"So his grief and all would be genuine," I said.
"Absolutely. He's done something more horrible than any of his questioners can imagine. Of course he's overcome. And he must be punished on a scale equal to the horribleness. He must not only be a murderer, he must be a fiend, as it were, a noted serial killer."
"So you don't believe his confession either," I said.
"I neither believe nor disbelieve. I could make a scenario for belief too. I'm only trying to give you possibilities in an area I know."
Susan said. "If you decide finally that he's innocent or guilty, I will believe you," she said. "I know what I know, and I know what you know.
In this you know more."
I finished my plum, and got up and walked around the counter to the other side and gave her a kiss on the mouth.
"Thank you," I said.
"You're welcome."
She looked at her watch.
"Jesus Christ," she said. "I have twenty minutes until my first appointment."
"Try not to trample me," I said, and got out of the way.
CHAPTER 15
Quirk called me while Susan was speeding around the apartment.
"Hawk coming over?" he said.
"Yes, at ten."
"Stay there with him. Belson and I are coming by," Quirk said.
"Sure," I said.
As I was hanging up, Susan stopped momentarily in front of me, gave me a kiss on the mouth, and sped to the front door. She looked like a fast sunrise.
"Beep beep," I said.
"I'll call you later," she said, and was gone.
Hawk arrived at ten, Quirk and Belson right behind him.
Hawk said, "This a coincidence, or are you guys after me?"
Quirk shook his head and closed the door behind him and said, "We need help."
Hawk's face broke into a wide smile. "Y'all finally facing up to that," he said.
Belson rummaged around the kitchen until he found a saucer that would serve as an ashtray. Quirk went into the kitchen behind him and carefully shook the water from his raincoat onto the tile floor. Then he hung it from a rack Susan had by the back porch door. Belson started back into the living room with his ashtray.
"Frank," Quirk said, and nodded at the coat.
Belson said, "Yeah," and came back into the kitchen and hung his raincoat up beside Quirk's. Hawk draped his leather jacket over the back of a kitchen chair. Without the jacket the ivory butt of his gun glared at us from under his arm. He wore extra rounds in a pocket on the back of his belt.
Belson glanced around the apartment with its careful clutter of objets dart, lace, silk, crystal, and velvet. There was a huge crimson fan spread on one wall of the den.
"It's you," Belson said to me.
"Yeah," I said. "I'm looking to buy a paisley gun." Quirk said, "Belson and I are on vacation."
The cold spring rain was sharp and insistent on the front windows.
"Perfect weather for it," I said.
"Commissioner insisted," Quirk said.
"I noticed in the paper you were expressing reservations," I said.
"Yeah, I did it again on Jimmy Winston's show last night," Quirk said.
"Mobilizing public opinion," Hawk murmured.
"Something," Quirk said. "Anyway, this morning I got put on vacation status, extended. Frank joined me. Some kind of gesture, I guess."
"I been working hard, boss, you know that," Belson said.
Quirk nodded.
"So they are committed to Washburn," I said.
"Yeah," Quirk said.
"Means they figure his story will hold up," Hawk said.
"He's pretty steady on that," Quirk said.
"It's the only thing he is steady on," Belson said. "Everything else, he's only got one oar in the water."
"He'd have to be," I said. I told them Susan's hypothesis.
"It's the only way he can think about what he did," Hawk said. "He probably won't slide on it."
Belson looked at Hawk, and shook his head.
"Whatever his reasons," Quirk said, "I agree he won't waffle on the confession."
"So," I said. "If the real Red Rose is smart, he'll stop killing people for a while and walk away from this without anybody laying a glove on him."
Quirk nodded.
"If he can," Hawk said.
"If he can," Quirk said, "and he's a cop; he can be working in my department, talking with me every day for all I know."
"And if he can't, then he'll kill some more women," I said.
We were auiet. Belson knocked some of the accumu lated ash of his cigar into Susan's bright red saucer that matched the bright red fan on the wall, that picked up one of the colors in her Oriental rug, that reflected in its design the shape of the mirror in the hall, that balanced the architectural detail over the archway to the bedroom. The ash didn't match anything.
"We need to find out about this guy left the rose for Susan," Quirk said.
"I been giving that some thought," I said.
"You have a plan?" Quirk said.
"Yeah, we got to do this right," I said. "But the thing to do is stake out Susan's office and identify every one of her patients who could have been the guy I chased."
"Susan won't cooperate?" Belson said.
"No," I said.
"Even to save her own ass?" Belson said.
"Life," I said.
"Yeah, sorry."
"No."
"Doesn't make sense," Belson said.
"To you," Hawk said. "Make sense to Susan."
Belson looked at Hawk again, held the look for a moment, then nodded.
"How long will it take?" Quirk said.
"Should be a week or so; most patients come once or twice a week," I said. "It's the best I can think of."
Quirk nodded.
"Got to be careful," I said. "Some patient leaves psychotherapy and finds a cop following…"
"I know," Quirk said. "We can't fuck these people up."
"Susan catch us and we got trouble," Hawk said.
"I know that too," Quirk said.
"Okay," I said. "We watch. First patient arrives at nine and the last patient leaves at six. If they drive, we can get the license numbers.
If they walk, we can follow them."
"And one of us is always here with Susan," Quirk said.
"Yeah."
"Can you see from here?" Quirk said. He walked to the window.
"Not well enough. We have to be outside."
Hawk looked out the window. It was dark and the rain was steady.
"Outside the place to be," he said, "on your vacation." . They thought it was somebody else. A schwartze. Some wife killer who'd faked it and made it look like he'd done them all. Talk about lucky. All he had to do was stop and they'd fry the schwartze and he'd be safe. Could he stop? Jesus, would he miss it. What a loss. What a hole in his life.
It was what he did. The planning, the stalking, the catching, the escaping, it organized him. Who was he without it? What should he do?
If he could talk with her about it? But if she knew, she'd tell. He couldn't see her anymore. But he wanted her to know.
"Come in," she said.
The rain sheeted down along the window behind the tropical fish tank.
The fish seemed restless. Water and water. He sat in his usual seat.
He felt full of his need for her to know. But she'd tell. He knew she'd tell her boyfriend.
"When I was little, I was very close to my mother," he said. She nodded.
"I could tell her anything. "It's all right, "she say, "I'm your mother.""
She made a tiny rolling motion with her forefinger to encourage him on.
"I told her everything."
She had on a brown glen plaid suit today, with a white blouse.
"I remember when I was a little kid, maybe third grade, I, ah, messed my pants."
She nodded; no reaction, no disgust, no amusement. He could still feel the hot embarrassment of it.
"They called my mother and she came and got me and she was nice about it and said it could happen to anyone. And I got to go home with her and I asked her not to tell and she promised she wouldn't…