The sound down the block was a stuck window being forced open.
A girl’s voice called, “Hey, Virg! Who you talkin’ to? Mom wants you back inside.”
“I ain’t done nothin’,” Virg said again.
“Mom’s calling,” Dave said. “Let’s go talk to her.”
Virg summoned a spark of pale venom.
“What makes you think she’ll talk to you?”
“Tell her I found the lockbox,” Dave said.
When they were halfway down the block a recent-model car came around the corner and went by in the opposite direction. Virg broke into an ungainly run. He reached his home, blundered up onto the porch, and disappeared inside.
Dave blew on his hands, crammed them back into his pockets. Behind him Officer Crossen said, “Playing kinda rough, aren’t you?”
“You’re letting me.”
“That bit about the shotgun needed some follow-up. You really think he’s guilty?”
“Look,” Dave said, “I had a lousy day and then it got worse and I’ve got this headache. Don’t know what I think from minute to minute.” The wiring in his head was still being replugged. Unfamiliar thoughts were trying to find form and coherence.
Kathy appeared in the upstairs window.
“Where’d you find it?” she asked eagerly.
“Downstairs bedroom closet,” Dave said.
“Good stuff in it?”
The front door opened. Mrs. Howard marched out in her raincoat and a heavy muffler. She left the porch and came to the sidewalk and looked back up at Kathy.
“I told you, don’t talk to nobody. Close the window. Go back to bed.”
Kathy closed the window with difficulty. The light in the room went out, leaving Mrs. Howard’s face almost invisible when she turned on Dave.
“I told you, stop spreading lies about my kids.”
“I’ve been learning about how much evidence can survive a fire like that one,” Dave said.
“You won’t find any evidence against my kids!”
“There never was much of an investigation when the old man died,” Dave said. “No reason there should be. Old people have accidents all the time. But you heard me say I wanted to find out just how it happened. You know they’re not guilty but you thought I might make trouble for Virg and Kathy, so tonight you tried to burn down the house — with me in it.”
“What’re you talking about, mister?”
“You went a bit far over my grandfather’s lockbox. What did you think you’d find in it, something that’d bring you a little cash, enough for something for the kids, who’ve never really had anything? After a lifetime of honesty, you’d bend the rules a bit and the old guy would never know, where’s the harm, right? The afternoon you worked for him you couldn’t find the lockbox, but you found and swiped the spare front-door key—”
“I never swiped nothing. Do I have to listen to this crap, Officer?”
“No, ma’am.” Crossen said.
“I found the lockbox,” Dave said. “Only things in it were family treasures — old pictures, old memories, stuff like that. Not worth a dime to anyone else.”
He wished he could see her face.
She said, “... So?”
“So you killed him for nothing.”
He heard her intake of breath. It began raining again, gently, straight down, freezing. She turned abruptly and stumbled back onto the porch and through the front door.
“Evidence?” Officer Crossen said patiently.
Dave shook his head. His headache had almost gone and he felt numb with astonishment that he’d thought and said any of that. No anger, though. Just a sense of futility.
“Evidence is cop’s work. And it’s surprising how much evidence survives a fire.”
“Sometimes. Proving she set the fire don’t prove she murdered anyone.”
“It’d be a start,” Dave said. “Actually, I don’t think she meant to. A week after she stole the key — last Wednesday — she let herself into the house to look for that lockbox again. The old man came home early. Maybe she tried to get away unrecognized but wound up shoving him down the basement steps. She thought she’d killed him. He may have recognized her anyway, since he connected his attacker with the lockbox and tried to explain, or else in the end the box and everything in it were all that mattered. Anyway, she went down past him to the furnace. If it was on, she shut it off. Then she pulled a few wires loose from the remote connection. It was a cold rainy evening. A nonworking furnace would explain what he was doing on the stairs — going down to light it manually. Then — and this is pure guesswork — she remembered seeing his checkbook in the desk where she’d found the key. She took that too because it had her name in the register as a recent payee and she didn’t want anyone knowing she’d ever been in the house. If she’d been really smart she’d have returned the key, but then wouldn’t have had it to let herself in tonight.
“Anyway, she heard Tom Hastings at the front door, trying to return the old guy’s notebook, so she ducked out the back. Old-fashioned lock, no automatic latch, so she couldn’t lock it. Hastings found it unlocked and went in. Mrs. Howard walked home through the rain and waited for her kids to get home from the movies.”
Crossen sighed.
Yeah,” he admitted. “And maybe no. Evidence, Mr. North. You haven’t said anything to convince me, much less a judge and jury.”
“But if she loads the kids into that old Ford and splits, it could start you guys thinking, especially if she runs out on light or gas bills, things like that. And who knows what the arson investigation is going to turn up.”
Crossen’s throat made an unhopeful noise.
“Well, anyway,” Dave said. “I’m cold and wet and to hell with it. Good night, if it’s still night.”
He turned up the block. The firemen were packing their equipment. The house was surrounded by a crime-scene tape.
Well, Grandfather, at least it’s a down payment on that debt. Or will be, if the cops find anything.
The car he’d seen going up the block was parked in the driveway of number 1614. He crossed the street. He had the house key in his pocket but using it might seem presumptuous.
He knocked. He knew before it opened who would open it.
At least he wasn’t a giant Viking. A bit taller then Dave, lean, dark, with rimless glasses.
“I’ll bet you’re Dave.”
“That’s me.”
“Hi, I’m Jeff Ford.” He stuck out a hand. He had a good handshake that didn’t have to prove it could crush granite. Dave stepped through the door into dry warmth as Jan came out of the kitchen. Jeff Ford closed the door.
Jan said, “My God, you look drowned. I made another pot of coffee and the heater’s on in the bathroom so it’s nice and warm. I left some dry clothes there for you to try on.”
A gesture invited him into the kitchen. He dug the key ring out of his pocket and laid it on the shelf under the mirror in the coatrack. He went past her into the kitchen and they followed him, Jan lacing her fingers through her husband’s and hanging on as though his arm were a lifeline.
Dave met her eyes, which were carefully blank. He smiled to hide a stab of disappointment that almost floored him.
He heard himself say, “I’ve been enough of a nuisance for one day, I just came to pick up the lockbox. Yes, you were right about that” — he pointed to the gray box on the dinette chair — “but the idea took some getting used to. I’ll go find a motel.”
“We’ve got a spare room,” Jeff Ford said reasonably.
“Hell, I couldn’t impose. I have to get a few hours’ sleep and then go talk to the cops. I’ve got a suspect for them. Murder and arson. Mrs. Howard.”