“She does, Dave. We’ll have the body out, but the file drawers were wiped clean. Looks like the killer”—Meers never used perp—“took a file or files, then wiped his prints off. Scorely tried to get into the computer, but couldn’t. You know Mrs. Meeker?”
Latovsky nodded; Meers picked a spot on the wall over Latovsky’s head to look at and said, “Want the case, Dave?”
“Cap’n!” Lucci cried.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s his friend and he can’t be objective. But every incompetent asshole I ever knew got that way by being objective about his work.”
“I want it,” Latovsky said hoarsely. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me—it’s a pisser. No prints, no—”
They heard a thunk, then shifting sounds came through the door and Latovsky knew they were settling Bunner into the gray plastic body bag. A ragged zip followed, the door opened, and two men in black nylon jackets with coroner on the back in white came out wheeling the bag on a gurney. Lucci pushed himself out of the way and Latovsky pulled his feet back as they passed.
Bye, Bunny, he thought.
A sob racked him and he put his hands over his face. He heard the other men come out, cross the office to the door. No one said a word. They knew Bunner had been his friend and there was none of the usual cop badinage.
The door closed; it was quiet, and Latovsky uncovered his face.
“Where was I?” Meers asked, not looking at Latovsky.
“Pisser... no prints.”
“No prints. It stands to reason it was the hairpin Bunner came here to see. But hairpin or not, he was rational enough to wipe his prints off. Also, the slug’s gone. It went through the window, leaving a small neat hole, although Rule said it was one big-mother gun. The vagaries of impact, I guess. It might’ve fallen in the lot, might’ve even had enough momentum left to lodge in a tree or the side of a passing car. If it’s out there, we’ll find it, unless a bystander finds it first and keeps it for a souvenir.
“One other thing, Dave. The tape recorder on Bunner’s desk was also wiped clean and left open and empty. Looks like the killer took Bunner’s last tape out of the machine, then wiped his prints off.”
“... don’t know my name... the lieutenant’s given me his word...”
Adam stopped the tape. Ten times through it and the lieutenant was still his only clue. The lieutenant had brought her to Bunner to check her story, so he must know who she was and where to find her.
He was obviously involved in the Woman-in-the-Woods case; his name would be in one of the thousand or so press stories about it. Adam would get it in the library tomorrow.
He didn’t know what he’d do then. A cop wouldn’t react to having a gun pulled on him the way Bunner had; cops were used to guns.
But cops could be wimps too and the Python was pretty impressive. He’d know better how to proceed when he got a look at the lieutenant.
He listened to the tape again, enthralled by the sound of her voice. Her accent was “cultured,” could come from anywhere north of Washington, south of Boston. Then he stopped the tape, ejected it, and chose a cassette at random from the shelf under the machine: Yo Yo Ma plays Bach sonatas for viola da gamba. It was a lovely recording and he’d miss it.
He took the cassette out, slipped in the tape ol her, then closed the case and put it back with the others.
He took the Yo Yo Ma tape to the kitchen, dropped it in the garbage, then put a frozen chicken pot pie in the microwave. The phone rang and he looked at it without moving. It was probably Naomi looking for a rematch but he couldn’t do it again, literally could not. He’d tell her he was exhausted, had a hard day... shooting his shrink in the face.
He grinned at the phone, then heaved himself up from the table and answered as it started its fourth ring.
“Just about to give up on you, boy,” his father said.
The old man wouldn’t call unless something was wrong, and Adam examined himself mentally, wondering how he’d react if something had happened to Mike or the kids. He found he was mildly curious, nothing else.
“Mike and the kids okay?” he asked.
“Fine. Or were a couple of hours ago, when I left them. That skinny bitch served the same chili for Sunday dinner she brought yesterday afternoon. Gave me the shits fresh, dread to think what it’d do after sittin’ around for a day. So I told her I’d eaten and got outta there early. Went to Matt’s place and he made me a coupla cheeseburgers.”
Washed down with half a dozen boilermakers, Adam thought. The old man sounded half in the bag.
“Matt makes a mean cheeseburger,” the old man said. Adam waited; his father hadn’t called him for the first time in months (years?) to talk about cheeseburgers.
“Anyways, I et ’em, enjoyed ’em, and talked to George Amundsen. Remember George?”
“Can’t say I do, Pop.”
“Yeah... well... then I came on home. Wasn’t here more’n a couple of seconds when that bitch Ida comes across the street and bangs on the back door with this card with a note for me.”
The old man cleared his throat a couple of times, then gave a phlegmy cough, and Adam realized his father was actually upset about something.
“Yes, Pop. What about it?”
“I don’t know what about it! It was from a cop wanting me to give him a call. A cop from up your way, son, and I got to thinking... and worrying, and started to wonder if maybe you’d racked up too many parking tickets or got caught in flagrantay with that lady doctor... heh, heh.”
The laugh was forced; his father sounded scared.
Adam said easily, “Nope, Pop, no parking tickets and the lady doctor and I did our fucking indoors.”
“Yeah... well... I figured that out for myself, because this particular cop is a state police lieutenant with Major Crime Squad under his name. Didn’t figure they’d send a state police lieutenant from Glenvale to Sawyerville about parking tickets or nookie snatching.”
Lieutenant. The lieutenant, Adam thought. Anything else strained credibility. But why had the lieutenant gone to Sawyerville to see his father? The microwave timer pinged, and Adam jumped at the sound.
“Anyway,” the old man said, “I thought I better call you before I call him. See if... you know... if there’s some kinda trouble I oughta know about.”
Just a little, Pop, Adam thought. Just the five women in the woods slit open in the moonlight. Just a spot of trouble, Pop.
But they’d come after him in division strength if they knew, not send a lone cop 180 miles to Sawyerville.
He said, “No trouble that I know of, Pop, and I guess I’d know, wouldn’t I?”
“Sure you would, and I hate asking. But it kind’a jarred me, ya know. Seeing that card with Lieutenant and Major Crime Squad and Glenvale on it. Guess I’ll just go ahead and call, see what the jerk wants.”
“I’ll find out for you if you like. Save you the long distance.” Adam spoke steadily, but his heart was racing and the phone was getting slick from the sweat on his hand.
“Would you, son?” The old man sounded pitifully grateful. That way he could sink back into his daze and forget about cops, his son, and everything else.
“Sure, Pop. What’s the lieutenant’s name?”
Della Meeker floundered on the floor. She was five nine, and weighed about 170. She had gotten down on her knees to look in the bottom file drawer and couldn’t get up again. Latovsky put his hand under her heavy upper arm and heaved. She got to her feet, nodded thanks, dusted the knees of her slacks. Then she looked nervously at the blood- and matter-coated window. Sun had baked the blood to the glass and it was black where it filled cracks that shivered out from the bullet hole.