"Why are you sitting there?" asked The Hat. "You hungry?"
"No. He, this guy, told me to sit here till he got back," said the kid.
"Guy?"
"I don't know his name. He came for me at school, outside of school. Said Ellen was waiting for me."
"Ellen?" asked The Hat.
The truth was that Jeffrey was more frightened of this guy than he had been of the man with a limp. The man with the limp had talked to him softly, calmly, assured Jeffrey that he wouldn't be hurt, and Jeffrey believed him. Jeffrey also believed him when he said he would be very sorry if he got out of the chair before the man got back.
Jeffrey didn't feel the same about this guy. He knew homeless when he saw it.
"She wasn't waiting for you? This Ellen," said The Hat.
"No. He called her. I think he wants to kill her. He's got a knife."
The Hat knew kids this age who drank, smoked, snorted, ate and shot up with all kinds of crap that had them seeing murder where there was none. This kid was none too bright, but he looked clean.
"Kid, just get up and go home," said The Hat. "You got money?"
"No," Jeffrey said warily. "But I have a Metrocard."
The Hat moved to the middle of the room to help the boy up, but the boy didn't need help. There was nothing wrong with him.
"Maybe I better just wait," Jeffrey said.
"Maybe you better just get the hell out of here," said The Hat.
"Hold it," came a voice behind them.
The Hat froze, then turned around.
Don Flack stood in the doorway, gun in hand. The Hat knew he was a cop. He looked cop, probably smelled cop if they got close to him.
"I just came in to get out of the wet," The Hat said.
He looked harmless, but Flack knew better than to count on that.
"Keep your hands where I can see them," he said, taking a step into the room.
The Hat held his hands out. So did the boy.
"The man with the limp," said Flack. "Where is he?"
"Left," said Jeffrey.
"Who are you?" asked Flack.
"Jeffrey Herdez."
The name rang bells, lots of bells.
"Ellen Janecek," said Flack.
"He's going to hurt her," said the boy. "He said it was because of what she did to me. Ellen didn't do anything to me."
The Hat was lost. "The rain," he said. "We just- "
"You see the man?" asked Flack, putting his gun back in the holster under his jacket but keeping his distance.
"No," said The Hat.
Flack took out his phone, flicked it on, pushed a speed dial button, waited a beat and said, "Mac. Yunkin's on the way to the hotel to get Ellen Janecek. Might be there by now."
A pause. "You are?" said Flack into the phone. "Right. I'll get him home."
Flack turned the phone off and looked at the homeless man.
"Let yourself out the way you came in," he said.
The Hat didn't need to be told twice.
16
"LEGS," SAID DANNY.
They were sitting in the conference room next to the headmaster's office. Marvin Brightman, the headmaster, was at one end of the table, hands folded, wondering if he would be updating his rйsumй in the next week.
Danny sat at the other end of the table. Bill Hexton was across from him. They were waiting for a lawyer. It might be a long wait. John Rothwell, the lawyer who represented the Wallen School, had been called, but his firm backed off. Said it would be a possible conflict of interest if the police were planning to arrest one of the Wallen School students in connection with the investigation. They had recommended another firm. The return of the throbbing downpour would definitely delay the arrival of the attorney.
"Legs," Danny repeated. "Havel kept a journal. Said he was involved with a student he called 'Legs.'"
Hexton looked at him, impassive, resigned, determined.
"You said you did it on your own," said Danny. "That wasn't true."
The headmaster shifted uncomfortably but didn't speak. Hexton didn't answer.
"We know whose dress that was in your locker," said Danny. "Size fits only one of the girls in that chem class and the video confirms which one. My partner's talking to her right now."
Nothing from Hexton.
"You hid in the chem closet before class," said Danny. "Plan was to come out when the students left. Plan was to warn Havel to leave her alone, maybe even push him around a little, maybe push him around a lot, but you heard noise. When you came out Havel was facedown on the desk, pencil in his neck. She was standing over him covered in blood. She had her uniform on under her dress. She took the dress off. You got her cleaned up and then you took another pencil and drove it into his eye. He was already dead. You wanted to take responsibility for killing him if you got caught. One big problem. You want to know what it was?"
"No," said Hexton.
"I do," said Brightman.
"Blood splatter," said Danny. "The blood on the dress shows that whoever wore it struck the first, the fatal blow. You going to claim you were wearing the dress?"
No answer.
"Okay," Danny went on. "No blood splatter from the second blow, the one to the eye. No splatter on your uniform. The blood had stopped pulsing in Havel's body. He was dead. No splatter. You drove a pencil into the eye of a dead man to make it look as if you had struck both blows. Angle's wrong. Splatter's wrong. And we believe there was glass in your palm from using the jar. You tried to use green clay to get the glass out, but you had to dig the glass out yourself. And your palm is still slightly green."
Hexton looked as if he were going to speak, but Danny stopped him.
"You'd better wait for your lawyer. There'll be an assistant DA here soon. The two lawyers can talk to each other. I'm finished," said Danny.
"Detective, I've advised Miss Reynolds not to say anything," said John Rothwell, the Wallen School lawyer.
"I want to tell her," said Karen Reynolds of the golden hair and long legs.
"This won't be admissible," said Rothwell.
"She's eighteen," said Lindsay, turning on the small tape recorder.
They were in the headmaster's office. Beyond the door Karen Reynolds kept glancing toward where Danny was sitting with Bill Hexton and Marvin Brightman.
"I didn't mean to kill him," Karen said to Lindsay. "I knew Bill was in the closet, yes. The plan was for him to come out, face Mr. Havel, warn him. I went back into the lab when the others left. I told him to stop bothering me, calling me, touching me. We'd only done it once, two months ago. I was seventeen then. I told him I'd tell, that his wife would find out, the school would find out. He didn't care. Said no one would believe me. He grabbed me. I picked up the pencil and…I panicked. I didn't plan to kill him. I didn't. I wouldn't have stabbed him if he hadn't grabbed me."
"That's it," said Rothwell. "Not another word."
Lindsay reached over and turned off the tape recorder. She had enough.
Charles Roland Cheswith was a resourceful man and, if he had to say so himself, which he did, a very good actor. He never had the looks, the charisma of a leading man, but that was fine with him. Leading men get old, hang on, give up and start to compete, usually unsuccessfully, for character roles with Charles Cheswith, who already fit comfortably into the roles of father, priest, lawyer, pharmacist and cop. He could go back to the stage, although it would have to be far away and under a different name.
He still harbored a glimmer of hope that he could claim the substantial insurance on his brother, Malcom. It was not a great hope, but there were still possibilities to explore.
First things first, however.
He had a checklist. Not one he had written. He didn't need to write it. Charles had an outstanding memory cultivated by exercises and tricks collected from years of learning roles. He had once, not too long ago, played Murray the Cop in a production of The Odd Couple on a riverboat in Natchez. He had understudied all of the male roles and had been not only prepared to step in but eager to do so. He got his chance one Saturday performance when one of the actors fell suddenly ill with violent vomiting. Ipecac induced. For one performance, Charles got to play Oscar Madison.