“And you think the paper you saw made you decide to take pictures?”
“Maybe,” he said. “It looked strange. No writing, just some marks that I couldn't make out.”
“I have a copy,” Barbara said. She told him about looking over the camera and his computer file of pictures. “When I was canceling various things, I came across them. I made a copy. Have you looked at it again, that paper?”
“Sure. And I still don't know what it signifies.”
“Me, neither,” Barbara said. “Did you see the gun?”
He said no. At her questions, he said he had not gone into the house at all since coming back to Eugene, not beyond the desk in the kitchen, and then the kitchen table when the investigators told him to go inside.
“So they won't find your fingerprints anywhere in the house. Is that right?”
“Yes. Just where I told you. Unless they're left over from twenty-two years ago.”
A new sharpness in his voice made Barbara suspect that he was tiring, and she finished her coffee, then said, “Let's leave it at that for now. We'll come back to it later if we think of anything we'd like to clarify.”
She stood and watched David closely as he got up. He seemed much stiffer than when he came in, and for a second or two, he remained hunched over slightly, holding on to his chair back before he straightened all the way. No one commented, but she suspected they had stayed longer than was good for him. She was aware that Frank had moved a step or two closer to him.
They separated in the wide hallway outside the door, with David heading for the elevator, and she and Frank for the outside door. They walked out into blazing heat.
The air conditioner in Barbara's car had made little difference on the short drive to Frank's house, and she was drenched with sweat by the time they arrived. She headed for his back porch and deep shade. He turned on a ceiling fan, and a floor model, and they sat in silence for a time. To all appearances there were two very large, dead, gold cats stretched to what seemed an impossible length, in the shade of a rosebush. Neither one even twitched at their arrival.
“If his story and Olga's hold up, it's hard to see how a case can be made for Jill's murder, and without that as motive, harder to see them making a case for Robert's,” she said finally.
“I hope to God they don't try,” Frank said. “He's transparently honest, when he isn't dodging. And it's too obvious when he's dodging.”
“Yeah, there is that. Not enough practice lying. Also, he comes across as a little too arrogant, too dismissive of anyone not quite as smart as he is, and that includes most people, apparently. It would include a possible jury panel, and they tend not to cuddle up to that kind of personality. Plus, he'd have to curb his contempt for Robert. I bet he doesn't even know how much he reveals it.” But, she added silently, he had something that made pretty young women smile at him in a certain way. A jury panel made up of pretty young women? In your dreams, she thought derisively.
B
y the time Nick arrived that Friday morning, Chloe was already sweaty. Her hair was plastered to her head, her bare legs glistened with moisture, and her tank top was wet where it touched her. She glared at Nick.
“I told you they aren't here! I searched her room, her purse, everything. I know she didn't take them to Portland. The only thing she had with her was her laptop and the purse, and I had already looked inside.”
“If she didn't take them, they're still in the house,” he said.
“Well, have fun. I'm packing up my things to get out of here. I have a nice cool apartment with a swimming pool waiting for me.”
She turned her back on him, but he caught her arm and swung her around. “Don't take that tone with me, doll. Keep in mind I'm not alone in those pictures. You're there, wearing a hell of a lot less than you are right now. You're going to help me look. When do you expect them back?”
“Lucy said it would be late,” she said sullenly, rubbing her arm where he had grabbed her. “Amy's meeting is for one o'clock. They won't get out of Portland before four, and if traffic is heavy, they'll wait and come after dinner.”
“So we have four or five hours. Let's get at it. The study first,” he said.
“I already looked there.”
“We'll look again.” He reached for her, and she stepped back, then walked around him to the study. “Take the books,” he said, right behind her. “Each one. Like this.” He pulled a book from the bottom shelf, held it by the spine and riffled through the pages, then put it back and drew out the next one.
Chloe eyed the shelves, about eight feet of shelving, nearly floor to ceiling. After a moment she began taking out one book after another. Nick moved on to the desk where he opened a drawer, examined everything in it, then pulled it out to look at the bottom.
He looked under the desk, turned over the chair to examine the bottom, went on to a table where he repeated this, then upended an easy chair, a standing lamp to look at the undersides. When there was nothing left but the top two rows of books, he began to look through them alongside Chloe.
Neither spoke again until every book had been removed and returned to the shelf.
“Her room,” he said curtly.
Chloe led the way upstairs to Amy's room, where it was obvious at a glance there were few places to hide anything. Nick stood near the bed, looking around, then said, “Help me lift the mattress. We'll do it in here, then in Robert's room, and I'll finish up. You can get on with your packing.”
She helped lift the mattress and watched him look it over. They replaced it, went to Robert's room, where there was even less to search. The room and closet had been stripped, a bedspread was on the bed, but other bedding had been removed.
She left him in Robert's room, returned to her own room downstairs and sat on the side of the bed, thinking. If Amy had found the pictures, she could have burned them. Or she had hidden them again in order to make use of them later. But how? Not blackmail. She felt certain of that much. But Amy had become interested in David Etheridge, and David seemed to be the one the police were interested in, not Nick, or anyone else. Chloe's eyes narrowed. If Amy had the pictures, she might turn them over to David or to Barbara Holloway. They might try to implicate her, or her and Nick together, in Robert's murder. She had thought earlier that blackmail was sufficient motive for murder, but couldn't that be applied to her, as well as to Nick?
She got up and went back upstairs, where Nick was still in Robert's room. He had rolled up much of the rug and was unrolling it when she entered.
“Nick, when we moved here, we put a lot of stuff in storage. That was two years ago. What if he never brought those pictures to this house in the first place?”
He cursed as he finished flattening the rug. He looked as hot as she was, with great wet patches on his shirt. Like her, he was wearing shorts and his legs were shiny and moist. “Let's get something to drink,” he said, and pushed past her and down the stairs.
In the kitchen he washed his hands and splashed water on his face, then drank a glass of water before saying anything. “Okay, maybe you're right. He knew they'd be safe in storage and just left them there. He showed them to me three years ago, while you were living in the town house. So either they're in that stuff, or little sister Amy found them and has put them somewhere. We have to know which.”
She nodded. “I know we do. There's nowhere else in this house where Robert would have hidden them, or where Amy would have if she found them.”
He drew another glass of water, crossed to the table and sat down, regarding her with suspicion. “So why are you so cooperative all at once?”
She sat opposite him. “Amy's getting involved with David Etheridge. God knows why, but she is. She visits him every day. And the police suspect him of killing Robert. Those pictures could make them change their prime suspect to us. It's that simple.”
“What's his motive?” Nick asked. “Opportunity doesn't quite make it.”
“Jill Storey's murder,” she said. “They fought over her on the night of the party here. The night she was killed. David won. Protecting his own, something like that.”
Nick shook his head. “They cleared him years ago, if he even was suspected to begin with.”
“Maybe they'll unclear him,” she said slowly. “I never mentioned that fight. You didn't, either, did you?”
“I wasn't evenâ” He stared at her, raised his glass and drank again, then said, “No, I never did.”
They were still sitting at the table a few minutes later when Henry Elders tapped on the screen door. “Hi,” he said. “Is that Nick Aaronson? I haven't seen you in years. How've you been?” Without waiting for an invitation, he entered the kitchen.
“Nick's helping me move,” Chloe said. “Hot work.”
“You're moving out? Is Lucy home to stay? Is that the plan?”
“Something like that,” Chloe said. “She isn't home. She went to Portland with Amy.”
“But she's come back to stay. That's very good news.” He smiled broadly. “I've missed her. Is Amy planning on moving back, too?”
“I don't know what she's planning,” Chloe said. “We were just talking about that. It seems she's become fixated on David Etheridge, and I think he's bad news for her.”
Henry's pleased expression changed to one of dismay. “Oh, my, that certainly is bad news. How could she? Doesn't she realize that he most likely killed her brother?”
“Why would he have done that?” Nick asked. He lifted his glass and peered at Elders over the rim as he sipped.
“Because Robert was on to something to do with Jill Storey's death years ago. Something that was very threatening to David, of course. You know he was quite involved with Jill, don't you? And she was trying to shake him or something.”
“I've heard that's the case,” Nick said. “I didn't realize you knew about it.”
Elders shrugged. “I thought most people knew. Well, I'm happy that Lucy's home to stay. I'll let you get on with your packing.” He went back out the way he had come, through the back door.
“Nosy old bastard,” Chloe said in a low voice. “I bet he saw your car and couldn't stand not knowing who was here. God, I'll be glad to get out of here. I'm going to finish my packing.”
“I'll help,” Nick said. “Then, let's go get some boxes out of storage.”
At eight that night, Chloe sat at her table across from Nick, the remains of a take-out dinner between them. Her apartment was strewn with boxes and piles of bedding, linens, kitchenware, odds and ends. She regarded Nick with hatred. “Now what?”
“She has them,” he said flatly.
“So we ask her to please hand them over,” Chloe said bitterly. “Or do you propose to string her up by her thumbs until she tells you where they are? Or just pray for a highway accident that wipes her out?”
“Shut up,” he said, in an absent way, as if he were not really paying any attention to her words. “Where's Etheridge?”
“I don't know. In a convalescent home or something.”
“He's going to recover?”
“So they say. She doesn't tell me anything more than what a spokesman puts out.”
“Where's her apartment?”
“Portland.”
“I know Portland,” he snapped. “Street address.”
“I don't know,” she said angrily. “Stop taking that kind of voice to me. She's not my girlfriend, she doesn't tell me a thing and I never asked. It's in the address book at the house. That's all I know.”
He rubbed his eyes. “We have to go get it tonight,” he said. “Now. If they stayed in Portland for dinner probably they aren't home yet, but if they are, you can say you're just checking to make sure you didn't leave anything. I want that address.”
“Nick, I'm beat. I'll get it tomorrow, or Sunday.”
“Now,” he said, getting up from the table. “I'll drive.”
“Look, even if she hands them to the police, she can't prove Robert ever had them.”
“His prints are all over them,” he said. “Mine are, too.” His voice was as cold as ice then when he said, “If I don't find them in her apartment, Etheridge might have to have a little setback.”
Chloe felt a chill as his words penetrated deep within her, and she rose slowly. “No,” she whispered. His expression was bleak, his stranger's face implacable, and she knew he meant it. She recalled something Henry had said after David's attackâif he died, they'd close the books on Robert's murder. Obviously if David was the murderer, there was no point in keeping the case open. But if he was going to live, and if Amy gave him the pictures, it could mean a thorough investigation including the deals Nick and Robert had perpetrated, meaning possible criminal charges, the possibility of being investigated as a suspected murderer. Nick clearly did not intend to let any of it happen.
She had felt many different emotions concerning him, lust, even love for a brief period, hatred, contempt, but never before had she feared him, not until after Robert's murder. That fear surged again.
“Dad got his copyedited manuscript,” Barbara told Shelley on Monday. “We might not see much of him for weeks.” Frank's second book, this one on case law, was due for publication in the fall. “And Bailey's still checking out all those party attendees. We're at a standstill for now.”
They discussed the coming week with little enthusiasm. The heat was not letting up, business at Martin's restaurant was slack, and they'd both had court dates postponed for various reasons. Barbara suspected that judges, prosecutors, defendants, claimants all were cooling off at the coast.
“So, surf the Internet, do your nails, go home, whatever you want,” Barbara said, leaning back in the easy chair. “It's too damn hot at home to go there, and the park isn't any better. I'm going to hang out right here.”
“I'll finish up a couple of things and head for home and the pool,” Shelley said.
Barbara waved her out. It was maddening being at a standstill. Two murders and one attempted murder, to all appearances totally disconnected, but with David at the center each time. David surrounded by a small circle of others. It felt like knowing about a closed party for which she did not have a password, and was denied admittance.
She was relieved when her phone buzzed and Maria said Lieutenant Hoggarth was on the line.
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” she asked pleasantly.
He sounded brusque, annoyed, or perhaps even angry, and not at all pleasant. “I want to know when we can talk to David Etheridge,” he said. “Where did you stash him?”
“Oh, dear. Lieutenant Dressler already talked to him,” she said sweetly. “Didn't he tell you?”
“You know damn well that isn't what I want to talk to him about. Look, Holloway, I don't want to play games with you. It's hot as hell, and I'm sore. I didn't want this case, but I've got it, and I need to talk to him.”
“His doctor will make the decision,” she said, assuming a patient teacher-to-recalcitrant-student voice. “David is recovering from life-threatening injuries and he's in no shape for the rubber hose and bright lights. As soon as I hear, I'll let you know.”
He muttered something inaudible that very likely was a curse, then said, “That court order's still in effect. Keep that in mind, and tell him to keep it in mind.”
“Cross my heart,” she said. He hung up with a crash, and she grinned and hung up her own phone. Poor Hoggarth, she mused. It seemed that whenever she was involved in the defense of a capital case, he automatically was put in charge. Bad karma, no doubt.
She resumed her musing. Password, she thought again. She needed a password, a key. She opened the Etheridge file on her desk and found the printout David had made of the paper with
x
's on it, and the one word,
Key.
A key to the puzzle? Key to Jill's murder? A matter completely separate? The cluster of
x
's near the top of the sheet of paper, each one carefully drawn, neat, as if each had been separately considered, then added. Three near the bottom drawn with the same neatness, the same appearance of careful positioning, meaning something. She stared at the
x
's. The paper told her nothing. She replaced it in the folder and eyed some mail she should be answering.