The Snake Tattoo (18 page)

They wanted to know if Reardon had seemed depressed when I spoke to him yesterday.

Not noticeably.

Had he said anything odd, anything that might cast some light on subsequent events?

I like that “subsequent events.” It's standard cop-report-speak. I told them he'd mentioned leaving his teaching job.

Ahhhhh. That was the kind of bilge they wanted to hear. They made it sound like a suicide note. They really wanted a suicide note. They thought somebody ought to read the guy's play. Maybe, the old cop thought, it was, like, this super-long suicide note. Each of them thought the other guy ought to read it.

I stuffed my hands in my pockets and tried to think about warm days on Cape beaches. It didn't work.

I had a friend who killed himself. End of October, eight years ago. He didn't leave a note either. For a long time I used to see him—imagine I'd seen him—in a group of people waiting for a bus, or driving by in a strange new car. I still scream at him in my dreams, incoherent pleas to stop. Talk to me. Let me help.

My ex-husband's trying to kill himself—slowly, with cocaine. He says it helps his music. I say it helps him deal with the fact that his music doesn't get the attention he thinks it deserves, but then I'm a cold bitch—or so he said when we split.

According to my mom my grandmother always used to say:
A mensh zol lebn nor fun naygerikeyt vegn
, which, translated from the Yiddish, means: “A person should live, if only for curiosity's sake” and sums up my thoughts on suicide pretty well.

Neither my ex nor my friend would see a shrink. God forbid. That might be admitting something was wrong. It seems to me killing yourself is one hell of a way to admit something's wrong.

Nobody's ever accused me of being a Pollyanna, but I mean, what if the damn thing could be fixed?

Face it, I have trouble with suicide. I think to myself, okay, you're dying of a fatal disease and it's painful as hell—well, maybe. Maybe if I couldn't move and I couldn't see and I hurt all the time … but don't turn off the damn machine if I can still hear music. Put on some fine wailing blues. Hit me with Willie Brown or Mississippi John Hurt and I might surprise you yet.

Geoffrey Reardon's death looked like suicide, smelled like suicide, tasted like suicide. And maybe what I was refusing to believe was that a man could be in that much pain—physical, psychic, whatever—and I could spend half an hour talking to him and never get a hint. But then I never got a hint with my friend.

What the hell do I know about people? Even the ones I think I know.

On the phone Preston Haslam sounded delighted that his little girl was home again. He didn't react one way or another to the news about Reardon's death, except to say he hoped it wouldn't upset Valerie. Jerry Toland sounded troubled, but thought my work was done.

I hesitated about sending a bill. That's unusual. Normally I send them quick and they pay them slow. So something must have seemed wrong before I realized it was wrong.

I waited for the autopsy report. I wrote Paolina a long letter. I played a lot of guitar, toughening the calluses on my fingers. And I buried myself in my other case.

Mooney's hearing was speedily approaching and as far as I knew nobody but me had laid eyes on Janine. Joanne hadn't returned my calls about the license plate. Sunday, I dialed her from the phone in the kitchen while finishing off a late lunch I'd culled from foil-wrapped bundles of suspicious leftovers. Busy signal. Always busy or take a message or nothing. You'd think the whole damn police department had moved out of town.

A thud from upstairs made me jump. Twin Brothers at work. I mean, I should be used to it by now, right? I took a deep breath and climbed the stairs.

I'm glad to report that the weird blue toilet had disappeared, replaced by a quite respectable tan number the Twin Bros informed me was “almond,” in tones that let me know I had proved my hitherto only suspected total ignorance of the plumbing world. The Day-Glo orange sink had come back and I could hardly wait to see what they'd hook up in the way of a tub.

Roz and the guys were all in the bathroom, which made my entrance almost impossible.

“I thought the tile was out,” I said. They seemed to be busily gluing the chocolate stuff in place.

“This tile is terrific,” Roz said. She was wearing a deep blue T-shirt with scarlet letters on the front: “Time flies like an arrow.” On the back it said: “Fruit flies like a banana.” It's tough to argue with someone wearing a truly stupid shirt.

“I hate it,” I said.

“You can't get the full effect until it's done, Carlotta.”

“I don't want the full effect.”

“Look,” Roz drew me aside, no mean feat in the four-by-ten environs, “with the dark tile, the tub and the toilet and the sink, they're, like, gonna be floating in the room. Wait till you see the mural on the ceiling.”

“Mural?”

“Like a fresco, you know. Like the Sistine Chapel.”

“Make no mistake, Roz. This is not the Sistine Chapel.”

“Well, what about a desert scene on the tile around the bathtub?” she said earnestly. “I mean, wouldn't it be great to be in the middle of this desert and, like, sopping wet?”

I had choices. I could strangle Roz. I could make her move out immediately and find somebody else to clean my house. I could fire the Twin Bros, and hire other incompetents to finish my bathroom. I could stop clenching my jaw before my teeth broke.

The doorbell rang while I was simmering. Roz looked relieved.

“Later,” I said menacingly.

“Later,” she agreed.

“No desert scene,” I said.

The bell rang again. I clattered downstairs and stuck my right eye to the peephole. I always check.

Even with the distortion I recognized the face. The man was blond, square-jawed, blue-eyed. He was the original of the “movie star” photo I'd admired in Geoffrey Reardon's desk.

CHAPTER 21

Maybe if he'd been ugly, I'd have had my shoulder to the door where it belonged. He barged past me into the hall, stopped after three long paces, and pivoted slowly, staring at my foyer like it was someplace he wanted to remember, and believe me, the decor is not great—just the old oak coatstand in the corner and a few of Roz's less weird acrylics on the walls. One, a close-up study of a garlic bulb, is certainly worth a second glance. You look at it too long, it practically starts to smell.

She wants me to replace it with one of her newer works featuring Smurfs and condoms in various combinations. She says they have a strong social message. Not in my foyer, I told her. Strangers come to my door. Jehovah's Witnesses. Fuller Brush Men. Clients.

As the guy studied my foyer, I sized him up, and it was a pleasure. I'm partial to dark-haired men, but I have nothing against slim blonds with bony faces and deep-set eyes.

Blue eyes. He turned them on me with startling suddenness, like a bird of prey eyeing breakfast.

“This you?” he demanded, brandishing what looked like a business card.

I closed the door and leaned against it. “The print is small,” I said. The guy was gorgeous but I didn't care much for his manners. He was wearing pleated-front wool pants and a leather bomber jacket. He wasn't holding a notebook, but I hoped he'd brought Valerie's diary, maybe zipped in the front of his jacket. Reardon had probably left it for me somewhere, at his house or …

Without so much as an invitation, the guy sped into the living room. When I followed, he was giving the place the once over, practically memorizing it like he'd done the hall.

“Can I help you?” I asked in a pretty hostile tone.

“This.” He raised the card again. “Is it yours?”

“I can't see it,” I said.

“Sorry.” He held it maybe three inches closer. Great. Now I could tell it had print on it.

“Why don't you read it to me?” I said.

“Why don't you come over and take a closer look,” he said with a smile. Again his appearance got in my way. If he'd had the face of a gerbil, I would have been more cautious, more wary. As it was, he held the card out, I marched over, and the next thing I knew, I felt a knife blade at my neck.

“Don't scream,” he said quietly.

I would have nodded my agreement but I didn't want the blade to nick me.

“Why?” the guy said. “Just tell me why?”

I probably said something like “huh,” something brilliant. The word had frozen. The room seemed the same. Aunt Bea's oriental rug glowed in the sunlight. I noticed how worn the beige sofa looked near the edge of the wooden scrollwork. The rocker sat balanced, motionless. The only noise came from Red Emma scuffling around in the gravel at the bottom of her cage. It was almost as loud as my breathing.

“Why did you have to do it?” he insisted.

“What?” I managed, my mouth dry, my lips moving as little as possible.

“Why couldn't you leave him alone? He wasn't hurting anybody.”

Roz was upstairs. The Twin Brothers were upstairs. All within call, if I could call. Roz knows karate. I don't. I'm a street fighter, police academy-trained.

The guy maneuvered himself behind me and to my left. He was a lefty, gripping the knife in his left hand. It was jerking around more than it should have. The point rasped my collarbone, slid up. It took me a while to realize that the movement was unintentional, pure nervousness on my assailant's part. That may have been because I was nervous myself. The guy's right hand clasped my right shoulder. He was breathing hard and shallow.

“Maybe I'd better look at that card,” I said softly. I didn't like the positioning. I thought I could take the jerk. He was my height, thin. He didn't look like a fighter. He looked like a model, decorative. His grip on my shoulder was hesitant. He didn't do this sort of thing for a living.

I wished I'd worn a different bra, not the one with the safety pin holding the shoulder strap together. My mother always warned me: Wear torn underwear and you'll be embarrassed when they take you to the hospital.

“Geoff told me about you,” he whispered in my ear.

“Look,” I said, keeping my voice low and even with effort, “you are making one hell of a mistake. I'd like to explain it to you—”

“Go ahead,” he said angrily. “Explain.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I'd love to. But I don't talk real well with a knife at my throat.” I increased my volume on the last bit, hoping Roz might be at the foot of the stairs by now.

His hand was shaking. I couldn't feel the tip of the knife point any more. I strained my eyes trying to see where it was. My nose got in the way. I couldn't see his face, but his grasp on my shoulder loosened a bit, and he was making some kind of guttural noise deep in his throat that might have been crying. I probably could have talked him out of the knife, but I was angry now. I get angry when assholes put knives near my arteries. So I slammed my elbow back as hard as I could into his ribs, bringing my neck down tight to my chest at the same time for protection. I reached over my right shoulder with my right arm, grabbed a fistful of hair, ducked, and yanked with everything I had. He flipped over my shoulder and smacked resoundingly into Aunt Bea's rocking chair. The knife skittered across the floor. I dove for it. It was a little bastard, no more than a three-inch blade. I snapped it shut, pocketed it, cross the room to my desk, and grabbed my .38 out of the drawer.

The effect was ruined by the fact that I keep the damn thing wrapped up and unloaded and everything. Safety first. Luckily, my friend on the floor stayed down for the count. I doubt it would have made the right impression if he'd seen my unwinding the gun from its undershirt. I didn't have time for bullets.

He groaned, then rolled onto one shoulder and took his weight on his arm with a deeper groan, more surprised than wounded, by the look of it. He stared at the room again, taking inventory. Then he shook his head gently, side to side, and looked like he was trying to wake from a bad dream.

“You can get up now,” I said, pointing the empty gun.

Roz chose that moment to trip downstairs. “Everything all right?” she chirped. “I heard a noise.”

“Time flies like a banana,” I said. “If I need you, I'll holler.”

“Okay,” she said, taking in the guy on the floor, the gun, the overturned furniture, and disappearing back up the stairs. Roz has no curiosity.

“Get up,” I said to handsome.

He did.

“Put your stupid card on the chair, the one you want me to read so much.”

He did.

“Now back away from it and sit on the couch. Keep your hands on your thighs and move real slowly, okay?”

The card was one of mine. He hadn't attacked the wrong woman. I tossed it on the floor, but it made no satisfactory noise.

“What the fuck is this about, you moron?” I yelled, providing the sound effects myself. I'm not proud of it, or of the fact that I knocked over the desk chair for emphasis. I don't swear much anymore. I used to curse with the best of them when I was on the force, and maybe having a gun in my hand again put the words in my mouth. Maybe it was that I was so goddamned angry I could barely see. I hate the idea, the very idea, that some jerk with a knife could get behind me in my own house. I hate the idea that I could get killed and spend my last moments bleeding on Aunt Bea's rug, wondering why the hell I was dying.

“I wasn't going to hurt you,” he said.

My eyebrows rose. “Good time to tell me,” I said.

“I mean it.” he said, as if it mattered.

“Really,” I said, letting the sarcasm drip.

“Really,” he echoed.

“Damn straight you weren't going to hurt me, you total jackass!” I said. “You moron! You ever hold a knife before?”

“Not that way,” he said softly. “I can't believe I did it. I can't believe it. I don't know—”