Part 24 (2/2)

Jeff and Angelo looked at each other. ”Can you describe these men?” Jeff asked.

”One of them was a big guy. He had dark gla.s.ses on, and had kind of funny looking blond hair.

I think it was dyed. He was kind of old-I mean, more than fifty. The other guy was short, and maybe about thirty or so. To be honest, I didn't pay too much attention to them.”

”I see. Well if anything comes back to you about them, I'm leaving my card with your mother.”

Jeff turned to Sandy Corrigan. ”Have you got a key to Zach's apartment, Mrs. Corrigan?” he asked.

”Of course.”

”May I have it please? Thank you all very much for your cooperation.”

The forensic unit was dusting the handle of the door to Zach's apartment and the doorbell. ”Oh, we've got a nice clean one here,” Dennis from the lab commented. ”We got a partial off the door of the car, too. That one someone tried to wipe off.”

”I haven't had a chance to tell you,” Jeff told Angelo as he turned the key in the door from the porch to the apartment and pushed it open. ”I spoke to Zach Willet by phone at five o'clock last night.”

They started up the stairs which creaked under the weight of their feet. ”What kind of guy did he seem to be?” Ortiz asked.

”c.o.c.ky. Very sure of himself. When I asked if I could come over and have a talk with him, he told me that, as a matter of fact, he was thinking of arranging a meeting with me. He said he might have some interesting things to tell me, but there'd be a few details we'd have to work out. He said that between the three of us, he was sure we could come to an understanding.”

”The three of us?” Angelo asked.

”Yes, the three of us-Celia Nolan, Zach, and me.”

There was a narrow hallway at the top of the stairs. ”The old railroad flat layout,” Jeff commented. ”All the rooms off the hall.” They walked a few steps and looked into what was meant to be a living room.

”What a mess,” Angelo said.

The couch and chairs had been slit in every direction. Stuffing oozed out from the faded upholstery. The rug had been rolled up and flipped over. Shelves of knickknacks had been dumped onto a blanket.

Silently, the men walked into the kitchen and the bedroom. Everywhere it was the same- contents of drawers and dressers had been tossed onto towels or blankets; the mattress on the bed had been sliced open. In the bathroom, the medicine chest had been emptied into the tub.

Loose tiles were stacked on the floor.

”The self-proclaimed moving men,” Jeff said quietly. ”Looks more like a wrecking crew.”

They went back into the bedroom. Ten or twelve photo alb.u.ms were thrown together in a corner. It was obvious that pages had been yanked from them. ”I think the first alb.u.m was sold the day the camera was invented,” Ortiz observed. ”I never could understand the fixation with old photos. When old people die, the next generation keeps the photos for sentimental reasons.

The third generation keeps a few picturesof the great-grandparents to prove that they had ancestors, and deep-sixes the rest.”

”Along with the medals and prizes the grandparents treasured,” Jeff said in agreement. ”I wonder if those guys who were here found what they were looking for?”

”Time to talk to Mrs. Nolan?” Angelo asked.

”She's hiding behind her lawyer, but maybe she'll agree to answer some questions with him present.”

They stopped again in the living room. ”The kid downstairs said the moving men took out some boxes. What do you think was in them?”

”What could possibly be missing around here?” Jeff asked.

”Who knows?”

”Papers,” Jeff said briefly. ”Do you see a single bill or letter or any sc.r.a.p of paper in this place?

I say that whoever was here didn't find what he wanted. Maybe he's looking for safe-deposit-box or storage-room receipts.”

”How's this for artwork?” Ortiz asked dryly, lifting a broken picture frame. ”Looks as though this was the mirror over the couch, and Zach took the mirror out and made this monstrosity.” In the center of the frame there was a large caricature of Zach Willet, which was surrounded by dozens of pictures with inscriptions that had been taped around it. Ortiz read the inscription under the caricature. ” 'To Zach, on the occasion of your twenty-fifth anniversary at Was.h.i.+ngton Valley.' I guess everybody was asked to give their pictures that night with a sentiment written on it. I'd also bet they sang, 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow' to the poor guy.”

”Let's take that with us,” Jeff said. ”We might find something interesting in it. And now, it's past eight o'clock, not too early to pay a little visit to Mrs. Nolan.”

Or a little visit to Liza Barton, he corrected himself silently.

CHAPTER 66.

”Mommy, can I stay home with you today?” Jack asked.

The request was so unexpected that I was taken aback. But I soon had an explanation.

”You were crying. I can tell,” he said matter-of-factly.

”No, Jack,” I protested. ”I just didn't sleep very well last night, and my eyes are tired.”

”You were crying,” he said simply.

”Want to bet?” I tried to sound as if we were playing a game. Jack loved games. ”What kind of bet?” he asked.

”I'll tell you what. After I drop you off at school, I'll come back and take a nap, and if my eyes are nice and bright when I pick you up, you owe me a hundred trillion dollars.”

”And if they're not nice and bright, you owe me a hundred trillion dollars.” Jack began to laugh. We usually settled those bets with an ice cream cone or a trip to the movies.

The wager decided upon, Jack willingly let me drop him off at school. I managed to get home before I started to break down again. I felt so trapped and helpless. For all I knew, Zach had told other people I was meeting him. How could I explain that he told me he had proof that Ted Cartwright had killed my father? And where was that proof now? They were practically accusing me of murdering Georgette Grove and that landscaper. I had touched Zach. Maybe my fingerprints were on his car.

I was dead tired, and decided that maybe I should do what I had told Jack I would do, and that was to try to take a nap. I was halfway up the stairs to the second floor when the bell rang. My hand froze on the banister. My instinct was to keep going upstairs, but when the bell rang again, I started back down. I was sure it was going to be someone from the prosecutor's office. All I have to tell them is that I will not answer questions unless my attorney is present, I reminded myself.

When I opened the door, it was a relief to see that at least Detective Walsh was not there. The prosecutor, Jeff MacKingsley, was standing on the porch with the younger detective with black hair who'd been very polite to me.

I had left my dark gla.s.ses in the kitchen, and so could only imagine what they were thinking when they saw me with my red-rimmed, swollen eyes. For a moment, I don't think I cared. I was tired of running, tired of fighting. I wondered if they had come to arrest me.

”Mrs. Nolan, I know you are represented by an attorney, and I a.s.sure you I am not going to ask you any questions about either the Georgette Grove or Charley Hatch homicides,” Jeff MacKingsley said. ”But I believe that you may have some information that could help us regarding a crime that was just committed. I know you have been taking riding lessons from Zach Willet. Zach was found shot to death early this morning.”

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