Harvey Rozier stood pale and sweating in his University of Illinois T-shirt and snorts, a towel around his neck. He had just finished forty minutes at 5.0 on the treadmill in the basement and now he stood in his office study wondering if there were some way he could get out of this. He had no choice but to agree immediately to Lieberman's request that he come and identify the man they had found. In all likelihood it wouldn't be Patniks. He had decided to wait till the immediate furor over Dana's death had faded before he located and contacted Patniks. But now this. And what about the mistakes he had made? Harvey Rozier had been confident that he could carry this off, but he had never murdered anyone before and he certainly couldn't have anticipated that a burglar would be a witness to the crime.
The ipecac, the ipecac-that was the mistake. He should have said Dana kept it around because she had a fear of food poisoning. Perhaps he could remember this casually, even refer to some time when she got sick and they were nowhere near a doctor. Nassau last year.
"Harv?" Ken Franklin said with concern, moving to the younger man. "Are you all right?"
"Under the circumstances, fine," said Rozier, giving his lawyer the faint smile of the victim who is doing his best to bear up under his grief.
Franklin smiled sympathetically and said, "You'd better take a shower and get dressed."
Rozier nodded and left the room.
There was something else he had not considered in this. He had a nearly perfect alibi, and he had told no one of his plan for murder, but what he hadn't counted on was the police coming up with the idea that he might have hired someone to murder Dana. He wasn't sure that this was their line of reasoning, but it made more than a little sense.
He stripped in the bathroom, leaving his clothes on the floor for the housekeeper to pick up. He wondered for an instant how Dana paid the woman. He would have to ask.
Harvey ran the water as hot as he could tolerate and it pelted him into thought and revived his confidence. Ken would stick by him, as would Betty, who, given her age, was in great condition and much better in bed than he would have imagined when he started to move on her almost six months ago.
Confidence, he told himself. There's no way they can get you on this, no way. Give you a hard time? Yes. But that would be it, and Ken, providing his health held up, would stand in front of Harv and take the worst of it.
Harvey had purposely not varied his work routine in any way before the murder. Even though he knew he would not be coming in for weeks, he had made appointments, set up meetings, made promises. This morning he had called Alan Gibson and told him to carry on as best he could and Alan had dutifully told him not to worry.
He had left to Betty the job of contacting Dana's relatives and booking them into the Hyatt. Betty had told them that Harvey was too distraught to see anyone yet.
Ten minutes after he stepped into the shower Harvey was dressed and downstairs. Ken was standing in the front hallway waiting, a newspaper in his hand.
"You haven't looked at the newspapers, have you?" Franklin asked.
"You asked me not to." 'Television?"
"Not the news."
"Good. The invasion of privacy will go on for a week or two and start to fade. No reason for you to be reminded of…"
"Thanks, Ken. I don't know what I'd do without you and Betty."
"We'll take my car," Ken said. "It's in the driveway."
Harvey nodded gratefully.
The crowd of curious observers was gone and the murder of Dana Rozier, while not forgotten by the press, was yesterday's news, particularly since it was clear that Harvey Rozier would not respond to questions.
Harvey climbed into Franklin's Lincoln Town Car, closed the door, and tried to think of how he should handle the situation if, by some stroke of luck or Harvey's error, they had found Patniks.
Confrontations
Hanrahan was late. When Lieberman called him and told him to get to the station, Bill Hanrahan had just finished shaving and putting on his clothes. His tie was still open, but that could wait till he got to the front door.
He had pulled in the Tribune, read the Rozier story at the top of page two, and found that Captain Kearney had been quoted to the effect that there were several good leads, that the crime was one of the most wanton and savage he had ever worked on, and that Harvey Rozier was bearing up remarkably well.
Hanrahan was on his second cup of coffee. He had eight more in the coffee maker. He hadn't bought a new, smaller machine when Maureen left him, and it was automatic with him to grind the beans and fill the machine with ten cups. He'd reheat it in the microwave when he got home at night and dump what was left when he went to bed. Caffeine didn't keep Hanrahan awake at nights. Sometimes his shattered knees ached and the need for the prescription pills that eased the pain woke him in a cold sweat, but usually it was thoughts, thoughts of Maureen, Iris, the boys. He fought the rage and bitterness and the lure of the bottle, and each day he won, but it took a lot out of him. And he needed coffee.
Someone knocked at the front door. Hanrahan put down the newspaper and, cup of coffee in hand, went to the door, opened it, and found himself looking at three Oriental men. All were dressed in dark suits. The one in the middle looked like one of those dogs with the wrinkled faces. The ancient man wore thick glasses and carried a cane, simple, bamboo.
"Mr. Hanrahan," the old man said. "May I have but a brief word with you?"
Hanrahan looked at the two younger men. They looked fit and smart, probably knew some martial arts crap that looked good in the movies. No, he decided quickly, they had too much class for that, and besides, the bigger one to the old man's left was definitely carrying a weapon under his jacket. He didn't need martial arts.
"I've only got a few minutes," Hanrahan said, stepping back to let them in.
"That is all we shall take," said the old man, nodding as he and the other two stepped into Hanrahan's living room.
Hanrahan closed the door as the old man looked around the room.
"Modest and clean," the old man said with approval.
"Glad you like it," said Hanrahan. "Coffee's in the kitchen. We can sit."
"You know who I am?" asked the old man, following Hanrahan to the kitchen.
"Wouldn't take much of a detective to figure it out," Hanrahan said, holding the door open so the trio could enter the kitchen.
Hanrahan motioned the men to the table. Laio Woo closed his eyes and nodded at the other two men to sit. They did and so did he.
"Do you take anything in your coffee?"
"Black for all of us," said Woo, placing his cane on the kitchen table.
"I could get you tea," said Hanrahan.
"I do not care for tea," said Woo.
All very polite so far, thought Hanrahan, serving his visitors coffee and sitting down in the chair left open for him. Hanrahan put his coffee cup down and neatly folded the newspaper.
"You are a fastidious housekeeper," said Woo. "That is admirable."
"As I said, I'm glad you approve," said Hanrahan, checking his watch.
The four men drank for a minute or more without speaking and then Woo placed his cup on the table, folded his hands, and looked at Hanrahan.
"You know why I am here," he said.
'To keep me from marrying Iris Chen," Hanrahan said.
"Mr. Chen, Iris's father, informs me that in spite of my associate's call to you, you have pressed your suit with Miss Chen and asked that she marry you."
"That I did," said Hanrahan, a phrase his father used frequently.
Maybe the formality of his guest moved Bill Hanrahan to the Irish formality of his father. He could clearly hear the accepted voice of County Kildare, and it rested inside him like a Cheshire cat, a silent voice with no face.