As Nudger crossed the room he overheard some of the phone conversations. Most of the people behind the desks were salespeople, using WATS lines to coax orders from out- of-town retail tire outlets.
Javers stood up from behind his desk when Nudger entered. He wasn't a very tall man, though well proportioned inside an expensive gray suit. He was about fifty, balding, with jet-black wings of hair that were meant to disguise protruding ears. Though his complexion was swarthy, there was an underlying pastiness to it. A small, neatly trimmed mustache writhed in an attempted smile that evolved into more of a grimace. Grief had made inroads on his face, lending it a wise but helpless expression that might soon become permanent.
Nudger introduced himself and shook Javers' hand.
"I thought you were from the police," Javers said, sitting back down behind his desk.
"I used to be," Nudger said. "Right now I'm working for a woman whose twin sister was murdered in much the same way as your fiancee. I'm sorry to intrude on such short notice, but I thought it would be a good idea if I asked you a few questions."
The mention of Grace Valpone's murder brought a momentary look of deep anguish to Javers' face. Nudger wouldn't have blamed the man for asking him to leave. Misery didn't really love company.
But Javers had as much control over his grief as he had over his employees conducting business as usual in the next room. He leaned forward over his wide desk. There was nothing on the gleaming surface of the desk except a pen set, a small Lucite clock, and an ashtray; Javers hadn't been hard at work. "Do you think the same man committed both murders?" he asked.
"It's an odds-on possibility," Nudger told him. "There are parallels. There are also inconsistencies."
"If you think one case might have a bearing on the other," Javers said, "I'll be glad to tell you anything you want to know. I want more than anything to see Grace's killer…" He let the words fade away, then swallowed hard and bowed his head. Light glanced off his taut, bald crown between the black wings of hair.
"I understand," Nudger said. He felt like walking over and patting Javers on the shoulder. But he didn't. Sympathy from a stranger was sometimes more confusing than comforting. He wondered how he'd be able to ask Javers what he needed to know.
"I want the man caught and punished," Javers said in a level voice, sitting up straighter. He had himself back in check.
"Had Ms. Valpone recently mentioned anything that struck you as unusual?" Nudger asked. He knew the police had already asked Javers the same question, but sometimes people overlooked things. Sometimes people answered the same question differently.
"No, she said nothing at all unusual."
"Was her behavior in any way out of the ordinary?"
"Grace's behavior right up until… she was found, seemed perfectly normal. Of course, I hadn't seen her for almost a week. I was in Honolulu, at a convention."
"What did she think of you going off to Hawaii alone for two weeks?"
Javers smiled sadly. "She didn't mind. I asked her to go with me, but she refused. She wanted to wait until after the marriage for that sort of thing. Grace didn't mind being thought of as old-fashioned, Mr. Nudger. In fact, she didn't mind at all what other people thought about her, as long as she felt she was doing the right thing. It was one of the reasons I loved her."
"Then things were going well between the two of you."
"Very well. We were both in love for the second time in our lives, enjoying it more than the first time." The acute anguish gouged its way across Javers' face again. "Romance tempered by maturity has a sweeter, more lasting quality than youthful love."
"I guess it would." Nudger paced nearer to the desk and wiped his perspiring hands on his pants legs. "Did Ms. Valpone ever mention any late-night phone conversations?"
Javers appeared puzzled. "Conversations with whom?"
"Anyone." Nudger tried a smile, couldn't tell from his side of it how well it worked. "It's probably nothing, Mr. Javers, but it might tie in with something else."
Javers accepted that weak explanation for Nudger's question. "No," he said, "she wasn't one of those women who enjoy talking for long hours on the phone, either day or night."
Nudger asked a few more questions, none of them really pertinent, all of them polite. It wouldn't hurt to sow a little goodwill, in case the police objected to his talking to Javers. If the police ever learned of it. Besides, Nudger liked Javers, and talking about Grace Valpone seemed to provide some sort of relief for the man. People didn't lose fiancees the way they did socks in dryers.
When Javers had wound down somewhat, Nudger thanked him and shook hands again, offering his condolences and meaning it. Javers got up from behind the desk and saw him out, assuring Nudger he'd do anything possible to cooperate in the investigation, so please to call on him. Nudger thanked him again and left Javers' Tire-O- Rama, using the right door this time, nodding somberly to the pretty receptionist with the insensitive nose.
What Nudger had learned here was that Grace Valpone by all outward appearances simply wasn't a candidate for the nighttime lines. Her future had been in order, her nights of loneliness numbered.
Or maybe there was a side to her that Javers didn't know about. That no one knew about. A hidden, agonized side. Wasn't that true of most of the nightline people?
He hurried across the blacktop parking lot to his car, breathing deeply of air that didn't smell like new rubber. The humid summer day seemed to have gotten ten degrees hotter during the short time he'd been inside the building. A bead of perspiration zigzagged crazily, like a disoriented insect, down his rib cage.
As he drove from the lot, a size 13 wingtip shoe made a sharp smacking sound as it was lifted heavily from the heat- softened tar. Half a minute later, another car left the lot and turned onto Grissom Drive in the direction Nudger had taken.
XVII
The Volkswagen was an oven. Nudger sat inside it, across the street from Claudia's apartment building, and felt as if maybe he should be wrapped in aluminum foil so he'd bake evenly. The evening sun glinting off the dented hood hurt his eyes. He reached above the visor and slid his sunglasses out of their vinyl clip-on case, adjusting them with a deft tap of his forefinger to the bridge of his nose. The plastic frames were hot and sticky.
He wanted to approach Claudia before she had a chance to talk with the wife of C. Davis. She should be arriving home from work soon, and Nudger planned to get out of the car, cross the street, and confront her near the building entrance. For the past hour he'd been sweltering in the car, trying to think of an opening line. Finally he decided to let his and Claudia's impending conversation take care of itself, let it flow naturally and hope it wasn't a swirl down the drain.
A bedraggled brown stray dog trotted along the sidewalk and glared at Nudger. For a moment Nudger thought the dog might urinate on the car. It was that kind of look. But the dog paused, sniffed, then trotted on with sudden purpose as if it had business downtown.
Nudger watched it in the rearview mirror, feeling a kind of kinship with the stray dog, as if they shared the same futile destiny. He wondered what he'd do if Claudia had lied to him. What did she look like? What if she turned out to be hideous? Would they still be souls rushing toward confluence? Would he still approach her? He thought he would, but he didn't want to be put to the test.
No one had entered the building other than an elderly, stooped woman carrying a small shopping bag and advancing tediously with the aid of an aluminum walker. It was too hot today for anyone but fools and stray dogs to be meddling around outside unless it was absolutely necessary. Too hot for an aged semi-invalid even if it was necessary.