A Cup Full of Midnight (31 page)

“Pretty harsh, coming from a shrink. Aren’t you guys supposed to be all validating and nonjudgmental?”

“She’s not a client. I don’t have to validate her.”

I sat down in the chair beside him. “Any idea what brought this on?”

He took in a long slow breath through his nose and blew it out his mouth. “He got a letter from Razor.”

He’d dropped the ‘Bastian.’ Distancing himself?

He said, “His executor sent it. Had no idea what was in it, just had instructions to drop it in the mail a couple of weeks after Razor died.” He gave a sharp, angry laugh. “One last little yank of the strings.”

“Must have been a hell of a letter,” I said. “Do you have it with you?”

After a moment, he reached inside his jacket and handed it over.

Dear Byron,

I am sitting at my bedroom window, looking at the moon and wondering if it is the same moon you see.

If you are reading this, I am dead—at least, by ordinary standards. I have tasted the darkness in your soul, and you have tasted mine. Tell me, my lovely young Adonis, was it sweet?

It was different from Josh’s letter, tailored to Byron’s personality and situation, but the message was the same. Live in shame and guilt, or die and live forever. With me.

An angry pulse throbbed in my temples.

Keating shifted in his seat and said, “He played on all Byron’s worst fears. Being back on the streets. Being sodomized by one sick pervert after another. He had Byron so twisted up, talked like dying was just some kind of initiation.”

“Doesn’t sound all that convincing,” I said.

“Not to you, of course not. You’re not some messed up little street rat he’s been working on for months.”

“Byron said Razor never had sex with him. Said he was too beautiful to fuck. You believe that?”

He took the letter back, folded it neatly, and tucked it back inside his jacket. “It’s not inconceivable. Razor liked a challenge, and Byron would have—and had—put out for anyone who offered him a Happy Meal and a sofa to crash on. My guess is that, for Razor, not having sex with Byron was the greater challenge. Besides, I think Razor had bigger plans for him.”

“How so?”

“I think he meant for Byron to kill him.”

Razor hadn’t seemed like the suicidal type, or the type to deny himself something he wanted just because it was beautiful. But then, people were complicated. They had layers. I said, “Why would he want that?”

Keating laughed. “Bastian never felt a single noble impulse in his life that he didn’t feel compelled to twist into something evil. He felt sorry for Byron—genuinely sorry—so of course, he had to turn it into something ugly.”

“He wasn’t saving Byron. He was saving him
for
something?”

“Exactly.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Nobody hates the world that much unless he hates himself even more. I think he planned for Byron to kill him, get the letter, and then kill himself. Go out in a blaze of glory, so to speak. The ultimate expression of the Parker Principle.”

“That wasn’t in his journals.”

Keating looked more resigned than surprised. “I read between the lines,” he said. “And you’ve been in my home.”

I put my hands in my jacket pocket and looked at him for a while without saying anything.

His shoulders sagged and he sank back into the chair, fingering the edge of a blue silk tie stamped with gold koi fish. “You’re like a damn snapping turtle. Tell me, what does it take to get you to let go?”

“You want to tell me what happened?”

“There’s not that much to tell.”

“Did you kill him? Or did Byron?”

He cast an angry look in my direction. “Leave Byron out of this. He was at the gym, like he said.”

“So all those plans for Byron to commit a murder/suicide—”

“Something better came along.”

“You were the big prize, weren’t you?” I asked. “The one he needed to prove something about—or to. Did you kill him because you found out he was responsible for Chase Eddington’s death? Or was it still that damn experiment? Were you still part of it?”

“Part of it?” he echoed. “I wouldn’t be part of that—”

“But you were,” I said. “Back in college. What happened? You found out he was still keeping records and were afraid he might use the diaries to ruin your career?”

“That was all taken care of by the university. I explained to you how it happened. It was a mistake, that was all. A stupid, horrible mistake.”

“Costly mistake.”

“No one was permanently injured,” he said. Then his face crumpled and he rubbed at it with both hands. “Listen to me. Still justifying it after all this time. No, you’re right. It was a costly mistake. But I would never have killed anybody over it.”

“When did you realize Razor was still trying to prove the Parker Principle?”

“When—” He stopped himself. “First of all, it wasn’t an experiment. It was a game. Scientifically, it was full of flaws. There were no controls. Everything was at his whim. He had no real interest in science. It was an ego trip. He did it because it was fun.”

“And you knew about it when?”

“He was already dead by the time I found out,” he said carefully.

“Why’d you take the books?”

He looked down at his lap, fiddled with his tie. “I didn’t want the world to think he was a monster.”

“He was a monster.”

“People are more complex than that.”

There was an awkward silence. Then I said, “He wrote in his journal the day he was killed. The police searched the house right after Byron found the body and the books weren’t there then. So how’d you get them?”

He forced himself to meet my gaze. “They were hidden.”

“Secret compartment behind a false ceiling in the closet, right?”

His breathing quickened, and I saw his gaze flicker left, then right. Searching for a way out?

“Cops found that,” I said. “The day he was killed. It was empty.”

“You think Razor had just one hiding place?” he asked, but his voice was weak.

“Come on, Keating. You were in the house between the time Razor was murdered and the time the police searched the house. A decent prosecutor could make a good case that you killed him.”

His knee began to jiggle. He noticed what he was doing and stopped. A line of perspiration formed on his upper lip and he licked it away. “I didn’t kill him.”

“Why did you cancel your appointments that afternoon?”

“I got a phone call from . . . someone in crisis. Not a client, exactly. I cleared my calendar so I could be available in case . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Meltdown.”

“Not exactly clinical terminology, but accurate enough.”

“This meltdown . . . It had something to do with Razor?”

“I don’t think I should discuss it any further.”

“Were you afraid this person would kill Razor?”

“That thought never occurred to me.”

“But that’s what happened, isn’t it?”

He slumped further in his seat and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger. “I loved Bastian,” he said finally. “But he was . . . ill. Not evil, you understand. Ill.”

“If you say so.”

He glanced back toward Byron’s room. “In a sense, Razor killed himself.”

“Philosophically speaking,” I said, “you may be right. But legally speaking, I’d say you’re in deep shit.”

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

I
might be a snapping turtle, but Keating was just as stubborn, in his own way. Since not even the threat of being charged with Razor’s murder could pry further information from him, I left him in the waiting room and dialed Frank’s mobile. It took him a while to answer, and when he did it sounded like he’d stuffed his mouth with cotton balls. Or maybe deviled eggs.

“Can you do me a favor?” I asked.

“Won’t know ’til you ask.”

“Phone records. Alan Keating’s office.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“I’ll let you know when I’m sure. Can you do it?”

There was silence on the line. Then he said, “Might not get an answer ’til tomorrow. How far back you want to go?”

I gave him a date a week before Razor’s death.

“You want to tell me where you’ve been and why you’ve suddenly got a hard-on for Keating?”

I hesitated. “You really want to know?”

Another pause. Then, “Tell me something I can live with.”

“Let’s say I went over to Keating’s to ask him some questions about Razor. The gate to the backyard was ajar, and when I went back there, I noticed signs of forced entry.”

“Let me guess.” His voice was dry. “You were concerned for his safety, so you went inside to make sure he was okay.”

“Matter of fact, I did. Nobody home, as it turns out, but there were some interesting items in the guest room and the study.”

“Interesting items, huh?”

“Notebooks. An envelope addressed to Byron. It’s from Razor, but it was sent weeks after he died.”

“You’re going to give me gray hair, you know that, McKean? I call in this story, are you going to stick with it?”

“I was thinking an anonymous tip.”

“You going to make the call?”

“I wouldn’t be a very good citizen if I didn’t.”

“Good. Then I don’t want to know any more about it.” He let out a guttural growl. “Damn it, Mac. Gotta go. Spilled my potato salad.”

It was the middle of the next afternoon before he called. The temperature had plummeted, and the sky was heavy and gray. Occasionally, it spat out a mouthful of icy rain.

Jay and I were in the dining room wrapping presents for Paulie, and when the phone rang, I lunged across the table and snatched up the phone on the first ring. Jay made a face, and I tried to look apologetic.

“Got it,” Frank said, without preamble. “You’re off the payroll on this one, right?”

“Right. Why?”

“Your guy Mayers is a prosecutor’s wet dream. Not only did he do the dirty deed, he admits to it. No question he did the Knights and Medea. And there are two cops who saw him try to take down Collins. But if there’s someone else out there . . . You get what I’m saying?”

“Sure. If there’s someone else out there, you want him.”

“You like Keating for the Parker thing?”

“He was there. Whether he was there from the beginning or got called in afterward, I don’t know. My guess is, he came in later.”

“Yeah. But either way, we got another guy to catch. Anybody turns up on this list, you willing to wear a wire when you talk to them?”

“Damn straight.”

“So why don’t you come down here and take a look?”

The calls were listed in chronological order. Beside the numbers of the callers, Frank had listed names and addresses. On the day of Razor’s murder, in addition to the outgoing calls he’d made to cancel his appointments, Keating had received a call at 8:16 a.m. from his tailor and one from his dry cleaner’s at 10:35. At 11:03, just before the flurry of cancellations, he’d received another call.

The name leaped out at me.

Someone in crisis,
Keating had said.
Not exactly a client.

Beside the phone number on the printout, Frank had scribbled
Doug and Hannah Eddington
. There was another call at 1:15. This one came from a mobile phone assigned to Doug.

I’d’ve killed the bastard then, if I’d gotten my hands on him.

Keating had told me all I needed to know. I just hadn’t recognized it.

Rage.

CHAPTER FIFTY

“D
oug?” I said. “It’s Jared. Jared McKean. Remember me?”

“Jared. Sure.”Wary at first, then a forced friendliness. “What’s on your mind?”

“Something’s turned up in the Parker case. Would it be okay if I came by? Asked you and your wife a few more questions?”

Silence. Then, “It’s really not a good time. So close to Christmas and all. It’s been hard on Hannah.”

“I understand. I won’t take much of your time.”

“Your visits upset her. I know you don’t mean to. But dredging it all up—”

“This is the last time,” I said. “It’s important.”

“This will get you out of our hair for good and all?”

“Word of honor. This is the last time you’ll hear from me.”

“Oh, hell. Let’s just get this over with.”

I’d spent three years in Vice before joining the Murder Squad. Wearing a wire, I’d always felt an adrenaline rush, a tremor of excitement like a bloodhound catching scent, laced with an edgy understanding that today might be my day to die.