarding the mysterious object. But why the insistence when she denied it?
I believed her — because I thought I knew who the real guardian was.
I got up and reached for my bag.
“Where are you going?” Linnea demanded.
“Out. I have to see someone.”
“After what I’ve been through, you’re going to leave me alone again?” Her hand hovered over her half-empty glass.
“As I explained before, I’m not your keeper. I have work to do. Why don’t you take a nice, long bath and...”
“Some friend you are! It’s just like when I called Herb, when I realized you weren’t going to return my calls. He didn’t even care about me. He said he didn’t understand why I was so upset.”
“Maybe he didn’t understand what you were trying to tell him,” I said, remembering the half of the phone conversation I’d overheard.
“Well, he should have! I needed him!”
“Lin, you can’t always depend on other people. You have to take care of yourself.”
“The hell you say! Oh, sure, you put on this big, independent act. That’s only because you’ve never cared for anybody, and you never will!” Linnea reached for the bottle and began to pour. She missed the glass entirely, and Scotch ran all over the table, soaking a pile of magazines I hadn’t had a chance to read yet.