It was simply furnished, because she was a woman of simple tastes. In her move from Erie, Pennsylvania, she'd either discarded or given to the Salvation Army a number of things that she and her estranged husband had shared and that he had-with unusual magnanimity, she thought at the time-let her keep. Things like a portable stereo, a ten-year-old color TV, two cherry end tables, a super-8-min movie camera and projector, which they'd used quite a lot during the first year of their marriage, and several boxes of essentially useless odds and ends.
She'd had to acquire a number of things when she'd moved to Rochester and settled into her apartment on Fairview Heights: furniture, cooking utensils, a bed. She bought them all in one day, using her savings to buy only the best, if not the best-looking, stuff she could find. Form, she believed, followed function; if something looked nice but didn't work, what good was it?
She also read quite a lot, and had built quite an impressive library. Her tastes were eclectic; the only sort of books she didn't read were modern romances. She read historicals, westerns and spy thrillers, horror, poetry, mainstream fiction, psychological fiction, self-help, and current events. She had all of the Arthur Conan Doyle books, all of Stephen King, Robert Ludlum, John Updike, T. M. Wright, Shirley Jackson, Richard Brautigan, Paula Fox, and Peter S. Beagle, to name a few of her favorite authors. And she read every night.
Tonight she would not read. Tonight she would spend her evening hours agonizing, in vain, over the "goddamned, cowardly bastard"-as she thought of him-who was writing her these anonymous, sophomorically philosophical, and weirdly accusative letters. Why, if he knew her awful secret, didn't he simply share it with her personally? That would be better. That would be better for both of them. Her anxiety followed her to bed and then into sleep.
The following morning, Saturday, May 3, was warm, dry, and cloudless, and Ryerson Biergarten thought there were places he'd rather be than trying to pump a possible murder suspect; the psychic effort always left him weary.
With Creosote tucked snorting under his arm, he knocked firmly on the massive oak door-there was a window in the middle of it covered by a sheer curtain-at 8 Fairview Heights, saw a doorbell, used it. Seconds later he watched as a short, square-faced, dark-haired woman in a long green terrycloth robe appeared from an inner room, moved to the front door, parted the sheer curtains, and peered out.
"Yes?" said the woman.
"I'd like to speak to Greta Lynch," Ryerson called through the closed door.
"Greta's asleep. Could you come back later, please?"
Ryerson checked his watch. "You're sure she's asleep? It is 10:30, you know."
"Yes. I know what time it is."
"Could I leave her my card, then?"
The woman looked confused. "Your what?”
“My card. Could I leave it with you to give to her?"
The woman hesitated, opened the door slightly, stuck her face into the opening. "Yes, you can leave your card. Are you a salesman?"
"No."
"Then what are you?"
"I'm an investigator." Creosote cut loose; the woman gave him a look that was half confusion, half disgust.
"What's wrong with him?" she asked.
"Nothing," Ryerson answered. "He always does that."
"Oh." Her face vanished from the opening briefly. Ryerson read a momentary anxiety; her face reappeared. "Greta's not up. It's Saturday; I guess it's her day off."
"You're her-" Ryerson hesitated expectantly.
"I'm her landlady, Linda Bowerman. And her friend." That last, Ryerson knew, was a veiled warning; I'm her protector, too, it said. "What is it you're investigating?"
"I'm investigating the murders at The Park."
Linda Bowerman nodded her acceptance of that. "And how do you think Greta's connected with them?"
"I'm not saying I do. She does work at The Park, however, so there are some-"
"And so do ten thousand other people, Mr.-”
“Biergarten."
"Uh-huh." Again her face disappeared from the opening. Again Ryerson read anxiety from her. Her face reappeared. She suggested tentatively, "I guess she had a hard night, Mr. Biergarten."
And then he read something else, something from within the house, from above, from Greta's apartment. Something like fear. Or paralysis. Something that wanted to scream but couldn't, as if the vocal cords were numb, useless.
He said urgently, "Please, I think I should come in. Let me come in," and he took a step closer to the door.
Linda Bowerman closed the door until half an inch or less separated it from the frame and hissed, "Go away, this is private property!"
"You don't understand," Ryerson pleaded, "and I don't have time to explain, but I know that something's wrong in there. Something's wrong in your house."
"There's nothing wrong in my house. Nothing at all. Now go away, just go away!"
And Ryerson told himself, If she meant it, she'd close the door. "I'm coming in," he announced, "please step aside," and he straight-armed the door. Linda Bowerman backed out of the way, started for her living room, said, over her shoulder, "I'm calling the police." Ryerson said, "Good," because it was, he knew, the very best thing she could do at that moment.
"Motrin," the resident on call in the Emergency Ward at Strong Memorial Hospital explained to Ryerson. Ryerson had been waiting a good two hours for a report. "She took maybe thirty of them. Thirty of the big ones-six hundred milligrams each. We nearly lost her." The resident was a black woman not quite thirty with long straight hair and a distinctly businesslike air about her.
Ryerson breathed a little sigh of relief.
"You're her husband?" the resident asked.
"No, just a friend." He glanced in the direction of the Emergency Ward down a long narrow hallway to his right. "Can I talk to her?"
The resident answered, "In a day or two, yes." She paused, nodded at Creosote, who was snorting and belching, though more quietly than usual. "And without the dog, please."
"Of course," Ryerson answered, embarrassed. "Without the dog."
George Dixon glanced quickly around his office-though there was no one else in it-and opened the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk all the way.
"Goddamnit!" he whispered. "Goddamnit all the fucking hell!" What in God's name was his damned lunch pail doing here? He'd thrown the damned thing into the Genesee River. He studied the pail for a full minute. Then, tremblingly, he reached into the drawer, grabbed the handle, and lifted the pail out. His brow furrowed; this wasn't his lunch pail. His had had a long scratch down the front. This pail was brand new; Jesus, it still had a price tag on it.
He opened the pail quickly. It was empty except for a note written on a piece of yellow, lined paper.
The note said simply, "Who are you trying to kid, George? The world? Or yourself?"
And he thought desperately, What the hell does someone know about me that I don't?!
Chapter Thirteen
HAPPY ACRES GOLF CLUB: SUNDAY, MAY 4
"Lost it in the sun, damnit!" Jack Youngman whispered.
"Good drive, anyway, Jack," Doug Miller said and teed up for his own shot. "I saw where it landed." They were at the ninth hole, a 413-yard, par-five dogleg to the left that Doug Miller always parred, but which Jack Youngman had parred only once.
Youngman growled back, "Just because I let you play through with me once or twice doesn't mean you can call me anything but 'Mr. Youngman,' you got that?"
Doug Miller grinned, shrugged, and took his shot. The solid thwack of the club head against the ball told him almost at once that it was going to be a long, straight drive, longer, perhaps, than Youngman's, who usually drove well but ended up taking two or three extra shots on the green.