SIXTY-SEVEN
Teddy listened to the ring over the speakerphone as he searched the place. He hadn’t found Trisco’s address in the city, but the keys to the Explorer were in his pocket and he had a pair of boots on. Even better, he’d stumbled onto a locked cabinet built into the bookshelves by the fireplace in the den. He’d broken through the wood with the letter opener and pried the door away from its hinges. Eddie, Jr., the killer’s old man, liked to hunt pheasants and grouse. Inside the cabinet, Teddy had found an assortment of guns.
He pressed the speakerphone button down and the room quieted. Then he picked up the handset and called Nash. No answer. He would’ve liked to have called Powell, but he couldn’t remember her number and his cell phone had drowned along with his car. As a last resort, he punched in his own number at the office. Jill picked up in a panic.
“Where are you?” she said.
“What’s happened?”
“I need to close the door,” she said.
Teddy grimaced, but waited, listening to dead air. After a moment, Jill picked up the phone again.
“The letter’s sitting on your desk,” she said. “You’ve been fired. Stokes had the locks changed an hour ago. We’re not supposed to talk to you.”
Old news. Still, Teddy wondered why his termination notice was on his desk if he couldn’t get into the office to read it. Stokes was an obvious genius, he figured, and had his own way of doing things.
“I need you to do me a favor, Jill.”
“Anything.”
“Find Carolyn Powell. If not Powell, then Detectives Vega or Ellwood in homicide. You’re only to speak to them or Nash. No one else no matter what.”
“Right,” she said.
He gave her Trisco’s phone number in the city and asked her to repeat it once she’d copied it down.
“Give them the number,” he said. “And tell them that’s where he is. My cell phone’s dead. I’ll check back with you in half an hour.”
He hung up, pressed the speakerphone button down and punched Trisco’s number in again. He’d let it ring forever, he decided. Maybe it would drive Trisco all the way over the edge and he’d do himself in.
Teddy sprung from the desk, crossing the room for another look at the gun collection. He spotted a twelve-gauge shotgun he recognized and pulled it out of the case. It was a Winchester Model 12 pump gun. Boxes of shells were in the drawer. As he tore into the box, he noticed they weren’t light field loads like the rounds he kept in his own gun. Instead, they were three-and-a-half-inch magnums.
The full monty.
He pressed three shells through the ejection port into the magazine, then noticed someone had removed the plug. Probably Edward. After loading two more shells, he pumped the slide and heard a round enter the chamber. Then he added a last shell to the magazine, making it a hot six.
He grabbed the box of shells and bolted into the entryway. When he spotted a closet, he ripped the door open. He was hoping he might find something warm to wear, but the long raincoat would have to do. He got it on, emptied the box of shells into the pocket and hustled to the door.
He was ready, he decided. If not ready, at least he was armed.
SIXTY-EIGHT
He didn’t have a key to the lock and chain around the barn doors. He didn’t need it. He gave the engine a heavy shot of gasoline and broke through, ignoring the sound of the barn doors crashing behind him and tearing across the lawn until he reached the private drive that led to Lakeview Road.
Once he hit the four-lanes, he brought the car up to eighty-five miles an hour and started weaving his way into the city. A speed trap would’ve been a blessing, but unfortunately, he didn’t see a cop the whole way. As he vaulted up the exit ramp and swung around Thirtieth Street Station, he made a right onto Market. He’d had time to think as he drove. Trisco was used to the good life. There were neighborhoods on the other side of campus. Large homes from the past that were being refurbished after decades of white flight. He wondered if Eddie wasn’t playing a part in the gentrification of the neighborhood. It seemed to make sense that Trisco would seek out a place where he wouldn’t stand out and felt like home. Beyond comfort, the size of the houses would offer some degree of privacy as well.
He spotted a 7-Eleven on the corner and pulled in. There were three pay phones by the doors. Two of the handsets had been cut away from the phones, but the third one looked as if it still worked.
He counted his change. Most of it was in the lake. Opening his wallet, he punched in his office number, then the number printed on his phone card. As he waited, he noticed the cashier staring at him through the window. At first he thought it was because gentrification hadn’t reached this part of the neighborhood yet. When he caught his reflection in the glass, saw the black circles beneath his eyes and his wasted face, he realized it had nothing to do with the neighborhood and turned away as Jill finally picked up the phone.
“Did you reach them?” he said.
“Just a few minutes ago,” she said.
“Where are they coming from?”
“The Trisco’s house in Radnor.”
Teddy thought it over. The search warrants must have come through.
“What about Nash?” he said.
“His assistant said she’d give him the message. I’ve got the address, Teddy. But I think you’ll be disappointed.”
“Why?”
“The house is owned by a woman, Diana Yap. She runs a small realty agency, specializing in rentals. No one can seem to find her, but the man in the office told me the house is leased to someone by the name of Evan Train. He’s never heard of Eddie Trisco. He told me Evan Train has lived in the house for years.”
“What’s the address?”
She read it to him and he wrote it down. Then he jumped into the car, rumbling down the street and wishing he’d had time to buy a pack of dry cigarettes. He wanted one, needed one. But he was close. Just five blocks away.
No one was there….
Teddy pulled over and checked the address, then cracked the window open and listened for sirens. The city remained quiet, even still. Dusk was settling in-the Christmas lights strung about the neighborhood popping on as if the holiday spirit was in the air.
He grimaced, turned back to the house, saw a car hidden beneath a canvas tarp in the driveway as he chewed it over. After a moment, he grabbed the pump gun and got out. He couldn’t wait any longer. Couldn’t take the chance. It was about the girl, he told himself.
He crossed the street, shielding the Winchester beneath the long raincoat. As he approached the car in the drive, he spotted a woman pushing a stroller along the sidewalk two doors down. Teddy lifted the tarp, his eyes taking in the holes in the sheet metal, the smashed rear window. Then he noticed the sound of a telephone, ringing endlessly from inside the house. This was the place. The one with the shot-up BMW in the drive.
He stepped up onto the porch and checked the mailbox, but couldn’t find a name. Just the initials, E.T., printed in gold. Eddie Trisco. Evan Train. The extraterrestrial head case who’d landed from some black hole on the other side of Mars.
The woman passed the house with her stroller. She glanced at Teddy and seemed nervous.
“Where do you live?” he asked, following her eyes to the gun.
Her face locked up, and she wouldn’t answer.
“You need to go home,” he said. “Check your doors and call the police.”
She hurried down the sidewalk. As she passed out of view, Teddy noticed the house on the corner with the satellite dish on the roof. The bricks had been mortared and new windows installed. It looked like the family was living in the home despite the renovations. A little boy, maybe six years old, stood before a window on the first floor looking outside. After a moment, his father joined him. Teddy knew they were too far away to see the gun, yet they were staring. Maybe keeping an eye on Trisco’s house was just part of their routine. Maybe E.T. didn’t exactly blend.