He tried not to think about last night's dreams as he sat eating an omelet and dry toast, grateful for the morning light cascading through the kitchen window, even though its glare worsened his dull headache. He seemed to be haunted by the same sorts of dreams, if not the same dreams. He was either by the sea, which might be in any of its varying moods, or he dreamed of falling from great heights. Sometimes the sea dreams were pleasant and reassuring. The dreams of falling always left him sweating and scared.
While he ate, he listened to an old Billie Holiday record from what was left of his jazz collection after last year's poverty-induced sale. That made him feel better. If he was down, Billie was lower; but something in her dulcet voice affirmed that it was possible to get up.
He left his dirty dishes in the sink, telling himself he'd wash them that evening. Sure. After switching off the stereo and replacing the record in its jacket, he draped his sport coat over his arm and left the apartment.
As he got out of his car and crossed the street to his office he was almost struck by a van with a thousand windows. Traffic was heavy on Manchester for this time of day. He reached the haven of the opposite sidewalk and squinted to see up the street. Cars were backed up beyond the traffic light, waiting to turn into the K-mart underground parking lot. There must have been coupons in the paper.
He trudged upstairs to his office, unlocked the door, and went inside. The place was hot, but he wasn't planning on being there long. There was no point in switching on the air conditioner. Listening to the traffic sounds from beyond the dirt-spotted window, he sat down behind his desk and punched buttons on the answering machine.
"This is Eileen," said the machine. "Just a reminder-" Nudger pressed Fast Forward.
"Jeanette here, Mr. Nudger. Only one appointment today. At noon by the Twin Oaks Mall fountain. His name's Jock. He'll be wearing dark slacks and a beige sport jacket, no tie. Personnel Pool sent me out on a temporary secretarial job today, so phone me late this evening and report." Click.
"Jack Hammersmith, Nudge. Call me at the Third when you get a chance. Some of us are pitching in for a birthday gift for Leo Springer…" Hammersmith's cigar-distorted chortle came through before Nudger could punch the red Off button.
He'd heard enough for now. In a way it was nice to know that the temporary office help firm that sent Jeanette out on jobs had tucked her safely away where she couldn't bother him for a while.
Nudger stood up and walked over to where a Globe- Democrat lay folded on the cold radiator. When he examined the paper he was surprised to find that it was four days old and wouldn't tell him what he needed to know. Dropping the paper into the wastebasket, he sat down again at the desk and dialed Hammersmith's number at the Third District. Hammersmith knew about Agnes Boyington and should have no trouble getting Springer to back off.
"I'm busy, Nudge," Hammersmith said into the phone. "Not much time for you. Ever seen a man actually foam at the mouth?"
"Only in bad movies. I think they do it with some kind of chemical."
"Springer did it with only the forces of nature. He told me about his conversation with you. I set him straight. At least as straight as possible. He'll leave you alone, but not for long. I would describe him as incensed."
"What did you tell him?"
"Practically nothing. He doesn't deserve to know anything at all." Hammersmith was definitely annoyed. "There's plenty to do in Vice. The bastard had no business meddling in Homicide. Unless of course he wants to become a victim."
"I talked to Agnes Boyington at her house last night," Nudger said. "She as much as told me she hired Hugo Rumbo to help persuade me to accept her offer of a payoff to bow out of the case without telling her daughter. I think she was expecting me. Rumbo was there in the background, to protect her and intimidate me."
"I suppose when Hugo told her about yesterday's fun in the Third District parking lot, she decided her best defense would be immediate offense. Gutsy lady."
"She wears white gloves, even in this weather."
"Springer told me. He was genuinely impressed. I know a massage parlor where all the girls wear white gloves."
"Do you have anything yet that might tie in the Valpone murder with Jenine Boyington?"
"I was wondering when you'd ask," Hammersmith said. "The search of the Valpone apartment didn't turn up a six- six-six phone number, or anything else that proved useful. The autopsy report lists death by asphyxiation, from when her throat was slashed, but she was tortured before that. As badly as she was mutilated, she would have survived her injuries for at least an hour, though she wouldn't have been able to climb out of the bathtub. Maybe she tried; maybe that's why she had a leg draped over the side of the tub. Also, the lab report says there was no semen in her vagina, throat, or rectal tract, and no evidence of violent entry. So she wasn't raped or sodomized. But, like Jenine Boyington's murder, this is the worst kind of sex killing."
Nudger knew what Hammersmith meant. This sort of murder was the giant, grisly step beyond rape. And it was a step that seldom allowed any backtracking. It was a step that led on, to more violent death. "But there's no strong link between the two crimes," Nudger said, disappointed.
"Nothing to rule it in, nothing to rule it out. But there is one other thing, Nudge. Turns out that Grace Valpone was engaged to be married. The date was set for next month."
"Have you questioned the intended?"
"Sure. Name's Vincent Javers. President of his own small company out in Westport. Guess what? He was in Hawaii at the time of the murder, at a tire wholesalers' convention."
"Hawaii, huh. Wally Everest was in Cincinnati when Jenine Boyington was killed. They're getting farther away."
"The Valpone murder has a lot of the earmarks of the Boyington job, Nudge, but there are things about it that bother me. It doesn't quite fit."
"Doesn't fit why?"
"Tell me, how likely is it that a woman engaged to be married would be setting up blind dates with who-knows- what over the nightlines a month before her wedding?"
"Not as likely as death or taxes," Nudger admitted.
"Maybe it was only a coincidence that Jenine Boyington talked on the nightlines and also got herself murdered. She and Grace Valpone could have been killed by the same perp, but the nightlines might have had nothing to do with it."
"Which would leave me way out at sea in my investigation," Nudger said.
"It's a good thing you swim well. And it looks as if you'd better start stroking." The tone of Hammersmith's voice suddenly changed. "Duty calling, Nudge. It sounds remarkably like the Chief of Police."
Nudger thanked Hammersmith and hung up.
He listened to the rest of his calls on the answering machine, hoping to hear Claudia's voice. But she hadn't phoned him. He got up from the desk and adjusted the Venetian blinds to a sharp downward angle to block the warming morning sunlight. His headache was gone. His stomach murmured something about being hungry. The omelet and dry toast hadn't been enough to eat. Nudger figured he'd been burning up a lot of calories lately just by worrying.
He closed the office, then went downstairs for a doughnut and a bracing cup of vile black coffee at Danny's.
Danny was alone except for an old woman hunched over a cup of coffee at the far end of the counter. She wore a faded dress with crescent stains of perspiration beneath the arms, and she was talking softly and earnestly to herself.