“I’m not saying one fucking word to you!” She tried to turn and pull free, but Raymond put both hands on her shoulders now and held her facing the pane of glass, the view.
“All I want you to do is listen,” Raymond said. “Okay?” Relaxing his grip, his hands moving gently over her shoulders before coming to rest. “I wondered, why didn’t he kill Skender? He killed the judge, he killed the woman with the judge. You see, I don’t think Clement planned it or anybody paid him to do it. He kills in the line of business, or when he feels like it. I think he came out of the racetrack looking for you and Skender-I know you were setting the poor guy up-and I think the judge got in Clement’s way, that’s all, and one thing led to another and… what does Clement do when he gets mad at somebody? Well, he might shoot you. Or, if he halfway likes you or feels sorry for you, he might only break your leg, let you off with a warning. You see what I mean?”
“You answer your own question,” Sandy said.
“What question’s that?”
“Will I testify against him. You admit he kills people he gets mad at. Or breaks their leg. What do you think he’d do to me?”
“I’m not asking you to testify. Have I said anything about testifying?” Raymond paused. “Are you thinking about something else?”
“Are you kidding-something else?”
“I think you’re missing the point here,” Raymond said. “What happens, say in the next day or so, before we pick him up, Clement finds out Sweety has the gun?”
“Oh, Jesus-”
“He’d want to know how he got it, wouldn’t he?”
Sandy came around and was looking up at him with a terrible fear in her eyes that seemed almost a yearning. “Why? I mean he doesn’t have to know that, does he?”
Raymond’s hands moved gently on her shoulders. “What were you supposed to do with the gun, get rid of it?”
“Throw it in the river.”
There it was. Not something he could use; still, it was nice to hear, verifying what he had put together in small pieces.
“So why’d you take it to Sweety?”
“Because I was going there.” She was a little girl again, pouting, resentment in her tone. “I’m not gonna walk out on the Belle Isle Bridge. What am I suppose to be doing if somebody sees me? Standing there on the bridge…”
“I know, it sounds easy,” Raymond said, “but it isn’t. What’d you tell Sweety to do with it?”
“Anything he wanted. Just get rid of it.”
“And he looked at it the same way you did. So he hid it down the basement. But weren’t you afraid he might call Clement?”
“Why would he?” Her tone changed as she said, “Listen, I’m not making a statement-if you think you’re being clever.”
“I told you, I’m not asking you to snitch,” Raymond said. “But how come you didn’t tell Clement you took the gun over there?”
“God, I don’t know.” Weary again. “He gets so picky and irritated sometimes…” She turned to the window and Raymond kept quiet, letting her stare at her reflection against the fading light. Almost at once the T-shirt image on the window changed to white and she was looking up at him again. “Wait a minute-if you know where the gun is then you already picked it up, huh? You’re not gonna leave it there.”
“Sandy,” Raymond said, “what difference does it make where the gun is? What’s that got to do with you?”
“He’ll find out-”
“Wait. Let me suggest something,” Raymond said, “before he finds out anything, tell him you took the gun over there. That’s all. You’re off the hook.”
“But I didn’t do anything to get him in trouble-I didn’t. Will you just, God, explain it to him?” In desperate need of help, but not listening.
“Sandy, look, all you have to do is tell him the truth. You gave the gun to Mr. Sweety. Tell him, because you were afraid. Isn’t that right? I don’t think Clement was very smart to give it to you in the first place, but that’s not your fault. At the time, I can understand him being a little nervous. What is this? He’s hardly out of bed, reading about the judge in the paper and we’re banging on the door. The gun’s down in the Buick or somewhere-he just wants to get rid of it, quick.” Raymond paused. “Sandy? Look at me. You listening?”
“Yes…”
“Do you see any reason to tell him anything else? Maybe get him excited, as you say, picky and irritated? No, just say, ‘Honey, I think I ought to tell you something. I was afraid to throw the gun in the river, so I gave it to your friend Mr. Sweety.’ You can say, you know, looking at him very innocently, ‘Was that all right, honey?’ And he’ll say sure, fine. See, keep it simple. But you’re gonna have to do it pretty quick. Next time you see him, or if he calls.”
“God, I don’t know,” Sandy said, “I got a feeling I’m in awful deep trouble.”
“Well, you go with a guy like Clement you’re gonna have some close ones,” Raymond said. “What I’d do, if you want my advice, I’d tell him and then split. Go find you a young Gregory Peck somewhere. Twenty-three, Sandy, you’re not getting any younger.”
“Thanks a lot,” Sandy said.
“On the other hand you stick with Clement, you have a good chance of not getting any older,” Raymond said. “So there you are.”
RAYMOND SAID, “What’re we having, a telethon or something?”
Hunter was on the phone. He raised his eyes and one hand, motioning to Raymond, but didn’t catch him in time. Raymond was moving from the squadroom door to the coffeemaker.
Norb Bryl was on the phone. He was saying it wasn’t the tires, it was the wheel alignment; he said you pay thirty-four hundred dollars for an automobile you expect it to go in a straight line, was that right or wrong?
Wendell Robinson was on the phone, sounding pleasant but in mild pain, saying he had been taking cold showers to keep himself civil; but if someone’s old man didn’t go back on nights pretty soon, then maybe it wasn’t meant to be.
Maureen Downey was on the phone, saying okay, fine, swivelling around from her desk as she hung up to watch Raymond pour a cup of coffee.
“There was a shooting, three o’clock this afternoon. On Van Dyke Place.”
Raymond stopped pouring.
“MCMU told us about it, so I called the precinct, just now,” Maureen said, “and the sergeant read me the PCR. Three unidentified males, all in dark clothes, dark hair, shooting at an unidentified male driving a light blue older-model car that might be a big Ford or a Lincoln.”
“Or a Mercury Montego,” Raymond said. “Did he shoot back?”
“They think so, but no reported injuries or fatalities. MCMU’s checking the hospitals.”
“How was it reported?”
“The call came from the woman next door to two-oh-one, where the shooting took place-in the driveway and out on the street-and we know who lives at two-oh-one, don’t we?”
“They talk to Carolyn Wilder?”
“They said they talked to the maid. She said Ms. Wilder wasn’t home. But then-”
Hunter, off the phone, said, “We got him by the ass!” and Raymond looked over. “It’s the gun, man. Absolutely no question. I’m gonna go pick it up.”
Maureen waited for Raymond to turn back to her. He said, “I’m sorry. What?”
“Carolyn Wilder phoned almost an hour ago. She wants you to call.”
“Okay.” He picked up his coffee mug and started to move away.
“At home,” Maureen said.
Raymond stopped and looked at Maureen again, appreciating her timing. “You ask her if she heard the shots?”
“No, but I’ll bet you she did.”
Raymond went to the unofficial lieutenant’s desk beneath the window and dialed Carolyn’s number.
“I hear you had some excitement.”
“I’d like to see you,” Carolyn said.