Nohar watched covertly as she walked to the kitchen and went from cabinet to cabinet. "I suppose his only enemies would have been Binder's enemies. He had been with Binder since the state legislature. Straight from college. Loyal to a fault. A big fault considering Binder's attitude toward homosexuals. I never understood it, but I wasn't paid to understand. Young and Johnson were already an organizational fixture when I came on the scene."
"Were they—"
She came back with the drinks. "I really shouldn't talk about it. It's Phil's business. But he shouldn't have snubbed the funeral. After fifteen years,
Derry deserved more than Phil worrying about someone figuring out the obvious."
"Could you tell me about what Johnson was doing the week he died?"
"I didn't see him the week he died. I think Young mentioned him seeing some bigwig contributor.''
"When was the last time you did see him alive?"
"A fund-raiser the previous Saturday. On the end of
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his arm as usual. He left early, around nine-thirty." She lowered her eyes. "You know what the last thing he said to me was?"
"What?"
"He apologized for consistently ruining all the dates 'an attractive girl' should have had." She lifted her glass. "To the relationships I should have had." She drained it.
The way she was shaking her head made Nohar change the subject. "Can you tell me why Johnson would have three million dollars of campaign funds in his house when he was killed?"
Weir looked back up, her mouth open, and her eyes a little wider. "Oh, Christ, in cash?"
"According to the police report's interpretation of the finance records, yes." Weir got up from her chair and started pacing. "Now I'm glad they let me go. There's no legitimate reason for having that kind of money in a lump sum—"
"Why would he?"
"Could be anything. Avoiding disclosure, a secret slush fund, illegal contributions, embezzlement—"
"Could this have to do with Binder pressuring the police to stop the investigation?"
"I heard that, too. Sure. That's as good a reason to pressure his old cronies in the council and the police department as any."
Nohar stood up and, after a short debate within himself, held out his hand. "Thank you for your help, Ms. Weir."
Her hand clasped his. It was tiny, naked, and warm, but it gave a strong squeeze. "My pleasure. I needed to talk to someone. And please don't call me Miz Weir."
"Stephanie?"
"I prefer Stephie." Nohar caught a look of what could have been uncertainty cross her face. "Will I see you again?"
FORESTS OF THE NIGHT
77
Nohar had no idea. "I'm sure we'll need to go over some things later.''
She led him to the door and he ducked out into the darkening night. Before the door was completely shut, Nohar turned around. "Can I ask you something?"
"Why stop now?"
"Why are you so relaxed around me?"
She laughed, an innocent little sound. "Should I be nervous?"
"I'm a moreau—"
"Well, Mr. Rajasthan, maybe I'll do better next time." She shut the door before Nohar could answer. After a slight hesitation, he pressed the call button.
"Yes?" said the speaker.
"Call me Nohar."
Nohar sat in the Jerboa and watched the night darken around him. He was parked in front of Daryl Johnson's house, a low-slung ranch, and wondering exactly why he'd acted the way he did with Weir—with Stephie. He really couldn't isolate anything he'd done or said that could be called unprofessional, but he felt like he'd bumbled through the whole interview. Especially the lesbian
comment—"I don't want to talk about that right now." Nohar wondered why. She was willing to talk about anything but, even seemed reluctant to let him leave.
The night had faded to monochrome when Nohar climbed out of the convertible.
He decided the problem had been Maria. Thinking about that was beginning to affect his work.
Nohar watched a reflection of the full moon ripple in the polymer sheathing that now covered the picture window. The scene was too stark for Shaker Heights. The moon had turned the world black and white, and even the night air tried to convey a chill, more psychic than actual. From somewhere the breeze carried the taint of a sewer.
The police tags were gone. The investigation had
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stopped, here at least. Nohar approached the building, trying to resolve in his mind the contradictions the police report had raised.
He stood in front of the picture window and looked across the street. Five houses stood in line with the window and Daryl Johnson's head. Similar ranch houses, all in well-manicured plots, all well lit. The specs for the sniper's weapon said it weighed 15 kilos unloaded, and it was over two meters long.
None of the possible sniper positions offered a bit of cover that would have satisfied Nohar.
CHAPTER 7
It didn't rain on Friday.
Philip Young still refused to answer his comm, so Nohar donned his suit and went to see the finance chairman in person. Philip Young's address was in the midst of the strip of suburbia between Moreytown and Shaker. It was close enough to home that Nohar decided to walk. By the time he was halfway there, his itching fur made him regret the decision. When he had reached Young's neighborhood, Nohar had his jacket flung over his shoulder, his shirt unbuttoned to his waist, and his tie hung in a loose circle around his neck. Young's neighborhood was a netherworld of ancient duplexes and brick four-story apartments. The lawns were overgrown. The trees bore the scars of traffic accidents and leaned at odd angles. Less intimidating than Shaker Heights—Moreytown, only with humans. He still received the occasional stare, but he wasn't far enough off the beaten path for the pinks to see him as unusual. Only a few crossed the street to avoid him.
Nohar felt less of the nervousness that made his interview with Stephie Weir such an embarrassment. Nohar was well on his way to convincing himself he might just be able to get Young to give him some insight on that three million dollars. His major worry was exactly how to approach Young about homosexuality. Pinks could be tender on that subject.
Nohar stopped and faced Young's house with the noontime sun burning the back of his neck. Young
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should be home. The staff had the week off because of Johnson's death.
Gnats were clouding around his head, making his whiskers twitch.
He wondered why the finance chairman—who presumably guided those large sums under the table—lived here. This was a bad neighborhood, and the house wasn't any better off than its neighbors. The second floor windows were sealed behind white plastic sheathing. The siding was gray and pockmarked with dents and scratches. The porch was warped and succumbing to dry rot. It was as much a hellhole as No-har's apartment.
And the place smelted to high heaven. He snorted and rubbed the skin of his broad nose. It was a sour, tinny odor he couldn't place. It irritated his sinuses and prodded him with a nagging familiarity. Why did Young live here? Young was an accountant. Perhaps there was a convoluted tax reason behind it. Nohar walked up to the porch with some trepidation. It didn't look like it could hold him. He walked cautiously, the boards groaning under his weight,
and nearly fell through a rotten section when his tail was caught in the crumbling joinery overhanging the front steps. Nohar had to back up and thrash his tail a few times to loosen it. It came free, less a tuft of fur the size of a large marble.
After that, he walked to the door holding his tail so high his lower back ached.
The door possessed a single key lock, and one call button with no sign of an intercom. Both had been painted over a dozen times. Nohar pressed the button until he heard the paint crack, but nothing happened. He knocked loudly, but no one seemed to be around to answer. He had the feeling Young's directory listing was a sham, and Young lived about as much at his "home" as Nohar worked at his "office." He carefully walked across the porch to peer into what he