Shaking his head and trying to look disappointed for the sake of any neighbors who might be watching, he walked back to his car. He drove up the block, counting houses, then turned. Like most of the blocks in town, this one had an alley. He drove down it, counting houses again, and stopped behind the green one belonging to Bass Paxton.
A chain-link fence surrounded the back yard. He climbed out of his car, took out what he needed, and went to the gate. It was latched shut, but not locked. He opened it and crossed the neatly mowed lawn, swinging his shotgun case in a carefree way. The screen door of the back porch wasn't locked. Nor did it squeak.
A nice porch. It had a couch, a portable television, even a miniature refrigerator. A door led into the house. He looked through one of its glass panes into a small, shadowy kitchen. Nothing moved inside.
He propped his shotgun case against the refrigerator and pulled a pair of dishwashing gloves from his pocket. After pulling them on, he tried the door knob. It didn't turn.
With a quick upward swing, his elbow smashed the window. The sudden sharp pop of glass was loud, but it ended quickly. The clink and clatter of shards hitting the floor, however, seemed to last forever.
When silence finally came, Merton continued to wait. He listened carefully, but heard nothing. Reaching through the broken window, he found the inside knob and opened the door.
Glass crunched under his shoes as he crossed the kitchen. Bits of it embedded in his soles and scratched the hardwood floor of the dining room. The living room was carpeted. He wiped his feet on the green shag as if it were a welcome mat, then hurried across it to the front door.
He glanced upstairs. A pretty decent house for a guy Paxton's age.
Merton unzipped the case and pulled out his Browning 12 gauge shotgun. He pumped a shell into the chamber, then climbed the stairway.
He searched quickly.
A bathroom, two bedrooms and a study.
All were empty.
As he'd hoped.
He hurried back downstairs.
Chapter Twenty-one
The Open Robe
Pac watched Ina turn away, hands tugging open the belt of her pink robe as she hurried toward the hall.
"Ina?"
She stopped, turned and sniffed, not seeming to care that the robe hung open. Its wide gap showed the inner slopes of her breasts, her tanned belly, the neat round hole of her navel, the sudden pale skin where her tan ended, the kinky black thicket of her pubic hair, the tan that started again high on her thighs.
The sight shocked Pac, made her stomach leaden and cold.
Ina, blushing, pulled her robe shut.
"I'm sorry," Pac said. "I was just . . . I'll go with you to Bass's."
Ina frowned. "What were you staring for?"
"Nothing. Just surprised me, I guess."
"What did?"
"Nothing. Never mind. Go get dressed and I'll wait for you."
Still frowning, Ina turned around and rushed down the hall.
Pac sat down. Leaning back in the chair, she shut her eyes and folded her hands across her belly.
She probably thinks I'm a lesbian.
What a shock, though, seeing Ina that way. Like looking at Alison Parkington's body all over again.
Ina was taller, thinner, with smaller breasts and dark pubic hair instead of blond -- and she had a head -- but the similarities were still strong enough to remind Pac of the corpse and make her feel sick.
Just because they're both women?
She wondered how she would feel the next time she saw herself naked.
Maybe I'll have to give up baths.
The idea of it made her smile. Then she turned her thoughts to Bass. Was he really in danger? It seemed possible. Odd how Ina had reacted, though.
Almost like she's got a thing for him.
Almost?
At the sound of footsteps, Pac opened her eyes. What she saw didn't surprise her.
Ina had changed into sandals, cut-off jeans with sides split nearly to her belt, and a clinging halter top.
"Let's hurry." Ina picked up her purse and rushed past Pac, leaving a heavy scent of perfume in her wake. "I'll take my own car," she said.
"Just a second. Phone him once more, first."
Ina nodded. She picked up the phone, hit redial, and waited. "Still no answer," she said.
"He lives on Malfi, doesn't he?"
"Four three two," Ina said.
"If you get there first, wait for me."
Chapter Twenty-two
Booby Trap
In Bass's dining room, Merton picked up two straight-backed chairs. He carried them into the foyer. There, he set one chair down -- its back about five feet in front of the door -- the other chair directly behind it.
After making sure the safety was on, he set his shotgun across the back rails of the chairs. With a roll of electrical tape from his pocket, he fastened it securely into place.
He stepped behind the second chair, crouched, and sighted. He nudged the chair half an inch to the right, then took another look up the sighting ramp.
The shotgun was lined up with the door knob, but a few inches higher.
"That'll do the trick," he muttered.
The phone rang.
Merton stood motionless until it stopped.
Then he twisted an eye screw into the door frame adjacent to the knob.
He peeled eight feet of galvanized steel Handi-wire off its spool and snipped it with pliers. Then he fastened one end to the door knob and ran the length of the wire sideways through the metal eye on the door frame.
Pulling the wire along with him, he stepped to the rear of the chairs. He twisted his second screw eye into the shoulder stock of the shotgun, passed the wire through it, pulled in most of the slack, and drew the wire forward.
Carefully, he wound the wire around the shotgun's trigger.
He took one more glance down the barrel.
Then he flicked the safety to OFF and left Bass's house through the back door.
Chapter Twenty-three
The Shot
Rusty stepped into his house, breathed the air and sighed with pleasure at the tangy aromas. "I'm home," he called. He removed his gunbelt and set it on a nearby table.
Millie stepped out of the kitchen, grinning. In her skirt and white blouse, she looked fresh and cool. A real achievement in the heavy hot air of the house.
"Is that Bratwurst I'm smelling?" he asked.
She nodded and stepped into his arms. "Only the best for my injured hero."
They kissed, and he put his hands under the hanging tails of her blouse. Her back was warm and smooth.
"Did you get your man?" she asked.
"Not the killer."
"But someone?"
"I busted the bitch who decommissioned me."
"Very good. Did you stomp her?"
"Not exactly," Rusty said, smiling at Millie's eagerness. "But let us say that she didn't come through the experience unscathed."
"I hope you scathed her good."
"Oh, I think Pac and I both scathed her about equally."
"Well, I'll have to thank Pac. We're still going over tomorrow, right?"
"That's the plan."
"I guess they're having dinner at the Fireside tonight," Millie said.
"That's what I heard."
"How's your injury?"
"Improving, I think, but I still hurt like hell sometimes."
"Maybe some beer will help."
"It's helping already. That smell!" Rusty moaned as if the odor were so pleasant that it made him ache. "I hope you didn't pour it all on the Brats."
"I saved a little for you."
They went into the kitchen. Rusty opened the refrigerator and looked down at a shelf loaded with cans of Budweiser. "I trained you good," he said. "Want one?"
"Sure, why not?"
He took out two cans. As he snapped them open, Millie brought him two glass steins. He poured, then picked them up. "Patio?" he asked.
She nodded.
Outside, he waited for Millie to sit on a patio chair. Then he handed a stein to her and sat on the lounger. "Here's how," he said.
They raised their glasses and drank.
"Just to set your mind at ease," Millie said, "Harney's in charge of the food tomorrow."
"In charge?"
"He's barbecuing chicken."
"Oh, thank God. That Pac's a hell of a cop, but her cooking is the shits."
Rusty took another long drink of beer. He sighed with pleasure and noticed how the house threw its shadow across the patio and half the enclosed yard. The chimney's shadow stretched like a dark walkway to the fence. The whole yard looked cool -- even the sunlit leaves of the aspen tree. A breeze came. Rusty took off his shoes.
"You ought to get out of that uniform," Millie suggested.
"I can't move. Maybe after another beer or two."
But the telephone suddenly rang and he had to move.
He rushed into the kitchen and picked up the phone before it could ring a third time. "Hello?"
"Sheriff, this is Deputy Elaine."
"What's up?" he asked.
"I'm catching tonight?" Elaine phrased it like a question. The man lacked self-confidence, but he'd improved a lot since joining the department last year. "I just got a call from a Miss Yvette Young. She heard a gunshot next door?"
"Has a unit been dispatched?"
"Yes, sir. Deputy Osgood? He's en route to the scene."
"Well, is there a . . . ?"
"The reason I called you, sir -- I thought you might want to know about this one right away. I hope I didn't catch you at an inconvenient time?"
"It's all right."
"The thing of it is, this Young woman, this Yvette Young, she lives at sixty-six Cove Road? The gunshot came from next door."
Rusty concentrated.
Cove Road?
A connection, but he couldn't quite make it.
Maybe if it weren't for that beer. . . .
"The gunshot," Elaine said, "it came from the Parkington condo. The one they're staying in for the summer? Or were? Alison Parkington, the dead lady? And her husband, the professor? That's where the shot happened."
Chapter Twenty-four
Going In
Pac pulled to the curb across the street from Bass's house.
Ina's car was already parked in the driveway; she must've violated the speed limits like mad to arrive so fast. She was standing at the front door.
Pac climbed out of her car. Rushing across the street, she unsnapped the safety guard of her holster. "You were supposed to wait for me," she said.
"I couldn't." Ina jabbed the doorbell button. "He's not answering." She pounded on the door. "Bass?" she called. "Bass, are you there?" To Pac, she said, "What'll we do? He said he wouldn't leave. What if he's dead?"
"Do you have a key?" Pac asked.
"A key? No. Why would I? Faye's got a key, I don't. Can't we break the door down or something? He might be hurt. He might be dying! For God's sake, can't we break it down?"
"Let's see if there's an easier way, first. I'll try the back door."
"Go ahead." Ina pounded on the door again and yelled, "Bass!"
"Why don't you come with me?"
"You go ahead." Ina quickly opened her purse. Pac waited long enough to see her take a Visa card out of her wallet.
Seen too many movies.
"You'll ruin your card," she warned, and started for the back of the house.
On the way, she passed three windows. None were open. The view through each was blocked by heavy curtains. She glanced to the right at the garage: he wouldn't be in there. Not unless he was tinkering with his car or cleaning fish, and then the door would be open for fresh air.
She hurried to the gate, pushed it open, and entered the back yard. She rushed up the stairs to the porch. Its screen door wasn't locked. She jerked it open and crossed the porch to the back door.
A single pane of the glass was broken. The one on the lower right. The one just above the knob.
Pac's heart started to race.
She drew her pistol and jacked a round into the chamber. The action of the slide shoved the hammer back into its cocked position.
The knob wouldn't turn. Carefully, Pac reached her left hand through the broken window and twisted the knob. The latch popped. She withdrew her hand, then eased the door open and stepped into the kitchen.
She saw no one.
So much glass was scattered on the floor that she couldn't avoid it. She went ahead and started to cross the kitchen. With each step, glass crunched under her shoes.
He's gonna hear me coming.
But maybe he's already gone.
Don't count on it.
As she made her way across the kitchen, she heard Ina struggling to force open the front door.
The door bell suddenly rang with a startling jangle that made Pac flinch.
Then came a harsh thud. Ina must've kicked the door.
Ina cried out, "Bass! Are you in there? Are you okay?"
Then came the strange scraping sounds of her credit card as she tried to spring the lock.
Pac stepped into the dining room. Her eyes swept it from side to side.
Nobody here.
The carpet silenced her footfalls as she circled the large round table.
The last time they'd had dinner at this table -- St. Patrick's Day? -- they'd gotten into the whiskey after dinner and Harney and Bass had started singing duets. "Danny Boy" and "My Wild Irish Rose," and Hamey had talked Pac into doing her famous rendition of "The Wearing of the Green." They'd tried to get Faye to join in for a round of "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling," but she'd refused and said, "You guys wouldn't be singing, either, except you're all shitfaced."
Ina pounded on the front door.
The noise was unnerving in the silent house, but Pac appreciated its value as a distraction; if an intruder was still in the house, his attention would probably be focused on Ina, not on Pac.
The credit card started scraping again.
Pac stepped into the living room.
And saw the shotgun rigged on the chairs.
Then came the metal sound of the door's lock tongue slipping back.
"INA!"
Chapter Twenty-five
Grant's Doom
Grant Parkington, dressed in brown slacks, a white shirt and a tan corduroy jacket with elbow patches, lay sideways on the couch.