“Someone stabbed Rosemary Gaynor to death,” I said. “It was pretty horrible.”
“Who did it?”
I shook my head. “Far as I know, there hasn’t been an arrest.”
“So it wasn’t Bill, then,” he said, nodding.
That threw me. “If it had been, would you have been surprised?” I asked.
“Well, yes and no. Yes, because he sure doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d do it, but no, because isn’t it usually the husband who does it when a wife gets killed? I spent a lifetime analyzing statistics, so you kind of look at what’s most likely to happen. What’s your interest in this?”
“Like I said, I was here when Mr. Gaynor found her.”
That seemed to be enough for him. He nodded. “Nice couple. Hell of a thing. Everybody on the street’s probably making damn sure their doors are locked tonight, but most of these things, it’s somebody you know that does it. Even if it wasn’t Bill, which I’m not saying I think it is.”
“I get that.”
“Cute little baby, too. Baby’s okay, right?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Thank God. I’m freezing out here in my bathrobe. Nice talking to ya.”
“You mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”
He hesitated. He’d have to invite me in if he wanted to warm up. “You didn’t do it, did you?”
“No,” I said.
“Hang on one second.” He went back into the house, closed the door. It reopened in ten seconds. Now he had a phone in his hand.
He held it up in front of me. “Smile.”
I smiled. There was a flash. He turned his attention to the phone, tapped away.
“I’m just gonna e-mail this to my daughter in Des Moines. If I end up dead, they’ll have your picture.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
There was a whoosh as the e-mail was sent. “Come on in,” he said.
I followed him into the house. He said, “I keep a lot of lights on until I go to bed. I don’t sleep too well, wander the house a lot. Don’t usually go to bed till about one in the morning. Try watching one of those classic movies on Turner, then I go to bed, but I wake up early.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Usually can’t sleep in past six. Used to read the paper in the morning, but the goddamn assholes shut the Standard down.”
“I heard,” I said.
“Come into the kitchen. Want some hot chocolate? I usually make some hot chocolate at night.”
“That’d be nice.”
The place was done in lots of wood: wood cabinets, wood floor, even wood panels over the fridge and other appliances. Not one thing out of place, either. Nothing in the sink, no piles of bills and envelopes by the phone. A real estate photographer could have walked in and not had to do a moment’s prep.
“Beautiful home,” I said.
He filled two mugs with milk from the fridge and put them into the microwave. Set it for ninety seconds. “I’ll give it a stir halfway through,” he said.
“Did you know the Gaynors well?”
Terrence shrugged. “Said hi coming in and out, that kind of thing. And they have a nanny, too, comes by most days. Name of Sarita. She was the nicest of the bunch, really.”
“Yeah?”
“Sweet girl. I know you’re not supposed to call them girls anymore. She was a woman. Tough little thing. Went from one job to the other. I think she was sending money back to family in Mexico. Don’t think she was here legally, but hey, people do what they have to do.”
“Do you know what her other job was?”
“Nursing home. I was trying to remember the name of it earlier, when the cops were here asking questions, couldn’t think of it. There’s only about fifty of them in the area. Reason I know she worked at one is, I asked her what it was like there, in case I get to the point I can’t look after myself here on my own, and it sounds like an okay joint, but truth is, I hope one day, when it’s my time, I just go.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. I go to bed one night and just don’t wake up the next day. What do you think about that?”
“Who was it who said, ‘I expect to die at one hundred and ten, shot by a jealous husband’?”
“Thurgood Marshall, associate justice of the United States Supreme Court,” Terrence said, and chuckled. “That sounds good, too.” The microwave beeped. He took out the mugs, gave each a stir, and put them back into the oven for another minute and a half.
“I think I had more conversations with Sarita in the last ten months she’s been coming over than I’ve had with the Gaynors since they moved in. Although, a year back or so, they weren’t around much anyway.”
“Where were they?”
“Boston. Bill, he works for some insurance company based there, and he had to be away for several months, so Rosemary went and lived with him. Did the last few months of her pregnancy there; first time I saw them after they came back, she had the baby.”
The oven beeped again. He took out the mugs, handed one to me. I blew on it before taking a sip. It was good hot chocolate.
“I don’t have any marshmallows,” he said apologetically. “Used to buy them once in a while, would forget I had them; I’d open up the bag and they were hard as golf balls.”
We ended up straying off topic, at least from the topic I’d come to discuss. Terrence used to own horses, and he wanted to tell me all about it. I didn’t pay much attention, but he was a nice man, and the time passed pleasantly.
I thanked him for the hot chocolate and the conversation, and as I was heading back to the Taurus he said, “Davidson.”
“Sorry?”
“Davidson Place. It just came back to me. That’s where Sarita works.”
I headed back in the direction of my parents’ house, not sure I really knew anything more than when I’d set off from there. At least, not anything useful. But the following morning I’d do the same again. Ask questions.
I’d go to Davidson Place. I would look for Sarita.
I didn’t drive straight home. Made a couple of turns along the way that took me into a neighborhood I’d visited earlier in the day.
I pulled the car over to the curb and killed the engine. Left the key in the ignition. Sat behind the wheel, watching a house. There were no lights on.
Probably everyone had gone to bed.
Carl, as well as his mother, Samantha.
I stared at the house for about a minute, feeling hungry all over, before I turned the key and continued on my way.
THE SECOND DAY
Thirty-four
The naked woman was sitting on the edge of the bed, weeping.
The man who remained under the covers on the other side of the bed stirred, rolled over. He reached out and touched the tips of his fingers to the woman’s back.
“Hey, babe,” he said.
She continued to cry. Her face was in her hands, her elbows on her knees.
The man threw off the covers and huddled behind her on the mattress, on his knees, pressed his naked body up against hers and wrapped his arms around her. “It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
“How can it be okay?” she asked. “How can it ever be okay?”
“It just... I don’t know. But we’ll find a way.”
She shook her head and sobbed. “They’ll find me, Marshall. I know they’ll find me.”
“I’m going to look after you,” he said comfortingly. “I will. I’ll keep them from finding you.”
She broke free of him and walked to the bathroom of his small apartment, closed the door. He put his ear to it, said, “You okay in there, Sarita?”
“Yes,” she said. “I just need a minute.”
Marshall stood outside the door, wondering what he should do. He looked about his place, which consisted of a single room, not counting the bathroom. A small fridge, hot plate, and sink over in one corner, a bed, a couple of cushioned chairs he’d scored on junk day when people were putting things out on the street.