Part 25 (2/2)

”I suppose,” he said.

”Matter of fact, I'd take that gun out of your evidence room and store it in a safe place. I don't know what's going on, but now that the bureau knows you have it and you've tied it to a murder, someone may come looking for it.”

”You're a cautious b.a.s.t.a.r.d, aren't you? It may just be that some janitor at the federal building stole the d.a.m.n thing.”

”Not likely,” I said. ”I used to work there; they don't let janitors roam around like that. And that wouldn't explain Polk's lie.”

”All right,” he said, ”I'll put the gun someplace else. Now tell me about these things coming together.”

I outlined the economic thread connecting the three deaths and recounted my trip to Boston. Then, for the first time, I vocalized a theory I'd been toying with since leaving New Paradigm Systems. ”Think about it,” I said. ”Your killer could've walked out of Fontaine's house with volumes of doc.u.ments or dozens of disks, and we'd have no way of knowing.”

”Okay,” he responded, ”suppose Fontaine developed some sort of model he used to pick stocks. Why kill him? Why not just steal the information and get the h.e.l.l out? Better yet, why not copy it when he's not around?”

”I don't know,” I said. ”Maybe the guy needed Fontaine's help to find what he was looking for. Once he gets it, he doesn't want Fontaine around to ID him. Or maybe having the information isn't enough; maybe he wants to claim the model as his own.”

”That's a lot of maybes.”

”Just a theory,” I said.

”Well,” he said, ”since I don't have a better one, I may reinterview a few people and see if it leads anywhere.”

”That would be great,” I said.

”Let me know what you find out about Polk.”

”Will do,” I said. I hung up and dialed Susan Thompson. She wasn't in, but the receptionist transferred me to her voice mail. Her recorded greeting was short and to the point. So was my message. ”This is Pepper Keane,” I said. ”We're playing phone tag, and you're it.”

Jayne arrived at six-thirty with a bottle of Merlot in one hand and Polk's records in the other. She wore tan slacks and a white cotton blouse with short sleeves. The dogs raced to the door to greet her. ”This is Buck,” I said, ”and this is Wheat.” She handed me the wine, then extended her right arm and let Buck sniff her hand. When she sensed he was comfortable, she ran her palm along the side of his ma.s.sive head.

”Yes,” she said in that silly voice people use when talking to animals, ”you're a handsome fellow.” He licked her hand. Wheat became jealous and began whining. ”Oh, you're handsome too,” she said as she knelt to meet him.

”He'll shake if you ask him,” I said.

”Can you shake hands, little dog?” She offered her hand and he responded. ”He's darling,” she said, ”but how did you come up with 'Wheat'?”

”His name was Blackie when I adopted him,” I said. ”He had been abused, and I wanted to give him a name he wouldn't a.s.sociate with his previous owner. I already had Buck, so Wheat was the obvious choice.”

”Buckwheat,” she said as she stood up. ”Cute.”

”I could have named him Tooth,” I offered.

”Or Shot,” she replied. She smiled, handed me the doc.u.ments, and surveyed my home. ”This is beautiful,” she said. ”You must've done well practicing law.” I let that pa.s.s without comment and offered to give her a tour. I had spent several hours cleaning, so the prospect didn't frighten me too much. We began in my office. ”You have a lot of books,” she observed.

”Can't bring myself to get rid of any of them. I still have all my college textbooks.”

”I'm the same way,” she said. ”Each book is like a little trophy.” I nodded and we continued on, through the bedrooms and the lofts. I a.s.sured her the bas.e.m.e.nt was not worth seeing, but she insisted. Because my brother owns a gym, I have acc.u.mulated an enviable a.s.sortment of exercise equipment over the years, including an Olympic weight set, stair stepper, stationary bike, and stretching machine, but what caught her eye was the heavy bag. She positioned herself in front of it and threw a playful jab. The bag didn't move, but she smiled like a child who has just discovered a new toy.

”We'll have to work on that,” I said. She threw several more light punches, then started laughing. ”'Yo, Adrian,'” I said. I rolled my head in the direction of the stairs. She followed and we concluded the tour in the kitchen.

”Something smells good,” she said.

”Macaroni and cheese,” I said. She put her hands on her hips and gave me a look. ”It's Kraft,” I a.s.sured her. She gave me a playful slap on the shoulder. ”Vegetarian lasagna,” I said.

I opened the wine and poured some for each of us. We sipped it while I put the finis.h.i.+ng touches on dinner. Aside from lasagna, I'd prepared a mushroom salad and garlic cheese bread consisting of more cheese than bread.

”This is delicious,” she said after sampling the main course. ”Did you put clove in it?”

”A little,” I said.

”Do you like to cook?”

”Sometimes,” I said, ”but it's not a pa.s.sion.”

We continued eating and talking. We were at ease with each other, and I was glad. ”I called the owners' a.s.sociation again,” she said.

”About the trees?”

”Yes.”

”And?”

”The man I spoke with said the trees are on open s.p.a.ce owned by the city of Boulder. So I called the open-s.p.a.ce department. They said the trees belong to the a.s.sociation.” I laughed.

When it was clear neither of us would eat more lasagna or bread or salad, I served generous slices of carrot cake purchased at Wanda's that afternoon. Although I'd taken the larger piece, I finished first. ”This is yummy,” she finally said, ”but I can't eat another bite.”

”Too rich?”

”No,” she said, ”I'm just stuffed.” She pushed her dessert plate toward me.

”I've had my fill,” I said. ”Buck and Wheat will have to help us.” I prepared a plate of morsels for each of them, then began clearing the dishes. She offered to help, but I told her cleanup was a one-man job and asked her to pick out some music.

After I had loaded the dishwasher, I poured more wine and we adjourned to the porch where we each took a rocking chair. I thumbed through Polk's law school records as we listened to Sinatra. ”That's interesting,” I said. ”I should've remembered that.”

”What's that?”

”He did his undergraduate work in Seattle. Went there on a basketball scholars.h.i.+p. Earned a degree in economics.” She leaned over and looked at the doc.u.ment I was viewing.

”The University of Was.h.i.+ngton,” she said. ”Why is that interesting?”

”It's interesting only because one of the murders took place in Was.h.i.+ngton.” I continued through the doc.u.ments and found his law school application. ”Looks like he grew up there,” I said. ”He went to high school in a town called Richland.”

”I've never heard of it. Have you?”

”No,” I said, ”but I've got an atlas in my office.” I retrieved the atlas, returned to my chair, and found the map of Was.h.i.+ngton. Jayne moved her chair closer and leaned over to look at the map. She was right next to me and I caught a hint of perfume on her slender neck.

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