I’ve gone on a diet. Even though you can’t see me — though I do plan to visit you soon — when I saw you on TV I said to myself, “There’s a man who appreciates a good female body.” You’re so handsome, Reece, and yet there’s such kindness and tenderness in your eyes. I want everything to be perfect for you. So I’m planning to lose eight pounds in the next two months. So that when we meet—
I have nightmares of you in prison. A few years ago I read a Good Housekeeping article written by a woman whose husband was behind bars. Until then, I’d had no idea how terrifying a place prison can be. Nor did I have any idea of how many prisoners are killed in prison.
You don’t belong there, Reece. I know that you’ve made mistakes in your life — but who hasn’t? As I told you, thanks to the inheritance my father left me, I’ve already contacted a very high-powered New York criminal attorney and he believes we have a very good chance of getting you a new trial. And if the state supreme court orders one, there’s at least a 50–50 possibility, he says, that the district attorney will decline to try you again, given how much time has passed since your conviction.
Then we can be together, darling. Forever.
Remember how I told you that your letter evoked so many different feelings in me? Well last night, when I got in bed, I lay there naked for a long time in the darkness, your letter upon my breasts. And I had a sexual experience like none other in my life, Reece. With my two husbands, I had a very difficult time reaching satisfaction but last night— Well, last night, your letter on my breasts and my TV image of your face in my mind, I had no trouble at all. I was a complete woman at last. Just imagine what it will be like when we’re actually together.
I’m enclosing a Tibetan prayer I learned when I studied with a very legendary Maharishi in Connecticut a few years ago. I’ve found that in moments of conflict and crisis, this prayer helps me find my true inner self and become calmed. I hope the prayer helps you as much as it’s helped me.
A few days ago, I called the warden’s office and asked his rather snotty secretary if I could send you some things. She disallowed about half of what I was going to box up and send to you. I was so angry by the time I hung up, I called Senator Paxton’s office and demanded to speak directly to him. My father was a major contributor to the Senator’s various campaigns so he not only took my call but also agreed to help me with the warden.
Dusk is falling outside my bedroom window now; the sky gray-blue except for the horizon which is a kind of pearly pink. Even though it’s a little chilly, I keep two of the French windows open slightly so I can smell the clean new spring. You’ll love this manor house when you come to live in it, darling. I suppose you’II be a little intimidated by it as some of my friends have been, but the staff here always does its best to keep people at ease. After showing you the house, the first place I’ll take you is to the stables. My father had two horses that nearly won the Kentucky Derby and one horse that actually won the Preakness in 1971. I’m sure you’ll love the horses as much as I do. I’m sure you will.
Well, that’s all for now, darling. You’re in my mind and soul every waking moment.
In a few minutes, I’ll be turning off the light and slipping into bed again. Your letter will soon be touching my naked breasts.
Eternal love, darling.
What he did with the letter, first night he had it, was wait until his pal in the upper bunk was snoring, and then he took the letter and wrapped it around himself and made love to it, his fluids running into her delicate handwriting, becoming one.
15
After leaving the McNally place, I went to a drugstore where I bought some headache powder and drank a milk shake and looked through a science-fiction magazine. Then I went back to my little temporary hutch.
A motel room at mid-afternoon is an especially lonely place. With all their earnest drunken noise, the night people at least lend the place a festive air. But afternoon is wives on the run from rickety marriages, the kids in tow with dirty faces and sad frantic eyes, missing their daddy and yet hating him at the same time for how he treated mommy; and traveling salesmen wearing too much Old Spice and knowing far too many dirty jokes; and afternoon lovers from insurance agencies and advertising firms and department stores, giving each other quick hot sex of the sort their marriage partners gave up on years ago.
I saw samples of all these types passing by my window as I sat in the armchair, talking on the telephone, yellow pad on my knees, telling a friend of mine all about Mr. Tolliver.
“You want to know everything about him?” Sheila asked.
“Everything.”
“It’ll take me a little while.”
“I know.”
“He’s prominent enough that I think you could probably pick a lot of it up at the library. I really hate to charge you these rates, but it’s how I make my living.”
Sheila Kelly costs half as much as other computer search services I’ve used yet apologizes constantly for her prices.
“You’ll find out things I’ll never find in the library.”
Sheila was one of that new breed of human beings who spends half her life using a computer as an extension of her mind. Mike Peary had used her on several investigations and told me the information she’d turned up had helped him resolve the cases in a day or so. I’d had similar luck. Sheila performs hacking services that are not, strictly speaking, legal. But they sure are useful.
“Why don’t you give me your number?”
I gave her my number.
“Is that a motel?”
“Right.”
“Is it a nice place?”
“Well, the toilet flushes anyway.”
She laughed. “My husband and I stayed in a place like that in South Dakota once. It was like Motel Hell. We could only get one station on the TV and that was a local show that had pro wrestlers performing between country and western singing acts.”
“Well, this isn’t quite so bad.”
“You probably won’t hear from me till tomorrow.”
“Whenever.”
Ten minutes later, after stripping down to my boxer shorts, I laid down on the bed and opened up my Robert Louis Stevenson book.
I read until I got drowsy and then I napped for a while.
When I woke up, the sunlight was waning behind the curtains. A car door opened and chunked shut. Hearty laughter, man and woman. The night people were arriving.
I went into the bathroom and washed my face and combed my hair and when I came back out I picked out a shirt and trousers for my visit to Jane Avery’s tonight.
Then I looked down and realized that my bare feet had stepped in something that I was tracking across the rug.
I turned on the lamp and looked down at the stains I’d made. I raised my foot and turned it so I could see my sole, which I daubed at. Something sticky.
My eyes moved back up the trail I’d left. It stretched from where I stood to the closet door.
I went over to the closet and looked down. So much for the sharp eye of the detective. I’d walked past the small puddle beneath the door without noticing it until I’d accidentally stepped in it. No doubt about it. The Detective League of America, or whatever organization it was that detectives belonged to, was going to kick me out.