He was afraid, and he hated himself for being afraid. He was sure he knew where the money was, and he had a gun in his coat pocket, but it might as well be a pocketful of sand. He didn’t have the courage to reach for it. He climbed the stairs, wishing that he had courage. He walked along the upstairs hallway and opened the guest-room door. He went to the closet, with Paul and Sylvie a step behind him on either side.
Suddenly Carl saw things clearly. He realized that he didn’t have to reach for his gun and try to shoot it out with two people. If he were to lunge at Sylvie, he could grab her gun and turn it on Paul, using Sylvie as a shield. He reached toward the closet door, pivoted, and made a desperate grab for Sylvie.
Sylvie spun and jumped away at the same time. When her feet hit the floor, she was aiming her gun at him.
Carl felt the shots enter his torso, as though they were hitting him in specific places for target practice. There was something shameful in doing that to a person. He pulled his gun out of his coat, but he never got to fire it. He fell to the floor.
Paul kicked the gun away from Carl’s hand, then opened the closet door. There were three black Tumi suitcases inside. He opened one, then the second, then the third. “Shit,” he said. “Nothing in here but empty suitcases.”
43
JACK TILL GAZED through the half-open door into the small office. Claire, the police sketch artist, lifted her right hand with the pencil in it and brushed back her long, natural gray hair, then returned the pencil to the big sketch pad. She listened to Olivia’s description as she worked, made erasures and new lines with a methodical, imperturbable patience. Till stood looking at the sheet for only a few seconds, then walked on. It was enough to verify that Olivia’s memory was producing a picture that matched the pictures from Wendy’s and Eric’s memories. Kit Stoddard’s face stared out at him from the paper, and he felt Kit Stoddard was a real person.
Till walked along the hall past two more offices and into the Homicide bay. Wendy was still in there talking to Poliakoff, but when Poliakoff saw Till he beckoned. As Till approached, Poliakoff said, “Wendy, why don’t you take a break? I want to talk to Jack for a minute.”
“Fine with me. You going to be long?”
“No. You can both be out of here in ten minutes. There’s fresh coffee in the break room.”
She walked off toward the break room, and Poliakoff pointed to her chair. Till sat down.
Poliakoff said, “This afternoon I managed to keep Linda Gordon a female victim in her thirties, who will be identified after her family is notified that she’s been hurt.”
“Thanks for that, Max.”
“Don’t bother to thank me. A couple of reporters got the truth out of the DA’s office, so as of the eleven-o’clock news tonight, the shooter will know he shot the wrong blonde.”
“Shit,” said Till. “So much for having the heat off.”
Poliakoff studied him. “Why haven’t you told me that you and Wendy were screwing?”
“My mother doesn’t know yet.”
“Your mother is deceased. And she isn’t trying to conduct a homicide investigation. Why haven’t you told me?”
“It’s very recent. I’m not sure what to say about it yet.”
“You two should talk more. She told me it’s not recent. She says she was trying to interest you six years ago, but you wouldn’t bite.”
“She was a client who had hired me to get her out of town because people were trying to crush her skull with baseball bats. Somehow it didn’t strike me as the right time to start a relationship.”
“But now is the right time?”
“Maybe. It doesn’t change anything about the case.”
“Sure it doesn’t. Why haven’t you asked me what I found in Linda Gordon’s house after you left?”
“You found nothing, or you wouldn’t have been able to wait to tell me.”
Poliakoff sighed. “You’re close enough.”
“Did you get to look?”
“No. The lieutenant showed up right after you left, and so I ran out of time.”
Till noticed that Poliakoff was looking past him at the doorway, so he turned and saw Wendy there waiting for him. “Is there any reason why I can’t get her out of sight before the eleven-o’clock news?”
Poliakoff said, “No reason I know of. As soon as you two leave, I’m going over to St. Joseph’s to see if I can interview Linda Gordon. Sometimes getting shot makes you rethink your alliances. Then I’ll go home.” He stared at Till for a moment. “It’s too late to go back to Linda Gordon’s house. I’ve already sent everybody there home for the night.”
Till stared at him. “Thanks, Max.”
AT TEN-THIRTY, Till pulled off the freeway at Coldwater, drove up Ventura Boulevard to the street where Linda Gordon lived, and cruised past her house. “The crime-scene people are finished, and the house is empty,” he said. “Let’s take a look around the neighborhood to see if we’re alone.” He drove up and down the streets in the neighborhood, satisfied himself that nobody was watching the house, and then parked up the block and took two flashlights and two pairs of gloves out of the trunk of his car.
“Gloves?”
“I forgot to tell you. Always wear gloves when you commit a felony.”
“A felony? Are you any good at that?”
“I have some professional knowledge.”
They walked around to the back of the house and stopped. She whispered, “How are we going to get in?”
“Foresight. Before I left, I flipped the latch on a window in the pantry.” He put on his gloves and handed the other pair to Wendy.
“What about the alarm system?”
“There will still be cops coming and going for a day or two, so I’m betting they haven’t turned it on.” He walked to a window near the corner of the house, slid open the window, and climbed inside. He walked through the kitchen to the back door and opened it for Wendy.
When they were both inside, with the door closed, she said, “Now, tell me. Why are we back here tonight?”
“Because it’s our chance to check out a suspicion I have.”
“And the thing we’re looking for is—?”
“I don’t know what it is. Something to tell us who Scott is.”
“Give me a hint.”
Till turned on his flashlight. “Start by looking for an address book, or a list of phone numbers—anything like that. If you see a collection of letters or cards, check it. Some people keep business cards in one place. Look for the name ‘Scott.’”
“You know, that’s not a rare name.’
“I know. If she knows fifty or sixty Scotts, I’ll check out all of them.”
They searched the kitchen, then moved into a spare bedroom that had been in use as an office. Wendy found a Rolodex, put it on the floor so she could read it by the light of her flashlight without being seen from the windows, and went through it, card by card. Till went through drawers full of papers, scanning each one for the name.
Till found files related to investments and taxes, but no sums were mentioned that weren’t the right size for an Assistant DA’s salary. There were none of the signs of disorder in her life that Till had hoped for. There were no overdrafts or big withdrawals, no indications that she had suddenly come into money. “Any Scotts yet?”
“No. Maybe it isn’t there. Maybe you’re wrong about her.”
“I don’t think so. There’s something off with her.” They moved into the bedroom and began to search.