Part 16 (2/2)
”Well, I do have my books. I'll be leaving my work behind.” Maggie had a quick thought about Francis Oakes, the recently deceased Francis Oakes. That had been his legacy, a few books. A few very forgettable, probably out-of-print books. And wasn't that a cheery thought?
”Yes, of course, your marvelous books. Is that it, Margaret? Perhaps you'd want more. Something more personal? Children, perhaps?”
Maggie blinked. ”Children?” She thought about Alex and his, their, special circ.u.mstances. Here's your daddy, sweetheart-he's not really real, I made him up, but we're just going to run with that, okay? Wasn't that just swell. Man, talk about a way to screw up the next generation! ”Children ...”
Dr. Bob pushed back his French cuff and looked at his watch. ”Well, that's it for this week. Same time next week, or would you rather go back to our usual Monday morning sessions?”
”Wait a minute,” Maggie said as the good doctor pushed on the arms of his chair as if to stand up. ”That's it? I'm to be sympathetic but neutral with my parents, someone might be out to get-kill me, so I should think about what I might leave behind if he does? That's it? Oh, and the sugarless fudge,” she said, getting to her feet. ”Can't forget the fudge, can I. No, Dr. Bob, I will not see you next week. I think we need a break. Maybe even a clean break. Children? Yeah, just what I wanted to think about. Merry Christmas!”
Chapter Seventeen.
”Here you go, sport. Merry Christmas.”
Saint Just neatly snagged the gaily wrapped box before it could do serious damage to his solar plexus and fell into step beside Maggie, who seemed h.e.l.l-bent on going somewhere, somewhere far away from him.
”Allow me to hazard a guess. Your session with Dr. Bob was not all you'd hoped?”
Maggie sliced him a look that chilled the air between them below that of the actually rather fine, sunny December morning. ”I'm not speaking to you.”
”Actually, my dear, you are. You just did.”
”Don't split hairs with me you, you traitor. And get us a cab.”
”Oh, dear,” Saint Just remarked with a sigh. ”Obviously your Dr. Bob is not a man of his word.”
”Oh, he's a man of a lot of words,” Maggie said, climbing into the backseat of the cab Saint Just had neatly summoned to the curb. Once they were both settled in the backseat and Saint Just had given directions, she asked, ”What were you thinking? Why did you go see him? To rat on me?”
”An interesting choice of words,” Saint Just said as he reached across Maggie to take hold of the seat belt strap, as she seemed rather preoccupied at the moment with subjects other than her safety. ”In truth, my dear, I had two reasons for dropping in on the good doctor. One, I wished to see this man who has been a part of your life for so many years-”
”And what did you think of him?”
”I found him to be an interesting mix of intelligence, avarice, and, perhaps, an inflated sense of self-consequence.”
”That's nice. He thinks you're a nutcase,” Maggie told him, not without a hint of satisfaction in her voice. ”Possibly certifiable.”
”Indeed.”
”And arrogant.”
Saint Just merely smiled. ”My second reason for visiting the gentleman had to do with our ... Rat Boy. I wished Dr. Bob's educated opinion on the potential seriousness of the threat. That, of course, was before we'd been informed of the unfortunate demise of Francis Oakes.”
”Well, there's a first-you, asking for help. And what did he say?”
”He said I should tell my hypothetical friend that, yes, there could exist reason for real concern.”
”Your hypothetical friend. Hoo-boy. That's how you presented everything? Hey, well, that wasn't transparent, was it? But, if Dr. Bob knew I was your hypothetical friend, why didn't he let me know he knew? I told him someone might be trying to kill me and all he wanted to know was how that made me feel.”
”Perhaps there are limits to the man's unprofessionalism?”
Maggie nodded. ”Yeah, that's probably it. Or he thinks we're both past saving and headed for padded rooms.”
”There is always that,” Saint Just agreed as the cab slid to the curb and he handed the man a ten-dollar bill, refusing change. ”And here we are, the domicile of one Valentino Gates. Shall we? Oh, and forgive me for not mentioning this sooner, but I was a bit distracted. Left-tenant Wendell phoned this morning to report in. I believe he's feeling somewhat guilty for not taking our theory more seriously last night.”
”That's an understatement. He barely listened to us.”
”He did, however, listen to Bernice this morning. She gave him the list of authors for No Secret Anymore, as well as their whereabouts, as best we know them, and he was kind enough to contact Kimberly Lowell D'Amico in Missouri-who did not, it would seem, receive her own dead rat and poem. Which, I'm afraid, has put the good left-tenant back into the ranks of the unimpressed as regards our theory.”
”Oh, great,” Maggie said as Saint Just held open a thick wooden door that probably owed half that thickness to several generations of paint. ”Though that doesn't really prove anything. All the rats were sent to authors in and around the city. All that could mean is that Rat Boy didn't trust dry ice to get one of his macabre little presents all the way to Missouri without being discovered along the way. Then again, considering the state of the New York post office, the d.a.m.n rat could still be there.”
”That's true enough,” Saint Just agreed, having located Gates's apartment number on one of a row of mailboxes in the narrow foyer. ”Third floor. Shall we climb?”
”Like we have a choice in this dump? Back to the packages. Those packages had to cost a lot. The dry ice. The postage. Rat Boy could have run out of postage.”
”Or rats,” Saint Just supplied helpfully, earning himself a speaking glance from his beloved as they paused at the second-floor landing.
”Funny. So do you agree with Steve now?”
”Unfortunately, no. I would rather believe that geography played a part in our unsub's plans.”
”Unsub. Unknown subject. Next you'll say Feebies for F.B.I., and then I'll have to hit you,” Maggie said, still leading the way up the stairs. But once at the third-floor landing she turned back to him, her expression troubled. ”What are we going to say to this Valentino Gates guy, anyway? Hi, did you send me a dead rat?”
”A rather direct approach, but I doubt the man will then immediately fall on our necks to confess to murder. To be truthful, I haven't thought much beyond meeting the man, sizing him up as it were, taking his measure.”
”Oh, well, that's fine then, as long as you have a plan, bright eyes,” Maggie said, her sarcasm marred only by the fact that she was slightly out of breath from the climb.
Saint Just raised her hand to his lips. ”Being romantically involved with a gentleman supposedly makes women soft and malleable. May I say how delighted I am, sweetings, that you are proving the exception.”
”Hey, take it somewhere else you two, you're blocking the landing.”
Saint Just looked behind him to see a rather large man standing two steps below them on the stairs. A rather large, angry man with forearms like hams and apparently the disposition of a warthog, with the manners to match. It was as if he and Maggie somehow had been transported to the Regency-era dregs of Piccadilly. Fairly certain the answer to his question would be in the negative, he nevertheless inquired: ”Valentino Gates?”
”Think you're funny, don't you? Do I look like that pansy?”
The growled reference rather baffled Saint Just, but he decided to a.s.sume the question had been rhetorical and did not require an answer. ”Well, then, sir, please don't allow us to detain you any longer from what I am convinced is your very important business.” He stepped back slightly, allowing the man to step onto the landing. ”Ah, obedient as well. There's a good fellow. Be on your way now.”
”Oh, jeez, how did I know this was going to happen?” he heard Maggie half groan from behind him. ”Hold onto your knickers-here we go.”
”Think you're smart, don't you?” the large man said, looking down at Saint Just, who had slightly mistaken the man's height if not his breadth. ”How'd you like a quick trip down to the second floor, pansy boy? I can arrange that, you know.”
”Excuse me, but you really don't want to try that,” Maggie warned, pus.h.i.+ng herself back into the corner, ”Trust me in this one, Popeye.”
”Popeye? And aren't you the funny b.i.t.c.h,” the man said, distracted by the sight, Saint Just believed, of a woman clad in clean clothes and possessing all her teeth. ”Whaddya say you and me get rid of this clown and have us some fun?”
”Hey, that's original. I never heard that line before. Alexander? Stop playing with the nice gentleman and let him go away.”
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