She paused. “And that’s the man who slit those women’s throats.”
Paul decided to take another shot at Harold Foster.
He recalled a book he’d once read by a legendary Miami police reporter. Often, when she’d call the family of a murder victim, hoping to add some personal details to her story, she’d get a slammed phone in her ear. So she’d wait a few minutes and try again, saying she’d somehow been cut off. Often, in the interim, another family member would argue in favor of talking to the press, that the world needed to know that, no matter what the cops might say, their dead relative was a decent human being, not some lowlife who had it coming.
Harold’s situation was not quite the same, but he might have had a similar change of heart.
After his visit with Angelique, he took a route that went past Milford Savings & Loan. As he neared the bank, there was Foster, coming out the front door, heading for the adjacent parking lot. Paul quickly pulled over to the curb, turned off the car, and got out. The banker was nearly to his car when he saw Paul approaching. He stopped.
“Harold,” Paul said, trying to sound agreeable.
Foster was speechless.
“I’m hoping, since we last spoke, you might be willing to reconsider answering a few more questions.”
“What the hell is wrong with you? Leave me alone.”
“Listen, I’m sorry about this, I really am, but if you don’t want to help me now, then I’ll be back tomorrow. And if you won’t help me then, I’ll be back the day after that.”
“Mr. Davis, I understand that what happened to you was traumatic. Guess what? What happened to me was traumatic. Why can’t you get that through your thick, damaged skull?”
“So, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
Foster sighed with exasperation. “Fine. What the hell do you want?”
Now that Foster appeared to have surrendered, Paul had to work up his courage to ask his question.
Paul nodded sheepishly. He felt his face flush.
“The truth is, I really have just one question for you, and you’re going to think it’s a strange one. Or, I don’t know, maybe you won’t.”
Foster stiffened.
“Have you ever, since your wife passed away... have you ever felt — this is the strange part but bear with me — that she was trying to connect with you in some way?”
“Excuse me?”
“What I’m wondering is, have you ever felt as though she was talking to you? You know how, when you lose a loved one, in some way they’re still with you?”
“A loved one,” Harold Foster said flatly.
“Yes.”
“You’re quite serious.”
“I am.”
“And you’re asking this why?”
Paul hesitated. “I’d be grateful if you indulged me without my having to explain.”
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll answer your goddamn question.” A sly grin crossed his face. “Sometimes I can imagine Jill speaking to me. I hear her voice in the back of my head.”
“You do?” Paul felt his heart do a small flip of encouragement.
“I do.”
“What do you hear her saying?”
“She’s saying, ‘You lucky bastard. Kenneth Hoffman did you a real favor, didn’t he?’”
Paul’s mouth opened. He was struck not just by the comment, but also by Harold Foster now being willing to utter his wife’s killer’s name.
“And you know what I say back to her?” Foster continued. “I say, ‘You’re damn right.’ That’s what I say. Hoffman rid me of a two-timing, conniving bitch.” He shook his head. “Since she died, if you want to know the absolute fucking truth, I’ve never felt better. It’s like I’ve been cured of cancer. I feel that I can start my life over.”
Paul wondered if he looked as stunned by Harold’s words as he felt.
“It was so much easier, honestly, than a divorce. So many times I considered asking her for one, but the thought of the process stopped me. The fights, the recriminations, the lawyers, the sleepless nights, the division of property. It’s endless. How easy it would be, to avoid all that, to just kill your spouse. But, of course, I’d never have done such a thing. I’d never even have contemplated it. But what Hoffman did, it makes me realize now, what a magnificent time saver murder is. There are times I wonder if I should write him a check.”
Paul couldn’t think of a follow-up question.
“Does that about take care of it?” Foster asked. When Paul said nothing, the man unlocked his car, got in, and started the engine.
Paul was still standing there as Foster drove out.
Paul realized, as he turned onto his street, that Charlotte’s car was directly in front. She hit her blinker, turned into their driveway, and he drove in right behind her. They each got out of their cars at the same moment.
“Hey,” Charlotte said, walking toward him.
“Hey,” he said.
She approached him tentatively, eyes down, the way a girl might act if she were asking a boy to dance. But it wasn’t shyness. She appeared almost fearful.
“There’s something I want to tell you I did, because I don’t want you finding out on your own and getting angry, wondering why I didn’t tell you.”
“What are you talking about?” he said worriedly.
She looked him in the eye. “I went to see Dr. White.”
Paul said nothing.
“I’m just so worried about you, Paul,” she said. “You’re scaring me half to death. I’m not sorry I went to see her. I don’t care how mad you get. I had to talk to her.”
Paul wasn’t angry. He put his hands on her shoulders. “It’s okay.” He paused. “What did she say?”
Charlotte, eyes brimming with tears, said, “What could she say? She’s not allowed to say anything. You’re her patient. I’m not.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I don’t know what’s happening with you. You assaulted a man! You come home, then you take off. I don’t know where you’re going, who you’re going to see. You think you feel like you’re losing your mind? Well guess what? Me, too.”
He tried to pull her into his arms, but she resisted. When he pulled a little harder, she allowed him to hold her.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I need you to listen to me,” she said. “I want you to get help. You have to promise me that if Dr. White can’t help you, you’ll see someone else. You’ll get to the bottom of all this. You’ll find out why you’re... why you’re doing the things you’re doing.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to do. I’ve been out all day, talking to people.”
“What people?”
Paul told her, prompting a concerned sigh.
“Do you really think that’s the best thing to do? Getting all those people involved. I mean, the more people you talk to, the more people who are going to think you’re—”
She stopped herself.
“The more people who are going to think I’m what?”
“Nothing.”
“Crazy? The more people are going to think I’m crazy? Is that what you wanted to say?”
“That’s not what — I can’t take any more. I just can’t.”
She turned. Her keys were still in her hand, and she used them to unlock the front door. She went in, closed the door behind her, leaving Paul standing there in the driveway.
I’m losing her, he thought. If she doesn’t believe me, where am I?