It might not have felt so bleak if I'd managed to latch on to a trace of her, or if I'd learned something about the murder of Larry Scott. I was beginning to understand that Evie wouldn't come back until Scott's murder was solved.
All I'd learned was that Evie had stabbed him with a pair of scissors a few years ago, which made her an even better suspect than I'd thought.
All in all, this had not been the best day of my life.
In spite of Clint's best efforts to hold my attention, I guess I dozed off, because when a noise from outside the motel snapped my head up, some stand-up comic was telling dirty jokes on the television.
I lay there for a moment before I realized that the noise was somebody tapping sharply at my door.
My first thought was Dr. Paul Romano, looking for company, and I was tempted to ignore it.
But the tapping became more persistent, so I muted the television, slid off the bed, went to the door, and cracked it open.
Somebody pushed past me and hissed, “Shut the damn door. Quick.”
I shut it and turned around.
Evie was standing in the middle of the room. Her hair was piled under a man's felt hat that she had pulled low over her forehead. She wore sunglasses and a man's blue shirt and loose-fitting khaki pants.
“What are you doing here?” I said.
“No,” she said. “What are
you
doing here?” She took off her sunglasses and put them on the bedside table, then pulled off the hat and shook her hair loose.
“I came looking for you,” I said. “You're ⦠missing.”
“I don't suppose it occurred to you that if I wanted to be found, I would've told you.”
“I was worried.” I went over to where she was standing and put my arms around her. “I'm glad you're okay.”
She stood stiffly in my embrace, neither returning it nor pulling away. “Who said I was okay?”
“You're alive,” I said. “And that's a relief.”
She laughed softly against my chest, and then I felt her relax. She put her arms around my waist and laid her cheek on my shoulder. “How's about a kiss?” She tilted up her face.
I gave her a kiss, and she gave one back to me.
“Now,” she said, “please go home.”
“I will if you'll come with me.”
She shook her head.
“Honeyâ”
“I've got to do this,” she said. “It's my thing, and I've got to do it by myself.”
“What?” I said. “What exactly are you doing?”
Evie sat on the bed. She clasped her hands between her knees and looked down into her lap. “They think I murdered Larry. I didn't, but everybody thinks I did.” She glanced up at me. “Even you.”
I started to speak, but she glanced sharply at me and held up her hand. “You do,” she said. “Or at least, you've got some doubts. You don't have to deny it. It's understandable. The point is, I've got a problem, and I've got to deal with it.”
“You're innocent,” I said. “You don't have a problem.”
She shook her head. “You know better than that.”
“We should go to Detective Vanderweigh. He's a reasonable man. He thinks you're avoiding him. Hiding outâit makes you look guilty, you know. Charlotte Matley can come with us. She canâ”
“How do you know Charlotte?”
I sat beside Evie on the bed. “I, um, I heard her message on your answering machine. So I called her. I saw her this morning in her office. That's when my valve stemâ”
“You
what?”
“My valve stem. Itâ”
“You listened to my messages?”
I nodded. “I talked with Marcus, and he said he hadn't heard from you, and you were supposed to be at work, and I had terrible thoughts, so I went to your condo and used my key.”
Evie shook her head. “I know I'm supposed to be flattered,” she said softly, “you caring so much ⦔
“Loving you so much,” I said.
“Sure,” she said. “Whatever. But I don't feel flattered. Or loved. Mainly, I feel crowded. Jesus. Going into my home
when I'm not there, listening to my messages? I suppose you pawed through my underwear, too.”
“I didn't know you weren't there. I actually thought you might be there. I thought something might have happened to you.”
“Yeah, you said that. Well, now you know I'm okay, so you can go back to Boston and let me finish what I started, okay?”
“Let me help you, at least.”
“No, damn it. You can't help. You can only get in the way. Please.”
I let out a long breath. “Whenever I have a problem,” I said, “I want to solve it right away. I am not patient. I don't do well, waiting for things to work themselves out. I'm never comfortable leaving them in the hands of somebody else.”
“So you understand how I feel,” said Evie. “I'm the same way. Maybe it's selfish of me, not caring if you're uncomfortable. But I've got to figure this out for myself. I know you love me. I know you're worried, and I understand it makes you feel better, ramming around Cortland, feeling like you're doing something. But you're not helping, Brady. You're only making it more complicated than it already is.”
I sighed. “I understand how you feel.”
“Do you?”
“Sure. If I were in your place, I guess I'd feel the same way.
“So will you go home?”
I shrugged. “I don't see how I can just turn around and forget this, forget you. You're a murder suspect. The cops are looking for you. Actually, we're both suspects. But we didn't do it. I'm willing to bet that somebody from Cortland did. That's what you think, too, right?”
She shrugged.
“Two brains are better than one,” I said.
“But,” she said, “this is
my
problem.”
“No,” I said. “It's
our
problem. Your problems are my problems. We share good times, we share problems. That's what it's all about.”
Evie was quiet for a long moment. Then she hitched herself close to me and took my hand in both of hers. “That's very sweet,” she said.
“Have you forgiven me about those flowers?”
She chuckled. “Never.”
“I'm glad I found you.”
“You didn't find me,” she said. “I found you.”
We stood there in the middle of the little motel room and undressed each other in the flickering light of the muted television. We went slowly, taking turns, a button here, a zipper there, a tug on a sleeve, with many pauses for touching and kissing.
When we were both naked, Evie took my hand and led me to the bathroom. She turned on the shower and let it run until the room filled with steam. Then we stepped under the water. We took turns soaping each other, running our slippery hands over each other's slick skin, and pretty soon we couldn't wait any longer, so she wrapped her arms around my neck and I held her butt and she clamped her thighs around my hips, and I braced her back against the glass shower door, and she bit my shoulder and held on tight. We moved together, finding our rhythm, feeling it build, and I don't remember ever sensing such desperate hunger from her. And then her fingernails dug into my back, and she said, “Oh!” and we shuddered and spasmed together under the water, and for the first time in more than a week there was no empty place in me.
I lay on my back staring up into the darkness. Evie had one leg hooked over mine. Her arm lay across my chest, and her cheek rested on my shoulder, and her breathing was slow and soft.
After a minute, she whispered, “You awake?”
“Yes.”
“You know I love you,” she said.
“Yes, I do.”
“If you love me, you'll do what I want.”
“What do you want?”
She kissed my throat. “I want you to go home.”
“No,” I said. “I can't do that.”
“It's not safe in this town.”
“That's why I'm staying,” I said.
“You're a stubborn man,” she said. It almost sounded complimentary, the way she said it.
A few minutes later, I said, “So are you making any progress?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you know who killed Larry Scott?”
“I haven't gotten that far.”
“Want to share?”
“No,” she said. “Not yet.”
“But ifâ”
She put her fingers on my lips. “Shh,” she said. “Go to sleep.”
After a while, I did.
I was awakened by a disturbing dream that slipped away instantly, leaving only a sense of dread that lingered like a cold stone in my chest. Gray light was seeping in around the edges of the curtain across the front window, and it took me a moment to realize that someone was banging on my door and calling my name.
“Mr. Coyne.” It was a man's voice. “Open up.” He banged on the door again. “It's the police.”
I slipped away from Evie, sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled on my pants.
“What is it?” mumbled Evie.
“There's a cop at the door.”
“Shit.” She scrambled out of the bed, grabbed her clothes off the floor, slipped into the bathroom, and shut the door behind her.
I went to the outside door and pulled it open. The same cop who I'd met at the garage in the morning when my tire was being fixedâSergeant J. Dwyer, of the Cortland PDâstood there.
“Sir,” he said, “I want you to please come with me.”
“W
hat's going on?” I said to Dwyer. I yawned. “What time is it, anyway?”
“It's ten after five,” he said, “and what's going on is, I need you to come with me.”
“I've got to get dressed.” When I turned back into the room, he followed me in and turned on the light.
I noticed that Evie's sunglasses were on the bedside table and her felt hat was sitting on the bureau. As I bent over to pick up my shirt, I saw her panties crumpled on the floor next to my socks. I quickly shoved them under the bed with the side of my foot.
When I glanced up at Dwyer, he was looking around the room. To me, it was obvious that two people had been sleeping in the bed, and I was aware of Evie's scent lingering there.
If Dwyer noticed anything, he didn't mention it.
After I'd buttoned my shirt and slipped on my shoes, I said, “Okay. Where to?”
He led me out of the room. I checked my pocket to make sure my key was there, pulled the door shut, then followed him around the corner to the back side of the motel.
Down at the far end were two or three Cortland PD cruisers and several other vehicles parked at random angles in the middle of the lot. A couple of uniformed cops were keeping a small gathering of people away from a vehicle parked in front of one of the units. That car seemed to be the center of attention.
As we got closer, I saw that the vehicle in question was a new-looking silver Oldsmobile. I'd seen that carâor its twinâparked in Dr. Winston St. Croix's driveway the previous afternoon.
Dwyer put his hand on my elbow. “Wait here, sir.”
“I'm not going anywhere,” I said.
He shouldered his way through the crowd, and a minute later state police detective Neil Vanderweigh appeared.
He smiled and held out his hand. “Mr. Coyne,” he said. “We meet again.”
“Yes.” I shook his hand. “What a swell surprise.”
“Come on. I want to show you something.”
I followed him over to the silver Oldsmobile. The driver's door was hanging open, and somebody was slumped behind the wheel.
“Recognize him?” said Vanderweigh.
He had curly black hair, and his chin rested on his chest. His formerly white shirt and light-green glen plaid jacket were now dark with dry blood. He was surely dead.
“They cut his throat, huh?” I said.
“Ear to ear.”
“His name is Paul Romano,” I said. “He's a doctor from New Jersey. He was looking into buying a pediatric practice here in Cortland.”
Vanderweigh nodded. He already knew that. “Let's talk,” he said.
He led me away from the crowd to an unmarked sedan, and we leaned against the side. “You want some coffee?” he said.
“Desperately.”
Vanderweigh got the attention of one of the uniformed Cortland cops, lifted his cupped hand to his mouth in a drinking gesture, and held up two fingers. The cop nodded.
Vanderweigh turned to me. “So tell me about Dr. Paul Romano.”
I told him what little Romano had told me.
“You had supper with him last night, I understand.”
“Not really. He sat with me for a few minutes. But I ate in a booth and he moved to the counter.”
“You had an argument.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I just let him know that I preferred to eat alone. I didn't like him.”
“Why not?”
I shrugged. “Not my kind of guy, that's all. He was making suggestive comments about the waitress. He hinted that he had a woman âlined up'âI believe that's the term he usedâfor the evening.”
“And you found this offensive?”
I smiled. “I found it boring.”
“Did he mention who this woman he had lined up was?”
“No. At the time, I didn't necessarily believe him. He struck me as one of those guys who like to brag about their conquests.”
“And that kind of guy bores you.”
“Yes. Even when I was a teenager I thought they were boring. I figured they were all lying. I'd rather read the sports page than listen to that crap, and that's more or less what I told Romano. He got the hint and moved to the counter.”
“The way I hear it,” said Vanderweigh, “it was more than a hint.”
“I don't know how you heard it,” I said, “but we did not exactly exchange blows. I was sitting peacefully in a booth, and he came along and sat across from me, and I made it as clear as I could in the most civil manner I was capable of that I'd prefer not sharing my booth, and he moved to the counter. If you've got yourself some witness who wants to make a motive for murder out of that ⦔
Vanderweigh patted my arm. “Relax, Mr. Coyne. I've questioned plenty of eyewitnesses in my day.”
The uniformed officer came over with two Styrofoam cups of coffee. “Hope black is all right,” he said to Vanderweigh.
Vanderweigh shrugged and gave me one of the cups.
I took off the lid, sipped it, and felt a tiny spark of life tingle in my veins.
Vanderweigh blew on his coffee. “Any thoughts on who might want to kill Romano?”
“Not really,” I said.
“But ⦠?”
I shrugged. “I just didn't find him a likable guy, that's all. In fact, I thought he was quite obnoxious. Maybe somebody else reacted the same way.”
“Like who?”
I shook my head. “If you killed everybody you didn't like, there wouldn't be many people left.”
Vanderweigh smiled and sipped his coffee. “So,” he said, “what brings you to Cortland?”
“I'm looking for Evie Banyon.”
He nodded. I had the feeling that so far, at least, I hadn't told him anything he didn't already know. “Any luck?” he said.
“I haven't found her, no.” It wasn't a lie, at least not technically. I hadn't found Evie. She had found me.
But if Vanderweigh knew that Evie was hiding in my motel room at that very moment, I doubted he'd be tolerant of a technicality.
It was wrong to deceive a state police homicide detective, especially with a murdered body sitting in a nearby car. But I'd said it, and I would stick with it.
“What made you think Ms. Banyon was in Cortland?” Vanderweigh asked.
“She wasn't home. She lived here before she moved to Concord. I figured she had friends here. Anyway, this is where Larry Scott lived, and since you guys seem to think she murdered him ⦔
“I never said that,” said Vanderweigh.
I nodded. “But you think it. So anyway, I thought Evie might have an idea of who actually did kill Scott and came here to figure it out. Or maybe she just came here to get away from it all.”
“To hide?”
“Whatever.”
“Any idea if she actually did come here?”
“Like I said, I haven't found her. It was a dumb idea, me coming here. But I was worried, and I missed her. It made me feel better, doing something. Better than sitting around waiting for her to call.”
“Did you know that Romano had a room here in this motel?”
“No. He never mentioned that.”
“Both of you eating at the same diner, staying in the same motel, huh?”
“Here I am again,” I said, “at the scene of the crime. Opportunity, means, and a damn good motive.”
He shrugged. “You said it, not me.”
“As far as I know, that diner and this motel are the only places to eat and sleep in this town.”
“Did you tell Romano why you were here in Cortland?”
“No. I told him I was a lawyer and couldn't talk about it. So he told me a lawyer joke. You can't tell Polish jokes or blonde jokes anymore. But lawyer jokes are still supposed to be funny.”
Vanderweigh smiled. “Did he think you were involved in buying the doctor's practice?”
“He might have thought that. It's more or less how it sounded, I guess.”
He ran his hand over his bald head. “Well,” he said, “here's the thing. First Larry Scott from Cortland is stabbed to death in Brewster on Cape Cod, and then a week later Dr. Paul Romano from New Jersey has his throat cut in Cortland.” Vanderweigh arched his eyebrows at me.
“The Cortland connection,” I said.
He shrugged.
“And I was present in these off-the-beaten-path places both times,” I said.
“If Ms. Banyon happens to be in Cortland, as you think she is, then she was present both times, too.”
“I guess so.”
“Where were you around ten last night?” he said.
“Is that when it happened?”
“Give or take half an hour, according to the ME. One of the guests here spotted the body only about an hour ago.”
I tried to think. When Evie came to my door, the Dirty Harry movie had ended. It had started at eight and probably ended sometime around ten. I'd been dozing. So Evie had appeared after ten. If she needed a ten o'clock alibi from me, I couldn't provide it.
That made two alibis I couldn't provide for her.
“I was alone in my motel room watching television,” I said. “It was a Clint Eastwood movie on cable. I dozed off and missed the ending. That was probably around ten.”
“So you can't account for your whereabouts last night betweenâwhat, eight in the evening and five this morning?”
“Oh, I can definitely account for my whereabouts. I was in my motel room.”
“But you don't have a witness.”
“I was all alone at ten o'clock. No witness. And I didn't kill that man, if that's what you're getting at.”
“Well, of course it's what I'm getting at. Though damned if I can think of a single reason why you'd do it.”
“He
was
boring.”
“True,” he said. “Not the worst motive I can think of.” Vanderweigh pushed himself away from the car. “Let's go take a look at your room.”
“Bloodstained clothing,” I said. “Murder weapons.”
“Sure,” he said.
I hoped Evie had had the presence of mind to slip away. If she was still hiding in the bathroom, there wouldn't be much I could do.
As Vanderweigh and I skirted the crowd, I saw that Dr. Paul Romano's body had been bagged and strapped on a gurney. An ambulance sat nearby with its motor running and its back doors open, and a tow truck had backed up to the silver Oldsmobile.
Vanderweigh and I went around the corner of the building to my room. I made a point of rattling the doorknob to warn Evieâif she was still thereâthat we were coming in.
I unlocked the door and held it open for Vanderweigh. He stepped inside, and I followed him.
The bathroom door was still shut, the bed was still unmade, and Evie's soapy feminine scent still lingered in the air. I knew a forensics expert would have no problem coming up with a long strand of auburn hair on a pillow or on a damp bath towel or in the bathtub drain and deduce that it hadn't come from my head.
Well, if she was still hiding in the bathroom, even a rank amateur would notice her.
“Why are we here?” I said to Vanderweigh.
He was opening the bureau drawers. They were empty. “I'm looking for clues,” he said, “like a good detective.” He opened the closet door. Nothing in there, either. I had brought in only my overnight bag from my car. It sat on the floor at the foot of the bed. I hadn't bothered to empty it.
“Did you recover the murder weapon?” I said.
“Not yet.”
I sat on the edge of the bed. Then I noticed Evie's sunglasses sitting on the bedside table where she'd left them. I casually picked them up and slipped them into my shirt pocket.
Her hat, which she'd left on top of the bureau, was gone. That, I assumed, meant Evie had gotten out.
I hoped she'd retrieved her panties from under the bed.
Vanderweigh opened the bathroom door, poked his head in and looked around, then came over to where I was sitting and looked down at me. “Where is she?”
“Who?”
“Ms. Banyon.”
I shrugged. “I don't know.”
He folded his arms. “She was here. Now she's gone.”
“What makes you think that?”
“It's so obvious that even Sergeant Dwyer picked up on it. He mentioned it to me when he brought you over. Told me he smelled sex in your room.” Vanderweigh smiled. I'd noticed he had a nice, cynical sense of humor, but there was no humor in this particular smile. “It's really important,” he said, “that from now on, you tell me the truth.”