Part 17 (1/2)

”Nice picture,” she said.

”We've got a copy, thanks,” I said.

She shrugged and returned behind the counter, a little smile on her face. I was really starting to dislike that woman.

”What were you doing there?” Debby sounded suspicious.

”It was a huge fire, and we live right across the alley. Most of the neighborhood was there.” But only I had been lucky enough to be around when that photographer from h.e.l.l showed up. ”I was trying to find out how it started when that picture was taken.”

”And?” Jacob asked. Debby examined the photo and wrinkled her brow.

”They're still investigating.” I figured it was safe to tell them that, even if one or both of them had set the fire.

”And there's nothing left,” Debby said. Now her voice shook, too. Jacob watched her with concern.

”I'm sorry,” I said. ”I know you wanted the chance to go through his things.”

Debby took a shaky swallow of coffee, holding the cup with both hands. Her fingernails were bitten to the quick, and dried blood crusted the cuticle of her thumb where she'd worried a hangnail too far.

”Well, thanks for telling us. 'Preciate it.” Jacob was dismissing me.

”Can I get your phone number? Your last name?” I asked Debby. ”So if I need to get in touch with you I can?”

”Why wouldja need to do that?” he asked.

The little guy was starting to get on my nerves. ”Is there a problem, Jacob?”

Debby put her hand on his arm. ”It's Silverman.”

”Debby Silverman.”

She nodded. ”Deborah Silverman.”

I looked at Jacob. He scowled.

”You'll find me with her,” he said, thrusting his chin toward Debby.

”And I don't suppose either of you have a phone, do you?” I couldn't keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

She opened her mouth, but Jacob spoke first. ”Nope. No phone. Sorry.”

He had seemed downright nice when I first sat down. What had changed? News of the fire? Of the investigation?

”Jacob, stop being an a.s.s,” Debby said, and recited a phone number. I scrabbled in my coat pocket for a pen-realizing I'd kept the barista's after I'd written the note for these two-and scribbled the number on a corner torn from the newspaper. I folded the sc.r.a.p and put it in the pocket of my slacks. The pen I put in my coat pocket.

”Okay. Well, thanks,” I said.

I'd wanted to ask what they'd thought of Walter's memorial service, but Jacob was pouting like a child and refused to look at me, while Debby's attention seemed to drift far away from both of us as she stared out the window.

So I left.

Out on the sidewalk I pulled up my hood against the rain. Through the front window of Beans R Us, I saw Jacob reaching for Debby's hands.

TWENTY-TWO.

I STOPPED IN AT Picadilly Circus, the British tearoom across the street from the Gold Leaf, to pick up some PG Tips, a strong black tea Meghan and I both favored in cold weather. Overhead the clouds had collected into thick clots, and it began to rain big fat drops as I started home. I pulled my hood further around my face and hunched my shoulders. The air had grown several degrees cooler, and a s.h.i.+ver worked its way up my spine. Walking quickly, with my head down, I thought about what my next move should be.

Detective Ambrose would say I shouldn't have a next move. Why couldn't I let this rest, leave it for the police to figure out? Why did I feel so compelled to find out what had happened to Walter? If it had been straightforward murder from the get-go, not an a.s.sumed suicide that pushed all my b.u.t.tons about my brother's death, would I have felt so driven to discover the perpetrator?

Yes. I would. Since it had happened in my workroom, to someone I knew, I would feel the same need to discover the truth. Of course if it was deemed murder from the start, Sergeant Zahn wouldn't be trying to keep Ambrose from doing his job by making him work on the toilet paper terrorist case; he'd be facilitating the investigation and providing more resources.

How sure was I that Walter had been murdered? Pretty darn sure. Whatever Meghan might say about Walter's ”underlying sorrow,” it never sat right with me that he'd killed himself. Maybe it would have made some sense earlier in his life, but not once he had sobriety, money, and the girl. So to speak.

That earlier time was what Tootie had based her expectations on-what had she asked when they'd told her that her son was dead? A bullet or a bridge? But she must have known he'd quit drinking. If he'd gone through AA and seen fit to make amendsor whatever they called that step-with Richard and Meghan, and the other people he worked for in the neighborhood, surely he would have done the same with his own mother. Perhaps he hadn't convinced her. Or maybe her view of him had been too slow to change.

Even Jacob and Debby's a.s.sertion that Walter had joked about killing himself by drinking Drano fell short of the suicide theory. And there was that sense of aha! when I'd heard the word ”homicide” in the police station. Ambrose was no idiot, and his gut was telling him the same thing.

So, back to the original question: what next?

First, we needed more information about the two I'd just left. Meghan would know how to access public records now that we had Debby's name. I briefly considered using the services of an online information broker. I'd looked my own name up once, and while it only showed the town I lived in, the advertis.e.m.e.nt that popped up on my computer screen said for a fee they'd tell me not only Sophie Mae Reynolds' address and phone number, but who her neighbors were, any criminal history, marriages, births, and a slew of other information I found profoundly disturbing to think about.

Maybe I could trade Debby's last name to Ambrose in exchange for whatever information they dug up on her. Yeah, right. Ambrose wouldn't welcome my help, probably considered me a suspect. I grimaced as I checked traffic and stepped off the curb.

I was reflecting on the unpleasant twist my last conversation with Ambrose had taken when I heard the squeal of tires on wet asphalt. My head jerked up just in time to see an old pickup bearing down on me. I twisted and jumped aside to avoid the rusty chrome grill, losing my balance and falling between two parked cars. My elbow hit one of the b.u.mpers on the way down, shooting sparks up my arm. I lay there, gasping and listening to the faint sound of the receding truck engine. Every breath seared along my side. After a small eternity, I managed to push myself into a sitting position on the sidewalk. I ran my fingertips over my ribs. Nothing broken, it seemed, but I'd pulled a muscle in my side, and my hip throbbed where I'd landed on the curb. Severe bruising was in my short-range forecast.

”Jeez, you okay, lady?” A young man, somewhere in his late teens or early twenties, squatted on the sidewalk next to me. ”Are you hurt? I can call 911.”

I shook my head.

”You must be hurt. You're crying.”

”Hit my elbow,” I gasped. ”Funny bone.”

”Oh. Okay. You need to be more careful about crossing the street. I don't even know if that driver saw you.”

”Oh, he saw me, all right. He was aiming right for me.”