St. John turned his vulpine gaze on Dix. After a few seconds he put the cigarette in his mouth, as if he were thinking about lighting it, changed his mind, and began thumb-rolling it on the table again. Floorboards creaked overhead: other officers moving around upstairs. Finding anything? This whole process was maddening in its mechanical slowness.
“It's your turn, Mr. Mallory,” St. John said. “What did you do when you arrived?”
Dix told him. All of it, leaving out nothing except details of his conversation with Cecca and the Beretta.
“Did you touch the body?”
“No, I did not.”
“We found Ms. Kanvitz's purse in the living room. Did either of you touch that?”
“No.” But we damned well would have if we'd seen it. “I don't suppose there was anything in it that might help identify the man?”
“If there had been, I'd have told you. Did you touch anything on this floor? Open drawers, cabinets?”
“No,” Dix said. “All we touched were doorknobs and the sink tap over there.”
“Go upstairs?”
“No.”
“Why were you outside when we arrived?”
“… What?”
“Simple question. You were out on the street next to your car when we arrived. Why?”
“Waiting for you. Why do you think?”
“You left Ms. Bellini in here alone while you went out front to wait? As upset as she was, in the house alone with a dead woman?”
“I didn't stay in the house,” Cecca said. “I went into the backyard. I was there until I heard you come in through the front.”
“Why the backyard?”
“I needed some air and I wasn't ready to face anybody yet. Are all of these questions necessary?”
“I think they are, yes—”
“Lieutenant.” Another cop had opened the swing door and poked his head through. “See you for a minute?”
St. John went away with him. Dix reached over to take Cecca's hand; her fingers were still icy. She said, “He doesn't believe us.”
“About why we came here, no.”
“What do you think he'll do?”
“Nothing. What can he do? We've been cooperative and we haven't really broken any laws.”
The swing door squeaked and St. John reappeared, alone. He stood behind his chair and looked down at each of them in turn—long, searching looks—before he said, “Did you know Louise Kanvitz owned a handgun?”
Dix said, “No,” and Cecca shook her head.
“Thirty-two-caliber Iver Johnson revolver. Legally registered; officer found the permit upstairs. Box of ammunition for it, too. But not the weapon itself. It's nowhere in the house.”
“Maybe she kept it at the gallery.”
“Maybe. But her permit is for home premises.”
“Well, we don't know anything about it,” Dix said. “What difference does it make if her gun's missing? She wasn't shot; her neck was broken.”
“It's a loose end. I don't like loose ends.”
“Is that how you look at us? As loose ends?”
St. John was silent.
“Your men find anything else upstairs?” Dix asked.
“Nothing that would interest you.”
“How about something that interests you”
Again St. John didn't answer. He sat down. His cigarette was still on the table; he picked it up, looked at it, and then broke it in half between his thumb and forefinger, showering the table with shreds of tobacco.
“All right,” he said flatly. “Let's go over your stories again one more time.”
NINETEEN
Cecca could not seem to get warm.
She sat on the couch in the living room with a double Scotch, the furnace turned up to seventy-five. It was dark outside, nearly half past eight. St. John had detained them to the last to make a none-too-subtle point. And having made it, he hadn't bothered to issue any more warnings when he released them. All he'd said was “You'll hear from me, Mr. Mallory. You, too, Ms. Bellini.”
She was alone now; Amy had gone upstairs to her room. So quiet in there she could hear the erratic thump of her heart. And every time she closed her eyes, every time she focused inward instead of outward, she could see Louise Kanvitz lying broken and bloody at the bottom of the stairs. She thought she would see that lifeless, bulging eye of Louise's for the rest of her life—a Cyclops to haunt her dreams.
Amy had taken the news well enough, as well as could be expected. She was afraid but just how deeply Cecca couldn't tell; most of the fear was locked within. She'd always been that way: emotions bottled up, not much outward display except in sudden sharp, brief outbursts when she was provoked beyond her limits. As a baby she hadn't cried much; as a little girl she had rarely thrown a tantrum. In fact, Cecca could remember seeing her cry only once since she'd passed the toddler stage—the day she'd told her Chet had moved out and she was filing for divorce.
Resilient at seventeen, yes, self-contained, but Amy couldn't handle this kind of psychological fear-pressure indefinitely. Neither of them could. It would damage Amy just as it was damaging her. Survival was still the primary issue, and they would survive—Cecca refused to let herself think otherwise. But survival at what cost?
She started to lift the glass to her mouth, and almost dropped it. The fingers on her left hand had gone partially numb. They had a dead-white look, as if they'd been frostbitten. The ice in the glass radiating cold; and bad circulation on top of everything else. She went into the kitchen, ran hot water over her hand until the fingers began to tingle and turn a splotchy red. She was drying them with a dishtowel when the telephone rang.
Cecca stood rigidly, waiting for the machine to open the line. But it was only Laura Flores. She'd just heard about Louise Kanvitz, she said, and oh you poor dear, it must have been awful for you and Dix. What were you doing at Louise's house anyway? A nightmare, what's been going on lately—one hideous tragedy after another. Why are all these terrible things happening here? It makes you want to lock all your doors and windows and not ever go out anywhere again. Call me as soon as you can, Cecca, okay? I'm worried about you.
When the machine clicked off, Cecca finished her drink in one long swallow. News travels fast in a small town; she should have remembered that. And bad news travels fastest of all. Laura's call wouldn't be the last tonight. The phone would keep right on ringing, and then somebody would stop by—Owen, he would surely come—and she couldn't deal with it. She could not deal with any of it tonight.
Well? she thought.
There was no hesitation in the answer she gave herself. Admit it, Francesca: It's been there in the back of your mind all along.
She went upstairs, quickly, to have another talk with Amy.
Dix wasn't surprised to see her. He didn't ask why she'd driven up; it was almost as if he'd been expecting her.
“You okay?” he asked when she was inside.
“Not really. Hanging in there.”
“Me, too. Take your jacket?”
“No, I'll leave it on. I'm cold.”
“A drink might help.”
“I don't think so. I've had enough liquor.”
“Coffee?”
“Not that either. Have you had any calls?”
“Three so far,” he said. “Laura and Jerry and that damn Herald reporter that tried to buttonhole us outside Kanvitz's house. I didn't talk to any of them.”
“Laura called me, too. The first of many. I didn't think I could stand it alone.”
“Did you tell Amy what happened?”
“Yes. She took it well enough.”
“Sure it's a good idea to leave her home by herself?”
“I didn't,” Cecca said. “I asked her to stay with my folks for a while, starting tonight. He can get to her there, too, of course, but … I don't know, I just thought it would be best.”