“Steve Kilduff,” Commac said immediately.
“Uh-huh,” Boccalou said. “Description matches, too. Gatos has a want on him for questioning. They’re requesting we pick him up.”
“What’s the name of the guy who died?” Flagg asked. “The Gatos resident?”
Boccalou looked at a form on his desk. “Drexel,” he answered. “Lawrence Drexel.”
Commac and Flagg exchanged glances. “He’s on the Bellevue Personnel Roster,” Commac said. “He was stationed with Kilduff and Conradin.”
“It looks like a tie-in on the Smithfield unsolved, then.”
“Yeah, it sure does.”
“Go on over to this Kilduff’s apartment and bring him in on a hold for Gatos,” Boccalou said. “We’ll see what he has to say for himself.”
“Right.”
While they were waiting for the elevator to take them down into the vehicle garage in the basement of the Hall of Justice, Commac said, “How does this whole thing look to you, Pat?”
“Like there’s more to it than we might first credit,” Flagg answered.
“I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
“Any ideas?”
“Not really.”
“Do you think Kilduff had something to do with this Drexel’s death last night?”
“Boccalou said he was the one who tried to save him.”
“Yeah.”
Commac rubbed the back of his neck. “Kilduff was scared when we talked to him yesterday. Scared shitless. The way you’re scared if somebody’s got a gun to the back of your neck.”
“I had that feeling, too,” Flagg said. “But I can’t figure an angle either. Hell, it’s been eleven years since that Smithfield job. Why, all of a sudden; should the guys who pulled it off—if Kilduff and the others are the guys who pulled it off—begin dying mysteriously?”
“There’s the obvious answer.”
“One of their own, you mean?”
“Uh-huh.”
“It doesn’t add,” Flagg said. “The time factor is all wrong. The only logical motive would be the money, and eleven years makes that ludicrous.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“So what else can it be?”
“That I don’t know.”
“Maybe Kilduff does.”
“Well, if he doesn’t,” Commac said, “he’s got a pretty good idea.”
The elevator doors slid open and they stepped inside. They rode down to the basement in silence.
16
He had entered the hallway, walking stiffly, purposefully, and he was reaching out for the telephone receiver when the bell shrilled at him. He came up short, pulling his hand back as if the sudden cacophonous sound had somehow imparted a physical shock. He stood there listening to his heart plunge in his chest, and the bell rang a second time, and a third, and then he put out his hand and caught up the receiver and put it to his ear. He said “Hello?” carefully, guardedly.
“Mr. Kilduff?” an unfamiliar masculine voice said. “Mr. Steven Kilduff?”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, speaking.”
“My name is Fazackerly, Deputy Sheriff Ed Fazackerly. I’m with the Marin County Sheriff’s Office.”
He frowned, working his tongue over his lips. Now what? he thought. Jesus, now what? He said, “I... don’t understand.”
“You own a small fishing cabin on the Petaluma River, is that correct? In Duckblind Slough?”
“Why... yes, that’s right.”
“Well, we’re investigating the death by drowning of a young woman found about seven this morning near the dock at the rear of your cabin,” Fazackerly said. “Two foul-weather fishermen trolling the slough for catfish saw her floating face down in the water there. They summoned us immediately.”
A cold thing began to work its way slowly up along Kilduff’s back. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I don’t—”
“We subsequently found evidence of recent occupancy of your cabin, Mr. Kilduff.”
“You mean somebody’s been living there?”
“Yes, for the past few days. You weren’t aware of this fact, I take it.”
“No. No, I wasn’t.”
“I wonder if I might speak to your wife?”
“My wife?” he asked, and the cold thing grew colder.
“Yes. Is she at home now?”
“No, she’s not here.”
“May I ask where she is?”
“I... don’t know.”
“Would you mind explaining that?”
“We ... we separated last week . . . ” Pause—one heartbeat, two—and then the automatic and immediate defensive barriers constructed by his brain collapsed, and the inescapable implications of Fazackerly’s words overwhelmed him. His knees seemed to buckle, as if the joints had somehow liquefied, and the cold thing froze his spine into humped rigidity, and a terrible tingling pain flashed upward through his groin, into his belly, into his chest, taking the breath away from him momentarily.
The telephone crackled. “Mr. Kilduff?”
The hard rubber circle of the receiver crushed his ear painfully against the side of his head. He fought air into his lungs, and they responded convulsively, expanding, contracting, and he got words out then, breaking a silence that was, in his ears, as loud as the combing of surf in a storm: “Jesus God, you don’t think Andrea is—?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kilduff,” Fazackerly said. “We found your wife’s car, a tan Volkswagen, parked in the clearing in front, and her purse was inside the cabin, on the table. Your name was on her insurance ID card as next of kin...”
He stood there, motionless, and after a long moment thick, liquid, tremulous words came out of his throat: “How... how did it happen? God, how . . . ?”
“We have no way of being certain,” Fazackerly said quietly. “It’s been storming heavily up here for the past couple of days. There’s the possibility that she was walking along the bank for some reason, and an undermined section gave way and toppled her into the slough. That water can be treacherous at this time of year, as you surely know. Was your wife a good swimmer?”
“She couldn’t swim at all,” he said numbly. “How—long has she...?”
“It appears as if she was in the water about twelve hours, Mr. Kilduff.”
“Twelve hours.”
“I’m sorry to have to break such tragic news over the telephone,” Fazackerly said. His voice was sympathetic. “But we’re understaffed here and we couldn’t send a man down personally. I hope you understand.”
“... yes...”
“We haven’t moved the—remains as yet; we’d like a positive identification first. Will you be able to come to Duckblind Slough right away?”
“Yes, within an hour . . . within an hour . . . ”
He broke the connection. He put his thumb on the button and held it down, the receiver still clasped tightly in his left hand. He was trembling now, and his face was flushed and sheened with tiny globules of sweat, and there was ice on his back and under his arms and between his legs.
Andrea was dead.
Andrea was dead!
He dropped the receiver suddenly and turned and ran into the kitchen. He stopped by the table, putting his hands flat on the Formica top. He looked wildly about him. The walls began to move—he could see them moving—pale white vertical planes reaching for him, going to crush him, and he choked off the scream that spiraled into his throat, and turned again and ran into the living room. He fumbled at the pull-catches on the sliding glass window-doors, breaking a fingernail, and then he had them open. He ran out onto the balcony and stood there with his palms braced against the slippery wet iron railing.
Andrea was dead.
He opened his mouth and sucked ravenously the cold wet air, his chest heaving as if it were a blacksmith’s bellows. The shock of it entering his lungs eased the pressure that had been forming within his skull, and he straightened up, pivoting, looking back into the apartment. He felt the rain then, and the frigidity of the morning, and he stepped forward into the warmth of the living room again, shutting the window-doors behind him. Duckblind Slough, he thought, and he went on enervated legs into the bedroom and opened the paneled door on his half of the walk-in closet and took out his heavy wool topcoat. He laid it over his arm, walking back into the living room now, walking swiftly, and he went to the front door and threw it open.