Nicos was a good boy, insisted Mr. and Mrs. Biagi. It seemed to be a universal mantra of parents in South Lexington-he was a good boy. A kid could pick up a gun and commit mass murder, and that refrain would still pop out of his parents' mouths.
The Biagis had no idea what Nicos had been doing with that needle and tourniquet. He had not been a drug addict. He had been a student at Louis French Junior College and had worked nights as a stockboy in the Big E supermarket in Bellemeade. He had bought a new car, paid for his own clothes.
And his own drugs , M. J. thought.
After an hour, she and Adam gave up trying to break through that wall of parental denial. Yes, Nicos must truly have been a saint, they agreed, and left the apartment.
Their two bodyguards were lolling on the front steps, watching a little girl skip rope.
"… Mama called the doctor and the doctor said,
"Feel the rhythm of the heart, ding dong,
"Feel the rhythm of the heart…"
As M. J. and Adam came outside, the girl stopped her chant and looked up at them.
"We're through here," said M. J. "Didn't learn a damn thing."
The two boys glanced at each other with a wry look of We coulda told you that.
The girl was still staring at them.
"Okay, let's try Xenia Vargas," said Adam. "Do you know where she lived?"
"Two blocks over," piped up the girl with the jump rope. "But she's dead."
For the first time, M. J. focused on the child. She was about eight years old, small and wiry, with a tangled bird's nest of hair. Her smock dress had been patched so many times it was hard to make out the pattern of the original fabric.
"Get outta here, Celeste," said one of the boys. "Your mama's callin' you."
"I don't hear nothing."
"Well, she's callin'."
"Can't be. She's workin' till seven. So there."
M. J. crouched down beside the girl. "Did you know Xenia?" she asked.
The girl swiped at her runny nose and looked at her. "Sure. I seen her around all the time."
"Where?"
"All over. She'd hang out at the Laundromat."
"Anyone else hang out with her?"
"Sometimes. The boys, they liked talkin' to Xenia."
"Ain't all they liked doin' to Xenia," one of the bodyguards said with a snicker.
Celeste fixed him with a dirty look. "Yeah, I seen those boys 'round your sister too, Leland."
Leland's snicker died. He gave Celeste an equally dirty look. The girl smiled back.
"She ever hang out with Nicos Biagi?" asked Adam.
"Sometimes."
"What about this lady?" M. J. asked. She took out the morgue photo of Jane Doe. For a second, she hesitated to show it to the child, then decided she had to.
Celested glanced at the picture with a clinical eye. "Dead, huh?" M. J. nodded. "Yeah," said Celeste. "I don't know her name, 'xactly, but I seen her with Xenia. She's not a regular."
"A regular?" inquired Adam.
"She doesn't live here. She just visits."
"Oh. A tourist."
"Yeah, like you."
"Celeste," said Leland. "Scram."
The girl didn't move.
They started up the street. A block away, M. J. glanced back and saw the little figure still watching them, the jump rope trailing from her hand.
"She's all by herself," said M. J. "Doesn't anyone look after her?"
"Everyone here knows her," said Leland. "Hell, they can't get rid of the brat."
Celeste was skipping rope again, her quick steps bringing her along the sidewalk in undisguised pursuit.
They ignored her and walked two blocks to Building Three. Leland directed them to the sixth floor. M. J. knocked at the door.
A woman answered-a girl, really-with makeup thick as putty and plucked eyebrows reduced to two unevenly drawn black slashes. Heavy earrings jangled as she looked first at M. J., then-much longer-at Adam. "Yeah?"
"I'm from the medical examiner's office," explained M. J. "We think your roommate-"
"I'm not talkin' to no one from the Health Department."
"I'm not from the Health Department. I'm from-"
"I went in for my shots. I'm cured, okay? So leave me alone." She started to close the door, but Leland stuck his hand out to block it.
"They wanna know 'bout Xenia. I brought 'em here."
"Why?"
" 'Cause this where she lived."
"No, dodo. Why they askin'?"
"She died of a drug OD," said M. J. "Did you know that?"
The girl glanced nervously at Leland. "Yeah. Maybe I did."
"Were you aware she was shooting up?"
A cautious shrug. "Maybe."
Adam moved forward to interject himself into the dialogue. "Could we, perhaps, come inside for a moment?" he asked. "Just to talk?" He smiled at her, a brilliant smile that showed off all those perfect white teeth of his. A smile, M. J. suspected, that few females could resist.
The girl seemed suitably impressed. Her gaze took in his clothes-shirt without a tie, casual slacks, all of it displayed on a superb frame.
"You from the Health Department too?" she asked.
"Not exactly…"
"You a cop?"
"No."
That seemed good enough for her. With a coquettish jangle of earrings, she indicated they could come in.
The place was like a Bedouin tent. Heavy drapes hung over the windows, casting the room in a purple gloom. Instead of chairs there were cushions on the floor and a single low-slung couch, its pillows embroidered with silk elephants and mirror chips. A familiar odor permeated the room-pot, thought M. J., with maybe the side-scent of patchouli. She settled on the couch next to Adam. Leland and his buddy stood off to the side, as though trying to blend into the Oriental wall hanging.
The girl-she told them her name was Fran- plopped down on a cushion and said, "Xenia and I, we didn't talk a lot, you know? So don't go thinking I can answer a whole lot of questions."
"Did you knew she was a junkie?" asked M. J.
"She liked her stuff, I guess."
"Where'd she get it from?"
"Lots of places." Fran's gaze flicked sideways, toward Leland. She licked her lips. "Mostly out of the neighborhood."
"Where?"
"I don't know. I guess she had people she'd go to, uptown. I'd have nothin' to do with it, see. I'm into natural stuff. Stuff you get off plants."
"Did she know Nicos Biagi?"
Fran laughed. "Hell. Nicos was everybody's friend."
M. J. took out the morgue photo of Jane Doe. "What about this girl? Recognize her?"
Fran paled as she realized it was a corpse she was looking at. She swallowed. "Yeah. That's one of Nicos's friends. Eliza."
"She's dead, too," said M. J. "Shot up the same stuff as Nicos and Xenia. Killed all three of them."
Fran handed back the photo and looked away.
"She was your roommate, Fran," said Adam. "She must have told you something."
"Look, she just lived here, okay? We weren't like major sisters or somethin'. She had her room, I had mine."
"What about her room? Are her things still there?"
"Naw, they already come and searched it."
"Who did?"
"Cops, who else?"
M. J. frowned at her. "What?"
"You know, those creeps with the badges and billy clubs? They come and picked it all apart for evidence."
"Did you get a name? A precinct?"
"Hell, you think I'm gonna argue when some guy's shovin' his badge in my face?"
M. J. glanced at Adam, saw his look of puzzlement. Why had the police shown up, and what had they been searching for?
That question troubled her all the way back down the six flights of stairs. She and Adam stepped out into the pale sunshine and blinked up at the Project towers. Those prison towers again, she thought. A constant reminder that this was a world not easily escaped.
Or easily penetrated. They'd spent half the day in South Lexington, and had no information to show for it, except the knowledge that the three victims had indeed been acquainted.
Perhaps that was the best they could hope for.
They sent Leland and his buddy off with twenty bucks apiece extra, and walked back to Adam's car. It was still there, courtesy of Anthony's hired guards-an additional service, they were informed, requiring an additional fee. Once they had dispensed with those boys they got into the car and sat there, silently regarding the barren strip of South Lexington.
Adam let out a breath, heavy with disappointment. "That wasn't very productive. Expensive, yes. But not productive."
"Well, it's clear they all knew each other. Which means any one of them could've been the source, passed the drug on to the others. I'd bet on Nicos."
"Why Nicos?"
"You heard what his parents said. He worked evenings at the Super E. Think about it. Since when can a part-time stockboy afford a new car?" She shook her head. "He was dealing on the side. I'm sure of it. And somehow, he managed to get his hands on a supply of Zestron-L."
They were quiet for a moment. Then Adam said, "It could still be Maeve."
She looked at him. He was staring ahead, his eyes focused on some faraway point. "What if she is the source, Adam? What then?"
"I don't know." He shook his head. "I suppose there's no way around it. She'll have to be charged. Sale of a dangerous drug. Theft. Whatever the law requires. It's not in my hands any longer. Not with three people dead."
Again, they fell silent. He knows it now, she thought. Maeve is beyond salvation. The time to set her right had long passed. All those missed opportunities, the months, the years when he might have made a difference, would haunt him, as it did every parent of a wayward child.
The sound of skipping feet and rope snapping rhythmically against the pavement penetrated the silence of the car. M. J. looked out and saw Celeste jumping rope, her bird's-nest hair bouncing with each skip. The girl drew even with the car window and she jumped in place, all the time nonchalantly ignoring the occupants of the car.
"Hello there," called M. J.
The girl glanced sideways. "Hi."
"You seem to be everywhere today."
"Gotta keep myself busy." The girl panted. "That's what my mama tells me." She stopped jumping and sidled up to M. J.'s window. Curiously she peered inside. "Like your car."
"Thank you."
"Didn't tell ya nothin', did she?"
M. J. frowned at her. "What do you mean?"
"No way Fran's gonna talk, y'know. Not with that Leland hangin' around."
"Everyone is. He's Jonah's man."
"Jonah?"
"You know. The main man. Can't take a step round here, 'less Jonah lets you."
"We asked for Jonah's help. He sent us Leland."
" 'Course he sent Leland. Wasn't gonna let you talk to no one without a set of his ears around." Celeste suddenly glanced over her shoulder and spotted a boy watching her from a doorway. At once she began to skip rope again, moving away up the sidewalk. M. J. thought the girl would continue on her way, but when Celeste reached the front of the car, she circled left, onto the street, and back along the other side of the car, toward Adam's window.
"Jonah, he's worried, you know," said Celeste, all the time skipping lightly on the blacktop.
"Why?" asked Adam.
"He thinks you're one of them. But that's stupid. I can tell you aren't. 'Cause you're too obvious."
"What do you mean by-" Adam didn't finish the question, as Celeste was already skipping away, toward the rear of the car. He and M. J. glanced at each other. "This kid ought to be on police payroll," he muttered.
Celeste had rounded the rear bumper and was moving on the sidewalk again, coming alongside M. J.'s window.
"Who's he afraid of?" M. J. asked the bouncing child.
"The folks who killed Nicos."
"And Xenia?"
"Same ones."
"Who are you talking about, Celeste? Which people?"
The girl stopped jumping and looked at them as if they were idiots. "The police, of course!" she said. Then, with a snap of the rope, she was off and bouncing again.
Adam and M. J. stared at the girl. "That's crazy," muttered Adam. "It's just the mentality around here. People are afraid of authority. Naturally they'd blame the police for everything."
"Fran was clearly afraid of something," said M. J.
"Of that fellow Jonah, no doubt."
By now Celeste was moving up the sidewalk, to make her second circle of the car. When she came around to Adam's side, he was ready to pose the next question through his window.
"Why does Jonah think the police killed Nicos?" he asked.
"Gotta ask him."
"How do I reach him?"
"Can't." She slapped rope in place. "He don't talk to outsiders."
"Well," sighed Adam. "That's that."
"Show her Maeve's picture," said M. J. "See if she knows her."
Adam took out the photograph and flashed it at Celeste. "Have you seen this woman?" he asked.
Celeste glanced at the photo and did a double take. She stopped jumping for a moment and bent forward for a closer look. "Sure looks like her."
"Like who?"
"Jonah's lady." With that, Celeste bounced off, away from the window.
Adam looked at M. J. in shock. "Dear God. Maeve?"
"Ask her to take another look."
They glanced back to see where Celeste was in her jump rope circuit around the car. To their dismay, the girl was halfway down the block, skipping swiftly away.
Instead of Celeste, it was Leland approaching their car. He bent to speak into M. J.'s window. "Time you got movin'," he said. "Like, right now."
"I want to talk to Jonah," said M. J.
"He don't talk to nobody."
"Tell him I'm on his side. That I only want to-"
"You want I should give your car a shove or what?"
There was a silence, heavy with the threat of violence.
"We hear you," Adam said, and started the engine. Swiftly he pulled into the street and made a U-turn. Leland was still glowering at them as they drove away.
"Not taking any chances, is he?" said Adam, glancing in the rearview mirror.
"Jonah's orders."
Just ahead, Celeste was jumping rope along the sidewalk. As they drove past, she stopped and raised her hand in farewell. Then, aware that she too was being watched, she grabbed both ends of the rope and continued her bouncing progress along South Lexington.
For two days, Dr. Herbert Esterhaus had avoided going home. Instead, he'd holed up under an assumed name at the St. Francis Arms and ordered all his meals delivered. It was a no-frills establishment, the sort of place frequented by traveling salesmen on tight budgets. The sheets were slightly frayed, the carpet well worn, and the water spewing from the faucet had a distinctly rusty tinge, but the room served his purpose; it was a place to hide while he considered his next move.
Unfortunately, he had few options to choose from.
That he'd soon be arrested, he had no doubt. The investigation into the Zestron-L theft had just begun; soon they'd be running background checks and polygraphing everyone in the lab, and he would fail the test. Miserably. Because he was guilty.
He could run. He could change his name, his identity. The way he had before. After all, it was a vast country, with countless little towns in which to hide. But he was weary of hiding, of answering to an assumed name. It had taken him ten years to feel comfortable with "Herbert Esterhaus." He loved his job. His work was valued and respected at Cygnus, and most important, he was valued and respected. Even by Mr. Q. himself.
Would they respect him when they learned what he had done?
He went to the window and stared down at the street. It was a blustery day, and bits of paper tumbled in the wind. Downtown Albion. All right, so it wasn't the city of his dreams, but it was home to him now. He had a house, a good paycheck, a job that kept him on the cutting edge of research. On Saturday nights he had his folk dancing club, on Sunday nights his water-color classes. He didn't have the woman he loved, but there was always the chance Maeve would come back to him. "This is my home now," he said to himself. The sound of his own voice speaking aloud was startling. "I live here. And I'm not going to leave."
Which led to his second option: confession.
It carried consequences, of course. He would probably lose his job. But once they understood the circumstances, understood he was forced into the act, they wouldn't be so hard. Not when he could name names, point fingers.
This time, by God, I'm not going to run.
He reached for the telephone and dialed Adam Quantrell's house. Confession was good for the soul, they said.
But Quantrell wasn't home, the man at the other end told him. Would he care to leave a message?
"Tell him-tell him I have to talk to him," said Esterhaus. "But I can't do it over the phone."
"What is this concerning, may I ask?"
"It's… personal."
"I'll let him know. Where can you be reached, Dr. Esterhaus?"
"I'll be…" He paused. This slightly seedy hotel? It would be proof he'd fled, proof of his guilty conscience. "I'll be at home," he said. He hung up, at once feeling better. Now that he had decided on a course of action, all the energy that had been sucked into the useless machinery of uncertainty could be redirected to pure motion. He packed the few things he'd brought-a toothbrush, a razor, a change of underwear. Then he checked out and drove home.
He parked in his carport and entered through the side door, into the kitchen. Familiar smells at once enveloped him, the scent of the Cloroxed sink, the fresh paint from the newly redone hallway. Here, in his house, he felt safe.
The phone rang in the living room. Quantrell? The thought set his heart pounding. Fully prepared to blurt out the truth, he picked up the receiver, only to hear a child's voice ask, "Is Debbie there?" He didn't hear the footsteps on the porch, or the wriggling of the doorknob.
But he did hear the knock.
He hung up on the kid and went to open the front door. "Oh," he said. "It's you-"
"Everything's fixed."
"It is?"
"I told you it would be." The visitor stepped inside, shut the door.
"Look, I can't deal with this! I never thought it'd go this far-"
"But Herb, I'm telling you, you don't have a thing to worry about."
"Quantrell's going to find out! It's only a matter of-" Esterhaus paused, staring at his visitor. At the gun. He shook his head in disbelief.
The gun fired twice, two clean shots.
The impact of the bullets sent Esterhaus jerking backwards. He sprawled against the couch, his blood sliding in rivulets across the Scotchgarded fabric. Through fading vision, he stared up at his murderer. "Why?" he whispered.
"I told you, Herb. You don't have a thing to worry about. And now, neither do I."
Thomas, as usual, was waiting at the front door to greet them. By now he seemed a built-in part of the house, as affixed to it as the mantlepiece or the wainscotting, and just as permanent. The difference was, Thomas actually wanted to be there. M. J. saw it now, in his smile of welcome, in the fatherly affection with which he helped Adam remove his coat. It was apparent they went back a long way, these two; she could almost see them as they must have been thirty years ago, the young man reaching down to assist the boy struggling out of his winter coat.
Thomas hung their jackets in the closet. "There were two calls while you were out, Mr. Q.," he said.
"Anything important?"
"Miss Calderwood phoned to ask if you were still on for the afternoon with the Wyatts. And if so, where were you?"
Adam groaned. "Good Lord, I forgot all about Isabel!" He reached for the hall telephone. "She's going to be furious."
"She did seem rather put out."
Adam dialed Isabel's number and stood waiting while it rang. "Who else called?"
"A Dr. Herbert Esterhaus. About two hours ago."
"Esterhaus?" Adam glanced up sharply. "Why?"
"He wouldn't say. Something about the laboratory, I assume. He did imply it was somewhat urgent."
"Where is he?"
"That's his number there, on the notepad."
Adam hung up and dialed the number Thomas had written down. It kept ringing.
"He said he'd be home all day," said Thomas. "Perhaps he stepped out for a moment."
Adam glanced at M. J. It was a look, nothing more, but she saw in his eyes a flicker of apprehension. Something's happened. He feels it too.
Adam hung up. "Let's drive by his house."
"But you've only just arrived," said Thomas.
"It doesn't feel right. Herb wouldn't call me at home unless it was important."
Resignedly, Thomas reached back into the closet for their jackets. "Really, Mr. Q. All this rushing around."
Adam smiled and patted him on the shoulder. "At least you won't have us underfoot, hm?"
Thomas merely sighed and walked them to the door.
Just as they climbed into Adam's car, a Mercedes pulled into the driveway, its tires spitting gravel. Isabel stuck her head out the window. "Adam!" she called. "Have you forgotten about the Wyatts?"
"Give them my regrets!"
"I thought we were on for this afternoon-"
"Something's come up. I can't make it. Look, I'll call you later, Isabel, all right?"
"But Adam, you-"
Her words were cut off by the roar of the Volvo as Adam and M. J. drove off. She was left behind in the driveway, staring in disbelief.
Adam glanced in his mirror at the receding Mercedes. "Damn. How am I going to explain this away?"
"Just tell her what happened," said M. J. "She already knows what's going on, doesn't she?"
"Isabel?" He snorted. "First, Isabel is not equipped to deal with unpleasantness of any sort. It's not in her sphere of knowledge. Second, she's not good at keeping secrets. By the time the gossip got down the street and back again, I'd be a major drug dealer, and Maeve would have three heads and be practicing voodoo."
"You mean… she doesn't know about Maeve?"
"She knows I have a stepdaughter. But she never asks about her. And I don't fill her in on the gory details."
"Isn't a problem kid something you'd want to sort of mention to your girlfriend?"
"Girlfriend?" He laughed.
"Well, what do you call her then?"
"A social companion. Suitable for all occasions."
"Oh." She looked out the window. "I guess that covers everything."
To her surprise, he reached over and squeezed her thigh. "Not quite everything."
She frowned at his laughing eyes. "What does it leave out?"
"Oh, street fights, exploding houses, the sort of occasions she wouldn't appreciate."
"I'm not sure I appreciate them."
He turned his gaze back to the road. "I've never slept with her, you know," he said.
That statement was so unexpected, M. J. was struck silent for a moment. She stared at his unruffled profile. "Why did you tell me that?"
"I thought you should know."
"Well, thank you for satisfying my burning curiosity-"
"You're very welcome."
"And what am I supposed to do with this knowledge?"
He winked. "File it away in that amazing brain of yours."
She shook her head and laughed. "I don't know what to make of you, Quantrell. Sometimes I think you're flirting with me. Other times, I think it's all in my head."
"Why wouldn't I? You know I'm attracted to you."
"Why?"
He sighed. "You're not supposed to say, 'Why?' You're supposed to say, 'And I'm attracted to you.'"
"Nevertheless, why?"
He glanced at her in surprise. "Is it so difficult to believe? That I'd find you attractive?"
"I think it's because I'm a novelty," she said. "Because I'm not like your other… companions."
"True."
"Which means it'd never work."
"Such a pessimist," he sighed. He gave her thigh another squeeze, flashed her another grin, and looked back at the road.
It's as easy as that for him , she thought. He favors me with a smile, makes my heart do flip-flops, and then he gets on with the business of driving.
This is not healthy, Novak. Not healthy at all.
And you're already in over your head…
Rockbrook was one of those anonymous suburbs that lie on the outskirts of any large city. It was a white-bread world of trim lawns, two cars in every garage, yards strewn with kids' bicycles. The house where Herbert Esterhaus lived had no bicycles in the yard, and only one vehicle in the carport, but in every other way it was typical of the neighborhood-a tract home, neatly kept, with a brick walkway in front and azaleas huddled on either side of the door.
No one seemed to be home. They rang the bell, knocked, but there was no answer, and the front door was locked.
"Now what?" said M. J. She glanced up the street. A block away, two boys tossed a basketball against their garage door. The buzz of a lawnmower echoed from some unseen backyard.
They circled around to the carport. "His car's here," Adam noted. "And that looks like today's paper on the front seat. So he's driven it today."
"Then where is he?" said M. J.
Adam went to the side door of the house. It was unlocked. He poked his head inside and called out: "Herb? Are you home?"
There was no answer.
"Maybe we should check inside," suggested M. J.
They stepped into the kitchen. Again, Adam called out: "Herb?" A silence seemed to hang over the house. And the sense of dead air, as though no window, no door, had been opened for a very long time.
M. J. spotted a set of keys on the kitchen counter. That struck her as odd, that a man would leave the house without his keys.
"Maybe you should call Thomas," she said. "Esterhaus might have left you another message."
"It's a thought." Adam glanced around for a phone; there was none in sight. "I'll check the living room," he said and headed out of the kitchen.
Seconds later, M. J. heard him say, "Dear God."
"Adam?" she called. She left the kitchen and crossed the dining room. Through the living room doorway, she spotted Adam, standing by the couch. He seemed frozen in place, unable to move a muscle. "Adam?"
Slowly he turned to look at her. "It's… him."
"What?" She moved across the living room. Only as she rounded the couch did she see the crimson stain soaking the carpet, like some psychiatrist's nightmare inkblot. Stretched across the blood was an arm, its hand white and clawed.
The hand of Herbert Esterhaus.