Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 53

Sandy woke in a bed in the little Napa hospital to find a man in his room wearing a lab jacket and looking at an X-ray against a light box.

"Good morning," Sandy said.

"Ah, you're awake," the man replied. "I'm Dr. Swift, and I want to take a look at you before we let you go home."

"Sure," Sandy said, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. An empty bed with mussed covers stood nearby.

"Your wife stayed here, too; I've already had a look at her. There was some bruising on her neck, but she's all right."

Sandy submitted to a thorough neurological examination, then waited for the doctor to speak.

"There's no fracture," he said. "You have a mild concussion, and I'd like you to spend today in bed at home. If you feel nauseated, I want you to have your wife drive you back here at once, understand?"

"I understand," Sandy replied. He stood up, took his dressing gown from the end of the bed and slipped into it.

Cara came out of the bathroom and kissed him. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

"My neck's a little sore, but I'm not in any real pain."

"Then let's get you home; I've already paid the bill while you slept." She was wearing jeans and a sweater.

"Where did you get the clothes?" he asked as they walked down the hallway.

"I changed before I left the house."

"I feel a little strange leaving the hospital in a dressing gown," he said, getting into the car.

When they arrived at the house, the sheriff was waiting on the front porch, along with Deputy Wheeler.

"My name's Norm Ferris," he said, shaking Sandy's hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better," Sandy replied.

"Do you feel up to answering some questions?" the sheriff asked.

"Sure, come into the living room."

When they were all comfortable, the sheriff began. "Mrs. Kinsolving, last night you said that you thought the man who tried to strangle you was Peter. Who is Peter?"

"My ex-husband."

The sheriff nodded as if that was to be expected. "Can you be sure?"

"No, he just smelled like Peter, and he was the same size. I thought for a moment that he had a beard, but Peter doesn't have a beard."

"When did you last see Peter?"

"A few days ago in San Francisco."

"This would be Peter Martindale, then?"

"Yes."

"I read the newspaper article about the party at the sculptor's house," the sheriff said. "And I take it, Mr. Kinsolving, that you had recently brought a lawsuit against Mr. Martindale?"

"That's correct."

"Do you think Mr. Martindale is the kind of man who might become so angry about a lawsuit that he would attack your wife?"

Cara spoke up. "I think so, and I know my ex-husband much better than Sandy does."

"I telephoned Mr. Martindale's gallery this morning and was told that he is in Los Angeles, staying at the Bel-Air hotel," the sheriff said. "I tried to telephone him there, but the operator said that Mr. Martindale was not taking any calls. I've asked the LA. police to go to the hotel and question him about his whereabouts last night."

"Good," Sandy said.

Detectives Harrow and Martinez of the LAPD knocked on the door of the room to which the front desk had directed them. A "do not disturb" sign hung on the doorknob.

"Pretty fancy place," Harrow said, looking around at the lush tropical planting.

"You're right," Martinez said. "Wonder what it costs a night here?"

The door opened and a tall, slender man stood before them; he was wearing a necktie but was in his shirtsleeves. "Come in, gentlemen," he said. "The front desk said you're from the police?"

"That's correct, Mr. Martindale," Harrow said, showing his badge.

Martindale showed them to a seat. An open suitcase lay on the bed.

"You're checking out?" Harrow asked.

"Yes, I have a business appointment this morning, then I'm flying back to San Francisco. What is this about, please?"

"I'd like to ask you a few questions," Harrow said, "in connection with an investigation by the Napa County sheriff's office."

"Napa, as in wine?" Martindale asked.

"That's right. Can you tell me where you were last night, Mr. Martindale?"

"I was here, at the hotel."

"Did you have dinner in the dining room?"

"No, I came in about six-thirty from a lecture I had given; I asked the front desk not to put any calls through, then I had something from room service, watched television for most of the evening, then went to bed."

"What did you watch on television?"

"Some news on CNN and a movie, The Bedford Incident."

Harrow wrote down the name. "The one with Richard Widmark, about a submarine?"

"Widmark and Sidney Poitier," Martindale replied. "Excellent movie. I don't think anything less would have kept me awake. I was very tired."

"Did the room service waiter come and get the dishes after you ate?"

"I put them outside the door when I had finished."

"What time was the movie over?"

"Sometime after midnight; I'm not sure exactly what time."

"Did you speak to anyone before you went to bed?"

"I called the front desk when the movie was over to see if there had been any calls, but there hadn't been any."

Harrow nodded. "Were you in Napa County last night, Mr. Martindale?"

"No, I was here, as I've told you."

Harrow stood up. "Thanks very much for your cooperation, Mr. Martindale."

"Can you tell me what this is about?" Martindale asked.

"I'm afraid I don't have the details; you'd have to call the sheriff's office in Napa and ask them."

"Well, it's damned peculiar," Martindale said. He appeared mystified.

Harrow shook hands with the man and he and Martinez left the room. They took a few steps through a tunnel and emerged into a parking lot. "He could have left the hotel without being seen," Harrow said.

"That's right," Martinez echoed, "he could have parked his car right here."

"Kind of pushing it to get to Napa by what, ten-thirty, then back here in time to call the front desk at…" he looked at his notes, "twelve-fifty, the lady said."

"I guess it could be done," Martinez said. "Maybe a private jet?"

"Damned if I'm going to tell Sheriff Ferris that," Harrow said. "The department will have us checking every charter service in town."

"Maybe Martindale had the opportunity to get up there and back, but we'd have a hell of a time proving in court that he did, unless we canvassed all the charter services and found somebody who'd testify that they flew him up there."

Harrow nodded. He put his notebook back into his pocket and started for their car.

Ferris hung up the phone. "Mr. Martindale appears to have an alibi," he said. "He was in his room at the Bel-Air last evening, had dinner there, watched a movie on TV, then went to bed."

"He could have snuck out of the Bel-Air," Cara said. "All the rooms open to the outside; you don't have to go through the lobby to get out of the hotel."

"Maybe," Ferris said. "We'll check on it, of course, but the LAPD reckons Martindale was at the Bel-Air all evening. We'll do some checking locally, too."

Everybody shook hands, and the sheriff and his deputy left.

"Let's get you to bed," Cara said.

"Do you think it really was Peter?" Sandy asked.

"I'm damned certain it was," she said. "He's covered his tracks, as usual."