Nicky would have been angry to know that the Moth had overlooked one small, small detail. But the Moth was about to take care of it, and Nicky need never know.
The Moth thought about the drain plugs in the toolbox and wondered why keeping secrets from Nicky was so exciting.
Before long, though, the Moth was feeling not excitement, but panic. What the Moth sought should have been in the living room, but it wasn’t. And suddenly, what seemed like a very small detail loomed very large.
Why, of all things, should this be missing?
Did the police know? Had they already made the connection?
There was a knock at the door. The Moth froze, then moved as quietly as possible to one of the bedrooms, and hid in the closet. Would the Moth have to kill the person at the door? Nicky would be furious — the Moth wasn’t here at Nicky’s bidding. Nicky would have planned for this, would have foreseen this! What if the person at the door went around to the garage and found the toolbox?
Long moments passed, in which the Moth thought of the toolbox and the drain plugs, and felt sick, absolutely sick.
The doorbell rang.
The Moth curled up into a little ball.
There was a long silence, then the Moth found the courage to stand up and leave the closet.
The Moth made a quick search of the two bedrooms and of the bathroom, as silly a place as it would be to hide what the Moth wanted.
The neighbor’s dog began barking again. Losing any remaining courage, the Moth left the house, picked up the toolbox in the garage, and hurried away from the dead man’s house.
Driving away, the Moth didn’t take time to look at the old woman’s house, to see if she was spying at her window. The Moth’s thoughts were consumed by a single idea, a notion that was becoming something of a Moth mantra:
Don’t tell Nicky!
Don’t tell Nicky!
Don’t tell Nicky!
36
WEDNESDAY MORNING, MAY 31
Las Piernas
Ellen Raice called me at work to tell me that someone had broken into Ben’s office by prying off a basement window latch.
“Was anything taken?”
“Not that I can see. If I hadn’t tried to lock the window, I might not have even noticed that someone had been in here. But when I saw that, I looked around, and I could see that things had been moved, you know, looked through. Especially on some of the shelves, and in the desk drawers.”
“Campus police know about this?”
“Yes. But I don’t believe the officer understands the implication.”
“That this is connected with Nicholas Parrish.”
“I knew you’d understand! Will you talk to your husband about it?”
I called Frank. A detective and a crime lab technician were sent out to the college, and a patrol car to David’s house — there had been a break-in there, too. At the house, it was apparent that someone had jimmied the back door of the garage. I let Ben know what was going on, and told him I would go to the house to see if I noticed anything missing.
Frank met me there. It was the sort of case that might have otherwise merited a patrol car — if that — but because Nick Parrish might be connected to the break-in, the mobile crime lab was already at work when I arrived.
“Any fingerprints?” I asked Frank.
“No, but they’re hoping they’ve picked up some tool marks on the door here and the latch of the window at the campus.”
“Not likely that Ben would suffer a break-in at both the office and at home on the same day, is it?”
“No, especially unlikely that he’d have two break-ins and nothing stolen from either place. There were valuables here and in the office that weren’t touched.”
“What could Ben have that Parrish wants?”
“We don’t know that this was Parrish.”
I stared at him.
“Yes, I’m with you — but we have to stay open to other possibilities,” he said. “You mentioned this ex-girlfriend of his.”
“Camille. And don’t even pretend you’ve forgotten her name.”
He laughed. “Okay, Camille. There was some rancor between them, right?”
“Some,” I admitted. “But I have a hard time picturing this woman in her silk power suit breaking in through a basement window.”
“Just the same, I think I’ll call Ben and ask for the name of the place where she works. I’d like to have a talk with her.”
“I’ll bet you would.”
The detective handling the case approached us just then. “Neighbor across the street says she saw a repairman of some sort over here earlier. Either of you know if Dr. Sheridan had arranged for any repairs?”
“No,” I said. “He hasn’t.”
“The neighbor said the repairman came directly into the backyard. She knows Dr. Sheridan is in the hospital, so she got suspicious and came over and knocked and rang the bell. There wasn’t any answer.”
“What time was that?” Frank asked.
“Early afternoon. She was watching a soap opera that comes on at one o’clock. She came over on a commercial break, so she didn’t stay around too long.”
“Any description of this repairman?”
“Not much of one, unless you call ‘a white guy wearing a cap’ a description. She has no idea regarding height or weight — changed her mind about three times on that one.” He paused, then said, “At first, before she figured out that he would have used the front door, she thought Sheridan might be home from the hospital. She said this repairman limped.”
Frank raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah,” the detective said. “Exactly what I was thinking. Flights from San Francisco on the hour.”
“Who’s in San Francisco?” I asked.
“Phil Newly — north of there, really, but not too far from the city. He’s visiting his sister.”
“Lady across the street said she thought it looked like a fake limp, but then, she can’t remember which leg the guy was limping on.”
“There’s someone else we may want to talk to,” Frank told him.
“It’s not Camille,” Ben insisted. “Impossible. She’d never do anything like that. Besides, I have nothing she’d want.”
“Just the same, I’d like to follow up on this,” Frank said.
Ben grudgingly gave him Camille’s work and home addresses. “If, for some unimaginable reason, she did this, I’m not pressing charges.”
“You parted amicably?” Frank asked.
After a long silence, Ben said, “No.”
“Thanks for being honest about it,” Frank said. “As you say, it probably wasn’t her.”
Frank called me at the paper to tell me that Camille Graham hadn’t been into work that day. “In fact,” he said, “she’s quit working there. We caught up with her at home, where she claims she’s been holed up for the last few days with a summer cold. She did seem to be a little congested.”
“You saw her?”
“Yes,” he said, amused. “She’s a looker, but I prefer brunettes.”
“Even though classes are over for the term, can you imagine a woman who looks like Camille crossing a campus undetected? Don’t young frat boys have radar for such women?”
“Why, Irene! I think that might have been a sexist remark,” he said.
“You know what I’m trying to say, Susan B. Anthony.”
“Anything is possible — of anyone. That’s all I’m asking you to keep in mind.”
We were getting nearer the day when Ben would be released from the hospital, and he was still claiming that he didn’t want to impose on us, but he wasn’t protesting quite so much. He was having problems with both phantom limb sensation and phantom limb pain, and was feeling discouraged.
Dr. Riley had warned him that both were common phenomena, especially in the period of time just after surgery.
The phantom limb sensation made Ben “feel” the missing lower portion of his left leg, including his left ankle, foot, and toes, as if they were still there. One morning, half asleep, absolutely convinced that his left foot was still there, he fell trying to get out of bed. Although he bruised his hip and shoulder, fortunately, he didn’t do further damage to his leg. On another occasion, his left toes itched maddeningly. I even tried scratching the prosthetic foot to relieve it — to no avail. He had to live with the itch for three torturous hours before the sensation went away on its own.