“Quite a speech.”
“Thanks, I thought so. But obviously not good enough to change your mind.”
“No, not quite.” Absentmindedly Shannon massaged his damaged hand. He clenched his teeth against phantom pains that had started to radiate from his missing fingers up to his wrists. For a long moment it was as if nails were being driven into his joints. “I’m thirty-seven years old. I need to do something. I can’t spend twenty-four hours a day working on my spiritual development.” He paused to look down at his damaged hand. “Anyway, I’m good at what I do,” he added in a tired voice. “And maybe doing this I can help bring justice to the victims and some relief to the families.”
“You don’t sound very convincing with that last part.”
Shannon shrugged. “I met one of the families. Bringing any relief to them is only wishful thinking on my part.”
“Then why do this, Bill? I know it’s not for the money. You’ve got your disability pension and Susan’s making a good income with her practice. I agree, you should be doing something, but don’t try selling me that you’re doing this so you can help people because there are plenty of other things you could do-like working at a homeless shelter or a soup kitchen or any number of things that could enrich you. So why detective work?”
Shannon removed his feet from the desk and leaned forward so he could pick up an amethyst geode that Eli used as a paperweight. He ran his thumb along the purple and silver diamond-shaped crystals inside it, studying the intricate pattern that they made. “It’s just something I need to do,” he said as he placed the geode back on the desk.
“I think you need to figure out what you really want.” Eli took a cassette tape from the top drawer of his desk and tossed it to Shannon. “For whatever good it will do you, here are some new exercises. Like the old ones, play these a half hour before going to bed.”
Shannon nodded. “Thanks. Are we still meeting tomorrow morning?”
“Why wouldn’t we?”
“I thought you might be too pissed at me for taking this case.”
“You want to put obstacles up for yourself, that’s your business. I still plan on working with you. And besides, I’m not ending a friendship over something like this.”
“Fair enough. I’ve got a few things to do over the next hour or so, but any interest in catching the Sox game later?”
Eli made a face as if he had swallowed spoiled milk. “I already told you my thoughts on interleague play. Besides, I don’t see any reason to pay money to watch a second-rate team beat a third-rate team.”
“What are you talking about? The World Champion Red Sox a second rate team? Last I checked they’re two and a half games up on your beloved Yankees.”
“I was referring to the Rockies as the second-rate team. I’ve also decided that the Red Sox never won the World Series last year. We’re either the victims of a massive media hoax or are suffering from some sort of mass delusion. And about the Yankees being two and a half games out-don’t take too much solace from that. In seventy-eight they were fourteen games out this same time of year, and we all know how that turned out.”
Shannon got to his feet and, at the door, told Eli that he would see him tomorrow.
Eli nodded, his long face reflective. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Think harder about why you’re still doing this detective work.”
“You got it, Chief.” Shannon gave him a quick salute and left.
The condo complex where the murdered students had lived was off Arapahoe Avenue and was made up of clusters of newer-looking two-story townhouses, with what looked like four townhouses grouped together into each cluster. Driving through the complex, Shannon guessed that the townhouses had been built within the last five years.
Taylor Carver and Linda Gibson had rented a condo in an end unit townhouse that was in the back of the complex and not visible from the street. Shannon found the door to the building unlocked. Inside was a small vestibule leading to two condos. The door to Carver and Gibson’s unit had red smudges on it and some splintering where it had been kicked open. A police notice on the door warned that it was a crime scene and that the area was sealed off to the public until further notice. The other condo had a small metal sign screwed into its door indicating that it was the residence of Mike and Nancy Maguire. Shannon knocked on the Maguire’s door and waited. After several minutes a man in his early forties came out, his face flushed as he gave Shannon a wary look. “Yeah?” he asked.
Shannon introduced himself. “I was hoping you could tell me about the two students who were murdered next door,” he added.
“How about you show me some identification,” Maguire said, a thin smile showing that he thought Shannon was full of shit. Shannon handed him his PI license. Maguire studied it and then, coordinated with a sudden jerk of his head, snapped his fingers, a wide grin breaking over his face.
“I knew you looked familiar. I used to live in Medfa,” he said, grossly exaggerating his Boston pronunciation of ‘Medford’. “You were in the news for weeks. A police detective, right? What was the name of that serial killer? Carl… Carl Winters, right?”
“Charlie Winters.”
Maguire snapped his fingers again. “That’s right. Charlie Winters. You killed him, didn’t you?”
Shannon nodded.
“Damn,” Maguire said, still grinning widely. His flushed face showed a deep pink along his cheeks, almost as if he had rouge on and almost matching the color of his red hair. He was about Shannon’s height but wider, carrying an extra forty pounds beyond Shannon’s hundred and eighty. “When I heard you outside I thought you were a reporter. The tabloid ones are the worst. Nothing but a bunch of fucking piranhas.”
“No, I’m not a reporter,” Shannon said. “If you’ve got some time, I’d like to talk to both you and your wife. Is your wife home?”
“She’s home.” He hesitated. “She’s not feeling well, though. She’s come down with some sort of bug and would give me holy hell if I brought you or anyone else upstairs. You also caught me as I was about to head out.” Maguire snapped his fingers again, his eyes brightening. “Look, I’ve got two tickets for the Sox game. Since my wife can’t come, and shit, you’re another Boston guy-as long as you’re a Sox fan, you want the ticket?”
Shannon found himself nodding. “I was planning to go to the game,” he admitted.
“Then come on, man, take my extra ticket. Otherwise I’ll just be scalping it, and with my luck, selling it to some undercover cop. This way I’ll know it’s in the hands of a true Sox fan. Wadda ya say?”
Shannon hesitated as he thought it over. Maguire’s grin turned more into a smirk as he shook his head. “Come on,” he said. “What’s there to think about? It will be fun. Us guys from back east, we take baseball seriously, not like these rednecks and cowboys out here. And you can ask me all the questions you want while we’re driving back and forth to the game. But once the game starts, that’s it. No questions. I go into my gonzo fan mode. So last time, wadda ya say?”
“You talked me into it.”
“Great.” Maguire offered his hand and showed only a slight tic in his grin on realizing that Shannon was missing a couple of fingers. “I’ve got a few things I’ve got to do before we head out. I’d invite you up but my wife would kill me.”
“That’s fine.” Shannon nodded towards the staircase behind Maguire. “Your condo’s on the second floor?”
“Yep. We’ve got the upstairs, they’ve got the downstairs.” Maguire waved a thumb at the other condo. “What do you think, one of these days they’ll take that notice down?”