Part 35 (1/2)

The slider is open about four inches. The vertical blinds are pitched so that I can see everything in one direction, the right side of the room. To the left, visibility is more obscured by the canted blinds that dance and clatter in the breeze from the open door.

There is no other movement in the living room. Two lamps are on. I slip my shoes off and step to the other side of the balcony. From here I can see slivers of the kitchen, visible through the openings as the blinds waft back and forth. Though I can't see it all, there are no shadows being cast, and the kitchen lights are all on. If there was an energy crisis, you wouldn't know it from Tash's condo.

There's a smaller window a few feet over from the sliding door. This looks into the bedroom. While the lights are off in this room, I have no difficulty seeing in, reflected light streaming down the hallway. The bed is neatly made. I can see the door to the master bath. There's no one home.

I signal to Harry, shaking my head. He hangs by the railing, watching. I motion that I'm going in. He nods.

I pick up my shoes and quietly slide open the door, stepping through the vertical blinds.

I am focused to the front, the hallway off to my right, the kitchen to the left, sock toes buried in the deep pile of Tash's carpeted living room, wondering what I'm doing breaking and entering, stealing across some stranger's living room with my shoes in my hand.

”Hi, Paul.”

When I turn, he's behind me. Frank Boyd is seated in a tall wingback chair in the corner, his back against the wall at the far left of the sliding door: the one blind spot in the room. In his lap is a short double-barreled shotgun, the muzzle pointed lazily in my direction. His finger outside the trigger guard, but close enough that I'm not going to argue with him.

”I was hoping you wouldn't come,” he says. Frank's face is etched with deep lines, a countenance that is tired, worn, showing no emotion, a lifeless mask. His hair that hasn't seen a barber in months is hanging ragged halfway down his ears. There is a kind of wild look in his eye, the gla.s.sy gaze of some jungle cat on the prowl.

”I hope I didn't hurt you,” he says.

I smile. ”Oh, no. Not at all.” I touch my chest. ”Just a little bruise.”

”That's good. Why are you carrying your shoes?”

I look at them, a sick smile. I give him a face, shrug my shoulders. ”I don't know.”

”Maybe you should put them on,” he says.

”May I sit?”

He nods. ”Sure.”

I back into a chair across the room from him, a tufted sofa back.

”When did you figure it out?” he asks.

”Figure what out?”

”Don't play games,” he says.

”Oh, you mean . . .”

”Yeah.”

I take a deep breath. ”Tonight.”

If he's surprised, his expression doesn't convey it. ”When I put all the papers together and looked at them,” I tell him.

”You mean if I hadn't come by your office, you wouldn't have . . .”

I shake my head.

His eyes look away, a quizzical grin, wonder on the level of a galactic riddle. ”Shows to go you,” he says. ”I thought for sure that when you picked up the file from the house you were on to me. Huh.” A vacant stare, like how can he go back in time?

”I heard Crone got off,” he says. ”It was on the radio.”

”Earlier today,” I tell him.

”That's good. I always felt bad that he was being blamed for something he didn't do. I had to take care of it,” he said. ”Did pretty good, don't you think?”

”You mean the suicide note?”

He nods. ”Never was any good at typing. It took me a while. One finger at a time. But then he wasn't going anywhere. He was a tall one, a long drink of water. I didn't think the ladder was gonna be high enough. The note-I had to play with it to get it right. Wrote it out longhand at home first. Took it with me. The printing was a b.i.t.c.h,” he says. ”I almost called Doris to ask her if she could help me over the phone. That woulda been a mistake.”

”Doris doesn't know?”

”She has no idea.”

”Why did you do all of this, Frank?”

”What do you mean?” He says it as if killing two people and lying in wait for a third is a normal evening's work.

”I mean Kalista Jordan.”

”She ended the program. Penny's program. What do you think I was gonna do, just sit there?”

I don't argue the point. His finger slides toward the trigger. I try a different subject.

”How is Doris?”

”What?”

”Doris and the kids?”

”Oh. They're fine. Fine.”

”Where were they tonight? I tried to call.”

”Doris is out of town. Took the kids with her.”

”Where did they go?”

”Took a few days off. She needed to get away. They went to her mother's up in Fremont. We had an argument.”

I don't know whether to believe him or not.

”Did she leave tonight?”

He looks at me as if he can't quite figure this out. ”What day is it?” he asks.

”It's Friday night.”