Jack DeShane was waiting for Sam when he returned home from Danny’s Bar.
“Sam, I want you to go with me. I couldn’t catch him at work. They say he hasn’t been in for two days.”
“Hold on, boy. Where’s Maggie?” Sam asked.
“She said to tell you she wouldn’t be back until late. She went to see her sister in Galveston.”
“Okay, now tell me where you’re wanting me to go with you?”
Sam sat down in a living room chair and bent over to unlace his shoes. His fallen arches were playing hell.
“No! Don’t take your shoes off. I want to go now,” Jack insisted.
Sam looked up, frowning. “What’s got into you? What’s so all-fired important it can’t wait until tomorrow, Jack?”
“The guy I told you about. I know it’s crazy, but Eileen knew this same guy as a kid. I have to talk to him tonight. I can’t sleep, Sam. Don’t you see what this is doing to me? For Christ’s sake, go with me,” Jack begged.
“You realize you’re jumping to conclusions? If this man has a medical record with the service, he’ll be questioned. You should let Garbo handle it.” Sam wanted to go to bed.
“I can’t!” Jack crossed the room, picked up a magazine from the sofa, put it down again. When he spoke, he suddenly was deadly calm. “I’ll do it alone,” he said, his back to Sam. “I know you think I’m nuts. I know what everyone thinks. I can’t help it. I have to find him.” He smacked a fist against the sofa’s back.
“I’ve got to stop him.”
Sam sighed and retied his shoes. He stood and touched Jack’s shoulder. “Let’s move it,” he said. “The night’s still young.”
The address the manager of Apex Burglar Alarm had supplied to Jack proved to be in an area of Houston that could be described as a genteel slum district. There were two- and three-story homes that dated back to the early l900s, most of which needed renovation. The notorious South Main strip was to the east, and to the west huddled shacks and unpainted tenements. It was a district where people were afraid to walk their dogs at twilight, and the shades were drawn tight twenty-four hours of the day. At eight-thirty the sidewalks were empty.
“This place is getting sleazy,” Sam commented. “I can remember when it still had a little class. But the class moved out to the suburbs.”
“It’s exactly where I expected to find him living,” Jack said, baring his teeth in an unconscious gesture of disgust.
“Jack, I want you to let me do the talking. You’re in no mood for it.” Sam was beginning to worry about their trip.
“I don’t give a shit who talks, just so we verify where the bastard was at the time of the murders,” Jack said as he pulled the car over to the curb and looked at a red-brick house set back from the sidewalk. “This is it,” he said.
“If he’s home.”
“He better be home,” Jack spoke with the low snarl of a big mad cat.
Sam led the way to the front door. The doorbell button was dangling from a broken wire so he rapped soundly on the beveled glass. A hall light came on and a man about Jack’s age peered through the glass before unlocking the door.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I’m Detective Bartholomew,” Sam said, pretending to reach inside his coat for a nonexistent badge. “And this is Officer DeShane. I’d like to ask Nick Ringer a few questions, please.”
“I’m Nick, but you’re wasting your time. The cops have already been here about the girl. That’s all cleared up.”
Sam turned to Jack reflexively. He kept the surprise from showing on his face. He removed his hat as if expecting to be asked inside. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t about the girl. Do you mind if we come in?” What girl? he wondered.
Another man appeared in the doorway and gently moved Nick aside. “Did I hear you say Detective?” the second man asked.
“That’s right, and we’d like to…”
“Didn’t my brother tell you that’s all been cleared up?” the man interrupted. “I tried to save her life. I know I was wrong in not reporting it, but…” He shook his head sorrowfully.
“May we come inside, Mr. Ringer? It’s not about the girl,” Sam explained again.
“Sure,” the second man said, stepping aside to allow them inside. “Come on in. This way.”
Sam narrowed his eyes to peer into the gloom. He thought he might sneeze. Dust filled the air and from somewhere the stench of garbage wafted into the room. When a lamp was turned on, Sam was not surprised to find he was in the front sitting room of the old house and that it was far from tidy. College textbooks littered the floor along with beer cans and candy wrappers. A sweater turned wrong side out was draped over a chair back. Unopened mail spilled over a coffee table. Evidently the Ringer brothers lived without the benefit of a woman’s touch. Sam deduced they were bachelors and the state of their home the least of their worries.
“Sit down,” Daley said cordially. He guided them to the sofa, circled the coffee table, and sat in a chair across from them.
“What did you tell the police about the girl?” Sam launched into questioning. “I hope you don’t mind repeating it for us.”
Daley smiled uneasily and shifted in the chair. He shot Nick a glance and motioned for him to take a chair.
“I just told them Madra was my girlfriend once. She used to live here. But we didn’t get along very well—you know how it is—and she moved to Montrose with another girl. The day she died…”
Jack’s attention, which had been on Nick, moved to Daley. “Died?” he asked abruptly.
Daley lowered his gaze and went on. “She had epilepsy. When she lived here, she only had small seizures, like she was daydreaming in the middle of a sentence, things like that. I didn’t know she could have a grand mal. I went to her house that day to talk to her and she… she had a seizure. She was in the shower. I was in the bathroom talking to her and suddenly she clenched up and fell. She hit her head and was choking. I carried her to the bedroom and tried to force open her mouth. I got a spoon from the kitchen and tried that, but it was too late. The other officers who were here said the coroner’s report said she strangled on her own tongue during the time I was getting the spoon.”
Again Daley shifted uneasily and glanced at Nick, who sat nearby.
“Yeah, he told all this to those other fellows,” Nick said. “I don’t see why…” Sam waved his hand at Nick. “I’m afraid, Mr. Ringer, the girl’s death isn’t really why we’re here. I wonder if you’d mind telling me of your whereabouts on the morning of March first.”
Daley looked from the detective to his brother and back again at Sam. “He was here—with me,” he blurted.
“We were both home.”
“What day was that?” Sam asked. He could feel Jack seething beside him, and he hoped Jack would keep his mouth shut.
“Well, it was… it was March first, like you said,” Nick answered.
“If you don’t know what day of the week it was, how can you be sure you were home together that morning?”
Daley and Nick looked at each other.
“It was Monday,” Jack said between clenched teeth. “Today is Wednesday, March the third. Where were you on Monday? You weren’t at work. We’ve checked that.”
Sam wanted to throttle Jack. Instead, he rested his hand on Jack’s arm as if to restrain him.
“Monday?” Nick asked, sounding like a man who has been duped. “Like we said, I was home. I didn’t go to work. I was sick and Daley took care of me. Right?” He looked quickly to Daley for confirmation.
Sam smelled collusion and he did not like it. The brothers could ask them to go at any moment and they would have to leave. They were covering up for one another and Denmark had never smelled anything as rotten as the lies coming from the two Ringer brothers. “Do you have anyone else who could verify you were home that morning?” Sam asked carefully.