Dr. Williams calling Kibbe after Kibbe had stolen certain items from Dr. Williams's office. I wondered if Kibbe had found something. Or knew something. He must have. I doubted Dr. Williams had been placing a simple social call.
"Anything else?"
"Just that little copying joint down on Main."
"Copying joint?"
"Yeah. You know, they make Xeroxes and stuff. Said his order was ready."
"They say what kind of order it was?"
"Huh-uh."
"When was this?"
"Last night. Right at nine. Lady said she was just closing up and that he could pick up his order in the morning."
"I see." Then, "You happen to notice Dr. Williams around here the last couple of nights?"
"Not really. For one thing, we been kinda busy. And for another, when we ain't busy, I read them supermarket papers. They're always a lot of fun."
"But you'd recognize Dr. Williams if you saw him?"
"Oh, sure. They always have him on the tube whenever it's Mental Health Day or somethin' like that."
"I appreciate your help."
"Hell, no. I appreciate the stories. Not often you get to hear an actual FBI agent tell actual stories like that."
"Former FBI man."
He shrugged. "Still and all."
She angled her head away from me when she saw me.
She probably would have run but reasoned that would attract even more attention.
I went up to her and said, "Terrible thing, Mrs. Giles."
The faded prettiness, the animal fear of the eyes, the nervous, awkward movements of the mouth. Mrs. Giles hadn't changed much.
"You know the man who died last night?"
She looked at me as if I were speaking in a foreign language. "Man named Kibbe. Private detective, actually. He ever stop out your way and ask you questions?"
"I didn't know him." Curt, quick.
"And I don't suppose you knew Noah Chandler, either."
"I told you he asked us questions."
"Or Laura West?"
"Her, too. I didn't like the way my husband kept lookin' her over." Then, "Why are you asking me these questions?"
"Just want to know everybody's relationship. By the way, how's your petition going?"
She made no secret of what she was doing. Took a pint bottle from her coat pocket. Took a nice long swig.
"It's goin' all right. But the way you people keep dyin, we won't need no petition drive."
I changed the subject. "I'd like to see Claire tomorrow."
She looked as if I'd slapped her. "Can't be done."
"Why?"
"She's not feeling well."
She was lying and she didn't care that I knew. "What you're saying is that I can't see her."
"What I'm saying is that she's sick."
I stayed on her, the interrogator. "I'm told she used to see Dr. Williams."
"So what if she did? She don't any longer, anyway."
"I don't suppose you'd tell me why."
For just a moment there, her alcoholic features morphed themselves into the grinning, belligerent face of a gargoyle. "I don't suppose I would. You're right about that, Mr. Payne."
One of the bodies was being brought out now. We watched in silence. It was still a waste, all this death, of brisk and bracing football weather. We should have been in the bleachers at some high school game, cheering on the Rough Riders and spiking our coffee with a little bourbon.
The body was on a gurney. They fit it inside the ambulance and then closed the doors again and went back to the motel room. "I'd better get back. Fred's expecting me."
With that, she turned and started away. I took the sleeve of her winter coat. "Something happened to Claire, didn't it?"
"Nothing happened to her. Not that it's your business even if it did."
"I'd like to talk to her."
"Impossible."
"For just a few minutes."
"If you even try, I'll call Chief Charles and raise so much hell, you'll be in trouble. And don't think I can't, Mr. Payne. Don't think I can't. I may not be important, but I do know the law and I have a cousin here who's a lawyer. He can make your life hell, believe me."
I believed her.
"Now let go of my sleeve."
I let go. She walked away.
Susan Charles came up. "Looks like you two may never be fast friends."
"You may be hearing from her."
"About what?"
"Me. She thinks I'm harassing her." Then, "You know anything about Claire, her daughter?"
"Not much. She's supposedly autistic, although she didn't have any problems until after the fire at the asylum. She almost died in it. Now she lives up in the attic and only the people who watch her when her parents have to go somewhere see her. She got lost a few times when I was younger. There were big searches for her, I remember that. Now they keep her locked up."
"They're sure she's autistic?"
"Meaning what?"
I shrugged. "Meaning, I'm not sure. But certain kinds of trauma can pass for autism. To the untutored eye, anyway."
"You're suggesting what?"
"I'm suggesting that I'd like to get in and see her for myself."
She smiled. "No wonder Mrs. Giles doesn't like you. She doesn't let anybody see Claire, ever."
"No one?"
She nodded. "Oh, a country social worker comes to see her, once a month or six weeks for fifteen, twenty minutes a visit. Nothing in any depth. Just makes sure she's being treated well and things like that."
"Ever been any complaints."
"None that I know of."
A uniformed cop came over. "They'd like to see you inside, Chief."
"Thanks, Merle. I need to get back, Robert. I wouldn't push Mrs. Giles. She can really raise a lot of hell when she wants to."
"Yeah," I said. "I got that impression."
TWO
Reading the local newspaper in the john. Feeling superior to some of the stories. Big-city boy like me. Then remembering how many small towns I've lived in in my life. Towns far smaller than this one. Properly humbled.
Washing the day off me with a soapy washrag. Scrubbing my teeth. A final pee.
In bed. Leno or Letterman? Leno so bland. Letterman such an arrogant asshole. What a choice. Settle for Nightline. Famine. Genocide. Mass graves. Just the kind of thing I want to put in my mind right before I drift off to sleep.
Try a book. One of the A. A. Fairs of Erle Stanley Gardner. Gold Comes in Bricks. Very funny scene with Donald Lam learning martial arts. Finally start to relax. The forties will always be my favorite era, and the Fair books evoke them nicely. Read forty pages. The Fairs rarely fail. Errant erection. Reason with it to give me a break. Please give me a break. What is the use of an erection when you're alone at this time of night? And masturbation at the moment is just too much work. And anyway, don't you need your rest?
So tired suddenly can barely swing over to turn off the light. Sleep, then, immediate, deep.
The knock disorients me.
Part of a dream?
What time is it?
Darkness. Where am I? And then it comes back. Brenner. The murders. And according to the digital clock on the desk, 2:39 A.M. Been asleep about two hours.
Exhausted.
Drag myself from bed. Knocking is light, timid somehow. Open the door and there she is.
Night smells: cold air, cigarette smoke, perfume. Hers.
Leaning against the door frame. Girly grin on her face. "I'm kinda drunk, Robert." Ready to fall down and pass out.
"Gee, no fooling."
"You know what my limit ish? My limit ish two drinks a night. Sshpread out. Guessh how many I've had?"
"Ninety-three."
"You smart-ass." Then she hiccupped to complete the stereotype of the drunk. "Sixsh. I've had sixsh."
She reeled away from the door and almost went over backwards. I grabbed her. "Why don't you come in?"