The flight to Los Angeles was called. Pfefferkorn walked to the jetway, discarding the paper in the trash.
52.
His Los Angeles reading was on the small side—a blessing in disguise, as Pfefferkorn wanted to get it over with as fast as humanly possible. Afterward, his media escort drove him to the restaurant Carlotta had picked out. He went straight to the bar to order a stiff drink. The television was tuned to images from the Zlabian front. Troops marched. Mini-tanks rolled. A commentator in a corner box was explaining that no fence separated East and West Zlabia, only an eight-inch-high concrete median strip running down the middle of Gyeznyuiy Boulevard. “You have to remember,” he said eagerly, “this is a conflict that has been raging in one form or another for four-hundred-plus years. Ethnically speaking, they’re one people.” The byline identified him as G. Stanley Hurwitz, Ph.D., author of A Brief History of the Zlabian Conflict. He appeared exhilarated by the carnage, as though he had been waiting all his life for his moment to shine. The anchor kept trying to cut him off but he went right on talking, citing lengthy passages of some little-known Zlabian poem that was apparently the source of all the fighting. Pfefferkorn asked the bartender to change the channel. The bartender found a baseball game. At the end of the inning, Pfefferkorn checked his watch. Even for Carlotta, thirty minutes was unusually late. He draped his jacket over the bar stool and stepped outside. Her home phone rang and rang. Her cell phone went straight to voicemail. He returned to the bar and asked for a third drink. He nursed it as long as he could bear before trying Carlotta again. There was still no answer. By this time he had been waiting for more than an hour. He paid his tab, apologized to the maître d’, and asked him to call a cab.
53.
Pfefferkorn stood at the mouth of the driveway to the de Vallée mansion. The gate was open. In all his visits he had never once seen it left that way. He leaned forward, his hands on his hips, and started to hike up. The driveway was steep. He began to pant and sweat. Why had he told the cabbie he would walk the rest of the way? Perhaps it was his mind’s way of slowing him down. Perhaps he already knew he did not want to know what awaited him. As he climbed higher, the thrum of the boulevard died away. All those trees and hedges and gates and heavy clay walls were there to maintain privacy and quiet. But they had another consequence. They ensured that nobody on the outside would hear you scream.
The second gate was also open.
He ran the last hundred yards, cresting the hill and sprinting for the open front door. He barged inside, calling Carlotta’s name. From a distant room came the dog’s crazed howls. Pfefferkorn ran, slipping on the polished floors. He made wrong turns. He backtracked. He stopped calling Carlotta’s name and called for the dog instead, hoping it would appear to lead him to the right place. The howling grew more urgent but no closer, and he ran from room to room, at last skidding to a halt in front of the ballroom. Frantic scrabbling, nails on wood. He threw open the double doors. The dog shot past, yelping. Pfefferkorn froze on the threshold, staring at the dance floor, at the glazy lake of blood and the human form heaped at its center.
THREE A NOVEL OF SUSPENSE
54.
“How did you know the victim?”
“He was Carlotta’s dance partner.”
“What kind of dance?”
“It matters?”
“We’ll decide what matters, Pfefferkorn.”
“Answer the question, Pfefferkorn.”
“Tango.”
“That’s a pretty sexy dance, huh, Pfefferkorn?”
“I suppose.”
“How long have you known Mrs. de Vallée?”
“We’re old friends.”
“‘Friends.’”
“Recently it’s become more than that.”
“Now there’s an image I didn’t need.”
“TMI, Pfefferkorn. TMI.”
“You asked.”
“What do you think of the victim?”
“What do you mean what do I think?”
“Were you close with him?”
“We didn’t fraternize.”
“That’s a big word, Pfefferkorn.”
“Don’t play games, Pfefferkorn.”
“I’m not playing games.”
“So you didn’t ‘fraternize.’”
“No.”
“Did you like him?”
“He was fine, I guess.”
“You guess.”
“What am I supposed to say? He worked for Carlotta.”
“Don’t lie to us, Pfefferkorn.”
“We’ll know if you do.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Someone’s doing sexy dances with my more-than-friend, I have an opinion.”
“Well I don’t.”
“You been drinking, Pfefferkorn?”
“I had a few drinks at the bar.”
“What kind of drinks?”
“Bourbon.”
“What kind of bourbon?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You like bourbon but not any specific brand.”
“I’m not a drinker. I asked for bourbon.”
“If you’re not a drinker how come you asked for bourbon?”
“I was in the mood for a drink.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Something bothering you?”
“Something you’re nervous about?”
“Something you feel guilty about?”
“Something you want to tell us?”
“You can tell us, Pfefferkorn. We’re on your side.”
“We’re here to help you. You can trust us.”
Silence.
“So that’s how it’s going to be, huh?”
“I’m doing my best to answer your questions.”
“We haven’t asked a question.”
“Which is why I’m not answering.”
“You always this sassy, Pfefferkorn?”
“I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“Being sassy.”
“Anything else you’re sorry for, Pfefferkorn?”
“Anything else on your mind?”
“On your conscience?”
“Anything else you’d like to share?”
“I’ll tell you whatever you’d like to know.”
“Let’s cut the baloney, Pfefferkorn. Where’s Carlotta de Vallée?”
“I told you. I don’t know. I came to look for her and I found . . . that.”
“You don’t want to tell us what you found?”
“. . . it was horrible.”