He was right.
“Nothing you’ve said changes my mind,” she told him. “I’m still not going anywhere. I refuse to leave my home. When you reach my age, certain possible consequences don’t scare you, so you don’t easily abandon what’s dear to you.”
“This house?”
“This home,” she corrected.
“I had the impression you didn’t even like living here.”
“It doesn’t matter where home is, Mr. Carver. Or how much you like it. What matters is that no one should be able to uproot you from the place where you’ve sunk roots and grown memories. That’s very important. The concept of home becomes less portable as we grow older.”
Carver shook his head. “You’re stubborn, Hattie.”
“You would know about stubborn, Mr. Carver.” Maybe she’d been talking some more to Desoto. Or to Beth. “The names I mentioned-Roger Karl, Dr. Jamie Sanchez-do you remember Jerome mentioning either of them?”
“Of course not. He had no reason.”
Carver decided there was no way to get through to her on this issue. It reminded him of when he’d once tried to talk an unwilling octogenarian into a hearing aid. “I’m uneasy about you remaining in this house,” he told her. “Or anywhere you can be easily located.”
“You’ve made that clear. But there’s no need for you to feel that way. Jerome didn’t have any secret information, or he would have told me.” A faint smile crossed her features like a shadow. “He could never keep anything from me.”
“What about Maude Crane?” It was cruel, but he had to say it, had to convince her she might actually be in danger.
“That woman was no secret,” she said, lifting her chin high.
“I mean, he might have told Maude what he knew, and that’s the reason she’s dead.”
“The woman hanged herself.”
“As far as we know.”
She smiled tolerantly, as if he were a pupil who’d spelled “Albuquerque” wrong. “Believe me, Mr. Carver, Jerome wasn’t the type of man to get involved in conspiracy or illegal money transfers. He was an old fool I happened to love too much, but I knew him. He might well have been killed because he possessed some dangerous knowledge. But if so, he didn’t realize he had it.”
“The people who killed him, and possibly Maude Crane, wouldn’t know how much he understood, or who he might have talked to about it.”
“Use your reasoning ability,” she said sternly. “If what you say was true, I’d have been murdered by now.”
“No, whoever killed Jerome and Maude would almost surely wait. A man dies, then his grief-stricken mistress hangs herself. Okay, that’s believable enough. But if his widow also commits suicide, or dies an even slightly suspicious accidental death, credulity is stretched and the law might investigate and find enough threads to weave a rope.”
“So I’m not in any danger, even if your theory happens to be correct.”
“I think you might be in danger. There’s some indication the people involved in this don’t always behave rationally. And who knows what they’ll consider a reasonable amount of time?”
Hard resolution brightened her eyes. “Danger or not, Mr. Carver, I’m not leaving here to go into hiding like a fugitive. Regardless of what secret Jerome learned-if any-I’m not about to be chased from my home.”
Carver placed both hands on his cane and stood up. “You’ve convinced me, Hattie. Will you help to put my mind at ease by promising you’ll be careful to keep your doors and windows locked, and leave a light on if you go out at night?”
“I always do both those thing, Mr. Carver.” She stood up and walked with him to the door. “Let me know if you need additional payment. I appreciate the job you’re doing on this. You’ve gone much further than the police would have, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure, too,” Carver said. He opened the front door. “There’s no need for further payment right now.”
“I don’t want you working on this investigation because you feel sorry for an old lady, Mr. Carver.”
He grinned. “You’re anything but an object of pity, Hattie.”
She thought about what he’d said and smiled.
Instead of walking to his car, Carver crossed the green expanse of lawn to Val’s house. He glanced over to make sure Hattie wasn’t observing him, then punched the doorbell with his cane.
It took Val several minutes to come to the door. He was barefoot, wearing dark slacks and an unbuttoned white shirt. The shirt had widely spaced, intersecting creases, as if it had been recently bought and not yet washed and ironed. The house was dim behind Val, and he was squinting into the outside light in a way that made him look more than ever like a leprechaun.
Carver said, “Wake you up?”
“Yeah, but that’s okay; I was gonna get up anyway. Just taking a little nap. Patrol again tonight.” He stepped back. “Wanna come in? Hotter’n a whore in heat out there.”
Carver hadn’t heard that one, but then he hadn’t spent months on Posse patrol on the mean streets of Solartown, as had Rathawk Two. He followed Val into the dim living room and watched him open the blinds enough to let in a bearable amount of light. It illuminated the dust.
“Wanna beer?” he asked Carver. Sure.
Val disappeared into the kitchen. While he was in there clattering around, Carver looked over the living room. It was laid out like Hattie’s, with the door to the left of the picture window, door to the hall and kitchen directly opposite it. The wall-to-wall carpet was predictably green. The furniture was early American and functional; where there was upholstery, it was plaid. A wooden bookshelf contained a row of paperback espionage novels-which explained Val’s knowledge of Russian assassination methods-and a statue of a horse, and a bowling trophy. Near a recliner the remote control for the console TV lay on the carpet, along with a scattering of what looked like popcorn. The fireplace had a small folding screen set up in front of its cavity, on which was a print of that famous painting of dogs playing poker. Carver thought the place could use a woman’s touch.
Val had returned with two cans of Bud Light and caught Carver eyeballing the living room.
“Decor ain’t for shit,” Val said, handing Carver one of the beers, “but it’s clean and comfortable.”
“All you could reasonably require,” Carver said. He wasn’t hypocritical enough to criticize Rathawk Two’s taste in furnishings and accessories. He’d always liked that dog painting and sort of wished he owned one.
He took a sip of beer so cold it must have been within a few degrees of freezing. “Good,” he said, licking foam from his upper lip. “I just came from next door.”
Val sat in the recliner but didn’t tilt it back. “So how’s Hattie?”
“She’s doing okay, but I’m a little worried about her. Maybe the Posse, and you in particular, could keep a watch on her house.”
“Sure. She in some kinda danger?”
“I think so. She doesn’t.”
Val scratched his side beneath the unbuttoned shirt and chuckled. “That’s Hattie for you.”
“I figure maybe Jerome Evans knew something, and maybe he told Maude Crane-”
“And maybe somebody thinks he mighta told Hattie.” Val finished Carver’s sentence. “Anything I can do,” he said, “I will.”
Carver took another pull of beer. “When you’re on patrol at night, you ever find yourself in the medical center?”
“Yep. Now and then we drive folks there when they’re having some kinda problem that’s serious but don’t require an ambulance.”
“It’d help me, and Hattie, if I had copies of their paperwork dealing with one of their suppliers, Keller Pharmaceutical.”
Val leaned back and considered, His sleep-puffed eyes glanced in the direction of Hattie’s house. He said, “You’re asking a lot here, Carver.”
“I know.” He told Val why he needed the information.
“You dead sure this’ll help Hattie?” Val asked.
“No, but it might.”
“Helluva risk.”
“Life’s a helluva risk.”