Show of Evil

Twenty-Eight

Vail was behind the closed door of his office, a signal to the rest of the staff that he wanted to be left alone. Naomi called it 'diving'. It was as if Vail were underwater, in a different world, one without sound or distraction, one in which all the data and facts of the case were jumbled together. He sought to categorize them, to rearrange them into a logical chronology until they formed a picture that made sense to him. Like a legal jigsaw puzzle, the picture would eventually become clear even though some of the pieces were missing. Only one thing was on his mind: Aaron Stampler - or Raymond Vulpes - one and the same, unchanged, he was certain.

Vail had not yet broached the problem of Stampler/ Vulpes with the staff and would not until he had analysed his meeting with Vulpes and Woodward and formed a beginning strategy for dealing with the situation. He was wearing earphones, listening to the tape he had made of the interview with the psychiatrist and his 'creation'. He knew that somewhere in that tape Vulpes had revealed himself - purposely - to taunt Vail. Somewhere on that tape was a clue that Vail would recognize. Nothing incriminating, just Vulpes letting Vail know that he was still Aaron Stampler and that he had successfully scammed them all. If Vail knew anything he knew that Stampler's ego would ultimately be his undoing.

He had been behind his closed doors for hours when he got the call from Stenner. He and St Claire would be in the office momentarily with details, but they wanted Vail to know that Darby was in custody and that they had discovered Poppy Palmer's body. Vail had to put Stampler/Vulpes aside for now and deal with the Darby case. Twenty minutes later Stenner and St Claire blew into the office like a March wind.

My God, Vail thought, did I just see Stenner smile?

Vail waved Parver into his office and leaned back in his chair. 'Okay,' he said to his two chief investigators, 'let's hear it.'

'He spilled his guts,' St Claire said. 'We had him pegged right on his wife's murder, Shana, the old lady's hearing was perfect. Thing is, Rainey never got hold of Darby, so he didn't know we were after his ass. He thought he was home free except for Poppy Palmer.'

Stenner picked up the story: 'Stretched his luck. Picked her up, told her he was taking her to the airport, drove to his barn, strangled her on the spot.'

'Then the miserable son-bitch threw her in the boot and drove around for the better part of a day with her body,' St Claire continued. 'Spent the night in a motel outside Rockford, and this mornin' he wrapped her up in an anchor chain and dropped her in the marsh up along the Pecatonica.'

'Congratulations,' Vail said. 'You two did a great job.'

'We had some luck,' said Stenner. 'We were actually so close to him, we heard him drop her body in the water.' He turned to Shana Parver. 'But now you've got him.' He held up two fingers. 'Twice.'

'Rainey was waitin' at county jail when we brought him down,' said St Claire. 'Says he wants't'talk.'

Vail laughed. 'Sure he does. Well, the hell with Rainey, it's too late now.' He turned to Shana Parver. 'Okay, Shana, you got your way. Darby's all yours. I assume you'll want to max him out?'

She looked up and smiled, but there was little mirth in the grin. 'Of course…' she said.

'You have a different idea?'

'No, sir!'

'Everything in order?' Vail asked Stenner. 'About the arrest, I mean?'

'We served the warrant on him, Mirandized him, and used the sheriff in Stephenson County to locate the body.'

Parver sat quietly in the corner, nibbling on the corner of one lip.

'What is it, Shana?' Vail asked.

'I can't help thinking if we had taken him down right after the deposition, Poppy Palmer'd still be alive.'

'We didn't have anything to take him down with after the deposition,' Vail answered, a bit annoyed. 'Hell, by the time we got the warrant, she was already dead.'

Parver did not reply to Vail's comment.

'Shana?'

'Yes, sir.'

'If she hadn't lied to us, she'd still be alive.'

'I know.'

'There's no looking back on this. Tell Rainey for me the girl's blood is on his hands, not ours. If he had delivered his man to us when he said he would, Poppy Palmer would be alive today.'

'I'll tell him that.' She nodded.

'Good. No more plea bargains. You wanted to take him all the way? Do it. Take him all the way to the chair.'

'Yes, sir.'

St Claire trudged through the chilly sunset to the records warehouse two blocks away. He had seen the sun rise and now was watching it set, but he was still too adrenalized to quit for the night. He decided to take a stab at finding the missing Stampler tapes among the mountains of records and files and boxes in the chaos that was the trial records warehouse. It would be impossible, he knew, but maybe he would get lucky twice in one day.

He walked wearily through the dim, two-storey-high crisscross of corridors lined high with boxes and files and illuminated only by green-shaded bulbs high above the walkways. He heard the muffled tones of Frank Sinatra singing 'Come Fly With Me' echoing from one of the corridors and the dim reflection of a light casting long shadows into the main walkway. When he reached the corner and looked down the aisle, he saw a police sergeant seated in a rocking chair under an old-fashioned floor lamp with a fringed shade. He was listening to a small transistor radio with his feet propped against a grey metal desk, gently rocking himself.

'Hi, there,' St Claire said, his voice reverberating down the corridor.

'The old cop jumped. 'Goddamn,' he said. 'Scare a man half to death.'

'Sorry,' said St Claire, walking down the box-lined corridor. 'M'name's Harve St Claire, DA's office.'

The cop lowered his feet and turned the radio volume down. A handprinted sign on a doubled-over piece of white shirt-board read

C. FELSCHER, CUSTODIAN.

'Sgt. Claude Felscher at your service.' He stuck out his hand.

He was a large, bulky man, overweight and rumpled, his uniform unpressed, his pants sagging under a beer belly, his tie askew and not pulled tight enough to hide the missing top button on his blue uniform shirt. A tangled fringe of grey hair curled over his ears. He looked dusty and forgotten, like a fossil lost in the shadowy corner of a museum. Only his badge added an incongruous touch to the gloomy scene. It was polished and it twinkled under the dim bulb of the old lamp.

St Claire wedged a healthy chew under his lip and offered the plug to the old cop, who shook his head.

'How long've you been custodian here, Claude?'

'Hell, I been here since Cain knocked off Abel.'

'Must be the loneliest job in town.'

'Oh, I dunno,' the old-timer said. 'Look around you. I got all these famous cases to keep me company. Remember Speck? Richard Speck?'

'Sure.'

'Right over there in aisle 19. Gacy is down in 6. George Farley, killed twelve women, remember? Pickled them, kept them in jars in the basement? Over on 5. Even got a file on Dillinger, from when he was locked up after that bank robbery outside Gary. They had a touch of class about them, not like the bums these days. Drive-by shootings, easy store stickups, for Christ sake! World's really fucked up, Harve.'

'I couldn't agree more. You remember the Rushman case?'

'The archbishop? Hell, that was like yesterday. That what you're looking for?'

St Claire nodded. 'State versus Aaron Stampler. Trial ended in late March.'

'Anything specific?'

'Physical evidence.'

'Aw, shit. Let me tell you about physical evidence. By the time it gets here, it's pretty well picked over. All we get is what hasn't been claimed. And it's not in any particular order. Look around you. I couldn't tell you how many cases are stored in here - thousands, hell, hundreds of thousands - a lot of it misplaced or misfiled.'

'I was afraid of that. Thought maybe I'd luck out.'

'Well, hell, don't give up so easy.' The sergeant got a flashlight from a desk drawer and led St Claire down through the caverns of records. The odour of mildew and damp paper stung St Claire's nose. Felscher found the cardboard boxes filled with the Stampler records.

'I been down here before,' St Claire said. 'Must've been your day off. There wasn't any evidence here, it's all paper.'

'You're right,' Felscher said, sliding several of the boxes out of their nesting places, checking them, and pushing them back. 'What exactly are you after, anyway?'

'Some videotapes.'

'Sorry. But you're welcome to look around the place.' He swept his arm in a semicircle and laughed.

'Forget it. Thanks for your help, Claude.' They shook hands and St Claire started back down the dreary corridor of files.

'Don't feel too bad, Harve. They'd probably be pretty well deteriorated by now, anyway. This isn't exactly what you'd call a humidity-controlled facility.'

'I didn't wanna look at 'em, I was hopin' to find out if they were disposed of. And to whom.'

'Oh, now wait just a minute. Why didn't you say so? That's a little different story. You might still luck out.'

Felscher walked down the corridor to a series of bookshelves lined with long rows of canvas-bound ledgers identified by dates. He ran his forefinger along the spines.

'Let's see, September first to tenth, '82… December… February… Here we go, March twentieth through thirtieth, 1983.' Felscher pulled a mildewed and roach-gnawed ledger from the shelf. 'These are the index ledgers. Not a lot of help when you're looking for something, but…'

He opened the book and carefully turned the pages, which were yellowed with age and faded, the entries handwritten by the clerk of the court.

'Got to be careful. These old books'll fall apart on you. Stampler, Stampler, yeah, that was some big case, all right? Wonder whatever happened to him?'

'Still in Daisyland.'

'Good. The way he carved up the old bishop, they ought to keep him there forever.'

'Yeah,' St Claire agreed.

'Okay, here we go, March twenty-third… State versus Aaron Stampler, murder in the first. Here's the inventory. Let's see, got some bloody clothes, shoes, a kitchen knife, couple of books, and a ring, they were returned to the cathedral out on Lakeview, 2/4/83. What d'ya know, Harve, you did get lucky. Here we go, twenty-three videotapes. They were released to a Dr Molly Arrington, Winthrop, Indiana, 26/4/83.'

'Well, I'll be damned,' St Claire said, and his heart jumped a beat. 'She's got the whole damn tape library.'

The office was abandoned except for Parver, who was sitting alone in her small office. The thick Darby file lay on the desk in front of her, but she had tired of looking at it and had pulled the Stoddard file. She really did not want to deal with either of them. She was tired and had no place to go but home, and so she sat alone in her big office, fighting off what was a mounting malaise. Behind her, the lift door opened and Flaherty stepped off, carrying a battered old briefcase. He went to his office, threw the case on his desk, and only then noticed that Parver was still there. He ambled back to her cubbyhole and stood in the doorway with his hand stuffed in his pockets.

'Good news about Darby,' he said. 'I can hardly wait to hear your summation to the jury.'

She looked at him, her face bunched up as if she were in pain. 'Did you hear about Poppy Palmer?'

'It's all over the afternoon editions,' he said. 'I hear Eckling is scorched. He's saying if his department had handled it, the girl never would have been killed.'

'What do you expect? If he'd handled the case, Darby probably would have killed half the county before Eckling got his head far enough out of his ass to figure it out.'

Flaherty whistled low through his teeth. 'You okay?' he asked.

'Why?' she snapped back.

'Hey, excuse me, I should have knocked.' He started to leave.

'Where are you going?' she demanded.

'I don't know, you seem a little…' He paused, searching for the right word. 'Pensive?'

'Pensive?' She considered that and said, half smiling. 'I guess I am a little pensive right now.'

'Can I help?'

She stared up at him from behind her desk for a moment, then wheeled her chair back and stood up. 'How'd you like to go over to Corchran's? I'll buy you a drink.'

'No, I'll buy you a drink.'

'Ah, one of those, huh? Tell you what, Flaherty, I'll toss you for it.'

'You mean, like, throwing coins against the wall?'

'Uh-huh.' She reached into her purse and took out two quarters. She handed him one. 'Back in the computer room, there's no carpet on the floor.'

'You sound like a pro.'

'I have my days.'

They walked back to the computer room and stood ten feet from the bare back wall.

'How do you do this?' he asked innocently.

'They don't pitch quarters in Boston?'

'I rarely had a quarter when I lived in Boston.'

'You just pitch the coin. One who gets closest to the wall wins. Want a practice shot first?'

'Nah, let's just do it. Winner buys?'

'Winner buys.'

'You go first, I'll see how it's done.'

She leaned over, put one hand on her knee, held the coin between her thumb and forefinger, and scaled it side-hand. It hit the wall, bounced back three inches, and spun around several times before it dropped.

'Looks pretty good,' he said.

'Not bad.'

'Like this, huh,' he said, assuming the same stance she had except that he used his left hand.

'You're a southpaw,' she said. 'I never noticed that before.'

'You never noticed a lot about me, Parver,' he answered.

The remark surprised her.

'Just kind of flip it, huh?'

'Uh-huh.'

He leaned way over, held his hand at arm's length, and sighted down his arm, then tossed the coin overhand. It flipped through the air, twanged into the juncture of the floor and wall, and died. There wasn't a quarter of an inch between the coin and the wall.

'What d'ya know,' he said. 'Beginner's luck.'

Parver's eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'You hustled me, Flaherty,' she said through clenched teeth.

'Never!'

'I saw the way you did that. You definitely hustled me!'

He grinned, picked up the quarters, and handed them to her. 'Shall we?'

They took a cab to Corchran's and went back to the Ladies Room. Steamroller gave them a gap-toothed smile and led them to a corner booth. He swept the table off with the damp rag stuck in his belt and looked at them with his good eye.

'Drinkin'? Eatin'?' he asked.

'We'll start with drinks, and see what happens.'

Thwell, what'll it be?'

'Martini, very dry, straight up, no condiments,' Parver said.

'Condi-what?'

'No fruit or vegetables,' said Flaherty.

'Gotcha. Mithter Flaherty, the uthual?'

'Yep.'

'On the way, sluggerth.' Steamroller swaggered off towards the bar.

'Okay, Parver, what's eating you? Hell, you got everything you could want. You got Darby wired, you got Stoddard. Two capital cases. Want to give me one of them?'

'No, thank you very much,' she said haughtily.

'So what's the problem?'

'It hit me for the first time today, when Marty asked me if I was ready to max out Darby.'

'What do you want to do, throw the switch, too?'

Steamroller brought the drinks and set them on the table. She downed hers and ordered a second.

'That's not what I mean,' she said, then squished up her face. 'Damn! Martinis taste like ether or something.'

'You never drank a martini before?'

'Nope. Usually drink Cuba Libres.'

'Jesus, you dusted that off like it was a glass of milk. Those things are deadly.'

'They come in a real small glass. Nothing to 'em. What were we talking about?'

'You had just said, uh, "That's not what I mean," after I said that thing about throwing the switch.'

'Oh, yes, now I remember. The thing is, I've never tried a capital case, Flaherty.'

'You getting stagefright?' Flaherty laughed. 'Kickass Parver's getting weak knees? Come on, it's just another case - think of it as a misdemeanour.'

'That's not what I mean. I'm not worried about winning, that's not it at all. I just… I never really thought about it before.'

'What? What the hell're you talking about?'

'Asking for the death penalty.'

'Ah, so that's it. Anticipating an attack of conscience, are you? Come on, this guy walked up to his wife and shot her in the face with a shotgun. And he choked the little dancer to death. Think about that, he was looking in her face while he was killing her.'

'Stop it, Dermott.'

'No. We're prosecutors, Shana. The last things standing between civilization and the jungle. We don't make the laws, we just uphold them, and the law says that if Darby's convicted of murder one, he's a wrap.'

'I know all that, for God's sake,' she said angrily. 'I didn't come here to hear a rehash of Philosophy 101.' She suddenly got up to leave.

He reached out and gently grabbed her arm. 'Hey, I'm sorry,' he said plaintively. 'Sometimes I get too cynical for my own good. Old habits die hard. I promise no more platitudes. Please… don't leave.'

She looked down at him and smiled. 'No more shit?'

'No more shit.'

'Good.' She sat back down and finished her second martini.

'Let me ask you something,' he said. 'If you were on a jury panel and they asked if you if you were in favour of the death penalty, what would you say?'

'That's moot.'

'Hell it is. Think about it for a minute.' He turned back to his Coke. They were silent for a full minute before she answered.

'I'd say I'm not sure whether I am or not, but I wouldn't let that influence my judgement. It's the evidence that counts.'

'Good. And would you go into court if you had doubts about the defendant's guilt?'

'God, you sound like Martin. He asked me the same thing the other night.'

'It's what prosecutors fear more than anything else - convicting an innocent man.'

'Or woman.' She held a finger up to the waiter and dipped it towards her glass.

'Or woman. Point is, if you got 'em — and you've got Darby - then what's the dif? You do your job. How would you feel, knowing what you know about Darby, if he beat the rap? Suppose he walked?'

'Won't happen,' she said defensively.

'I mean, supposing someone else was trying him and they blew the case?'

She thought for a moment, then decided to ignore the question. She suddenly changed the subject. 'Then there's Edith Stoddard,' she said.

'What about her?'

'Something's wrong there, Flaherty. She doesn't even want to put up a fight.'

'That's her option. Not much to fight about. According to your preliminary report, she bought the gun, spent two weeks learning to use it, and then popped him -twice. One would've been enough. The second shot was malicious. That's murder one, hot-shot. She's good as cooked.'

'You'd send her to the chair?'

'Pretty open and shut. She obviously planned to waste him for at least two weeks. No sudden impulse, no temporary insanity, no imminent danger. She got pissed, planned it, and whacked him.'

'She's so pitiful. There's something real… sad… about her.'

'What's sad is she's looking twenty thousand volts in the eye. These things are not supposed to get personal, Shana.'

'Well it is personal, okay. I'm taking it very personal.'

'Maybe you should let somebody else handle it.'

'Not on your life, Irish. I'll do it and do it right.'

'Hell, I wouldn't worry about it. Venable's handling the case. She hasn't tried a criminal case in ten years.'

Parver finished her third martini and slid the glass to the edge of the table. Think it's going to be cakewalk, do you? Let me tell you, she's good. Ten years or not, she's good.' She stopped and leaned across the table and said cautiously, 'I think Marty's got a thing with her.'

'Get outta here,' he said with mock surprise, remembering the flowers on Venable's dining-room table.

Parver nodded emphatically and winked.

'Will wonders never cease,' he said, and laughed.

The waiter brought her a new drink and took the empty away.

'That's your fourth martini,' Flaherty said. 'And I happen to know the bartender has a very heavy hand.

'It's none of my business, but I don't think you understand about martinis.'

'Well, I may just get a li'l drunk tonight, Flaherty.' She paused, took a sip, and then said, 'Y'know, that's an awful long name. Flaharty. That's almost three syl'bles. I'm going to call you Flay. Anyway, Flay, can you handle it, if I get a little snockered?'

He smiled at her. 'I've never been drunk,' he said, somewhat sheepishly.

'You're kidding?'

'Nope. Pot was my drug of choice.'

'Pot's illegal.'

'That's why I quit.'

She held up her glass. 'This isn't.'

'That doesn't make a lot of sense, either.'

'First time I tried grass, I sat in front of the oven in my friend's kitchen for an hour waiting for Johnny Carson to come on.'

Flaherty laughed hard and nodded. 'That must've been some good stuff.'

'I dunno, never tried it again,' she said, and realized her speech was getting a little slurred and Flaherty was suddenly transforming into twins. She closed one eye and focused across the table on his ruggedly handsome face. 'How come you never asked m'out?'

'I just did.'

'Uh-huh, six months later. I know you're not gay.'

'Nope.'

'And I, uh, I know I'm not that unesrable.' She stopped and giggled. 'Un-desir-able.'

'Oh no,' he said softly, and smiled.

'Well?'

'They don't have courses in the social graces on the streets of Boston - or in the state reformatory.'

'You were that bad?'

'I was pretty bad.'

'Wha's the worst thing y'ever did? Or maybe I shouldn't ask.'

'Boosting cars.'

'You stole cars?'

He nodded. 'Me and my buddies.'

'Can you do tha' thing they do in the movies, y'know, where they rip all th'wires out f'the dashboard and make 'em spark and start th'car? Can you do that?' She closed one eye again and focused hard on him.

'You mean hot-wiring?' he said, nodding. 'Sixty seconds, anything on wheels.'

'Y'r kiddin!'

'Nope.'

'Wow. Why'd you quit?'

'I had a revelation. God appeared at the foot of my bed one night and told me if I kept it up I was gonna die young.'

'And…'

'I took him seriously.'

'She didn't really,'

Parver said sceptically.

'She?'

'God.'

'Oh.' Flaherty smiled and made rings on the table with his wet glass. 'In a way she did. One of my best friends went to the chair. He was robbing a grocery store and killed a cop. I mean, we were close, Ernie and I had done jobs together.'

'That was his name, Ernie?'

'Ernie Holleran. There were five of us, hung out together, did stuff together. Ernie was one of us. But he did that thing and they maxed him out and the night they did it to him, we took the bus up to the state pen and we found this hill where you could see the prison and got two-six packs and sat there drinking and waiting until they did it. You can tell because when they throw the switch, the lights fade out, then come back on. They do it twice, just to make sure. We sat there until the Black Maria left with him and we threw empty beer cans at the hearse and then we took the bus back home. That's the night God spoke to me. I decided I wasn't going out that way.'

She was staring at him with one eye still closed, her mouth half open, mesmerized by his story.

'Know what?' she said after a while. 'I'm not inter'sted, in-ter-ested, in social graces, Flay.' She finished half her drink and slapped the glass back down on the table. 'I'm in-ter-ested in scilnit, sincilat - '

'Scintilating?'

'Thank you… conversation, and, uh, and a beaut'ful man with lovely eyes and dark bl'ck hair and… sufer, sulper - '

'Superficial?'

'Than'you, su-per-fi-cial things like that. How come you always wear black, Flay? Why d'you have this Johnny Cash symrom… sidro..syn-drome.'

He sighed and sipped his Coke and stared into her liquid eyes. 'The truth?'

'What else is there?'

'I don't have any colour sense. Don't know what goes with what. Long as I wear black, I'm safe.'

'You really care about that, huh?'

He sat without comment for a minute, then nodded. 'I guess I do,' he said, and his cheeks began to colour.

'Why, Couns'lor, I do b'lieve you're blushing,' she said, and snickered. 'You're somp'in else, Flay.'

He laughed away the colour. 'And you're loaded.'

'My embarr'sing you?'

'Never.'

They stared across the table for a long moment, then she cast her eyes down. 'Think we… I… could get outta here with't fallin' on m'face?'

'I'd never let you fall on your face, Hotshot.'

'Ho'shot's'cute, I like it.'

'Want to go for it?'

'Go f'r th'gold.' She snickered. 'Jus' one min't.'

'How about a cup of coffee?'

'Yuck!'

'Okay, we'll just sit here until you get it together.'

'Ma'be Steamroller c'n get us a cab? Think?'

'Wait right here.'

'Nooo, I'm gonna wait waaaay over there,' she said, pointing across the room, and had a sudden fit of the giggles. The waiter got the cab and Flaherty helped her to her feet and put his arm under hers and pulled her against him.

'Make believe we're snuggling up, nobody'll pay any attention to us,' he said, tilting her head against his shoulder and leading her towards the door.

'Sng'ling up, that what they call't in Boston?'

'Yeah,' he said. They made it to the front door without incident, but as they walked outside a frigid blast of air swept off the river.

'Wow!' she said. 'Wah' was'at?'

'Fresh air.'

'I th'nk m'legs're goin',' she said, sagging as he led her to the cab. He slid her into the backseat.

'Flay?'

'Yeah?'

Th'nks.'

'For what?'

'List'nin''t'me.'

'I'll listen to you anytime,' he said, sliding in beside her.

'Really?'

'Sure.'

'Th'n lissen caref'lly 'cause… I'm gonna try't'remember… what m'address is.'

She got the address right on the third try and slid down in the seat and put her head on his shoulder and stared at him through her one eye and said, 'Tell you secret, Mist Flar'ty. I have cov'ted you from afar ev'since th' first time I saw you. That okay?'

He put his arm around her and drew her closer.

'I think it's great,' he whispered, but did not tell her that he, too, had coveted her for just as long.

'Good,' she murmured, and a moment later was sound asleep.

She lived in a second-floor apartment on the corner of West Eugenie and North Park, a two-storey brick building with a pleasant nineteenth-century feel to it. Flaherty paid the cab driver and found her key in her purse and then got out, leaning into the backseat and gathering her up in his arms.

'Need some help?' the cabbie asked.

'Nah, she doesn't weigh more'n a nickel,' Flaherty said, and carried her into the apartment building. He found her apartment without incident and, bracing one knee against the wall, balanced her against it while he opened the door, then carried her in and kicked it shut.

It was a bright, cheery one-bedroom, furnished with expensive and flawless taste and bright colours. Waterford and Wedgwood abounded and the furniture was warm and inviting. The kitchen, which was small but efficient, was separated from the main room by a small breakfast counter. The walls were covered with numbered prints by Miro, Matisse, and Degas. A single lamp glowed near the window. He carried her to the bedroom and flicked on the light switch with his elbow. It was a mess, the bed unmade, a dirty dish with the remains of a pizza on the night-table, books piled high haphazardly in the corner. He laid her on the bed and she stirred and gazed up sleepily.

'M'home?' she asked.

'Yep.'

'You carried me up all those stairs?'

'Uh-huh.'

'Sir Gagalad… oh, what'shisname. Tha's you. Glorious knight.' She tried to sit up but flopped back on the feather mattress with her arms stretched out and sighed.

'Mouth's full a feathers,' she said, and giggled softly.

'I'll get you some water.'

'I'll try't'get undress'd while you're gone.'

He went into the kitchen, found a pebbled glass in the cabinet, and drew ice cubes out of the icemaker in the refrigerator door. He poured cold water over them and swished the glass around a few times.

'How're you doing?' he called to her.

'Better'n 'spected.'

'Let me know when you're in bed.'

'Just any ol' time,' she answered.

When he returned to the room, she was lying half under the covers, her clothes strewn on the floor. One leg was draped over the side of the bed. Her pantyhose hung forlornly from the leg.

'Almos' made it,' she said. 'That left leg was a real bitch.' She wiggled the leg and laughed weakly. 'Wow,' she said. 'You're right 'about martoonies.'

He put the glass of water on the night-table beside the bed and went to the window to close the blinds and suddenly a chill rippled across the back of his neck. He spread the blinds with his hands and scanned the street below.

Empty except for a single car parked across the street. It was also empty.

Paranoia, he thought. If the copycat killer was loose in Chicago, Shana Parver was certainly far down on his list. He closed the blinds.

'Flay?'

'Yeah.' He looked at her and she turned her head towards him and peered through one half-open eye.

'Don' leave me, please. Don' wanna wake up lonesome in't'morning. 'Kay?'

'Okay.'

'Wadda guy.'

He walked over to the bed and helped her sit up and take a sip of water.

'Mmmm,' she said, and fell back on the mattress. 'Not gonna leave me?'

'No, I'm not going to leave you.'

She smiled and immediately fell asleep again. Flaherty sat down on the bed and very carefully rolled the remaining leg of her pantyhose over her ankle and slipped it off her foot. He took her toes in his fingers and stroked them very gently.

God, he thought, even her toes are gorgeous.

In the backseat of the company limo, Jane Venable was already missing Martin. She had had a business meeting with her Japanese clients and Vail had decided he should spend at least an occasional night in his own apartment.

She was spoiled already. Spoiled by his attentiveness, spoiled by their passionate and inventive lovemaking, spoiled by just having him there. She stared out the window, watching the night lights streak by. When they stopped at a light, she suddenly sat up in her seat.

'Larry,' she said, 'pull over in front of the Towers, please.'

The driver pulled over and parked in front of the glittering shaft of glass and chrome. He jumped out and opened the door for her.

'I'll be back in a couple of minutes,' she said, and hurried into the apartment building. The night manager sat behind a desk that looked like the cockpit of an SST. A closed-circuit videocamera system permitted him to scan the halls of each of the thirty floors. He was slender, his face creased with age, his brown but greying hair combed straight back. He wore a blue blazer with a red carnation in its lapel and looked more like the deskman at an exclusive hotel than the inside doorman of an apartment building.

'May I help you?' he asked in a pseudo-cultured British accent, his eyes appraising the black limo.

Venable put on her most dazzling smile. 'Hi,' she said. 'What's your name?'

'Victor,' he said with a guarded smile.

'Well, Victor, I'm Jane Venable,' she said, taking a sheet of paper from her purse and sliding it across the polished desk in front of him. 'I'm an attorney. My client has been charged with the murder of John Delaney. I have a court order here permitting me access to the scene of the crime. I know this is a terrible imposition, but would you let me in?'

'What? Now? You want to inspect the premises now?'

She laid the folded fifty-dollar bill on the document.

'I just happened to be in the neighbourhood. I doubt I'll be fifteen minutes.'

He looked at the court order, cast another glance at the limo, then smiled at her as he palmed the fifty.

'How can I resist such a dazzling smile, Ms Venable,' he said. He opened the desk drawer, took out a ring of keys, and led her to the lift.

'Terrible thing,' he said as the lift climbed to the thirtieth floor.

'Dreadful,' she said, remembering that Delaney's death had probably been cause for celebrating all over the city. 'Did you know him well?'

Victor raised an eyebrow and smiled. 'He said "Hello" coming in and "Good evening" going out and gave me a bottle of Scotch for Christmas. That's how well I knew Mr Delaney.'

'Was it good Scotch?'

'Chivas.'

'Nice.'

They arrived at the thirtieth floor and Victor unlocked the door. The crime ribbons had been removed.

'Take your time, I'm on until two,' Victor said. 'The door will lock when you leave.'

'You're a dream, Victor.'

'Thank you, Ms Venable.' He left, pulling the door shut behind him.

A crazy notion, she thought, coming here in the middle of the night. But when she had looked through the car window and realized she was in front of the place - well, what the hell, she wasn't in any rush to get back to her empty condo anyway.

It had been years since Venable had visited the scene of a homicide and her adrenaline started pumping the instant she started down the hallway to the living room. She stood a few feet away from the black outline on the floor. It seemed to box in the wide, dark brown stain in the carpet.

She wasn't really looking for anything in particular; she felt it was her responsibility to Edith Stoddard to familiarize herself with the murder scene. She walked into the bedroom, noticed there were scratches on the spindles of the headboard. She stood in the bathroom. His toothbrush, a razor, and an Abercrombie and Fitch shaving bowl and brush were on one side of the marble-top sink and a bottle of bay rum aftershave lotion was on the other side. A towel hung unused on a gold rack near the shower.

She went into the kitchen, checked the refrigerator. Someone had emptied it out and cleaned it. There were canned foods in the small pantry. Delaney, it seemed, had a passion for LeSueur asparagus and Vienna sausages. She went back to the bedroom, checked through his desk and drawers and found nothing of interest. She found an ashtray, carried it back to the bedroom, and sat down on the end of the bed facing the closet. She decided to have a cigarette before she left. Smoking was not permitted in company vehicles.

Stupid, she thought. But at least I got this little junket out of the way.

Did Edith Stoddard's sense of betrayal over losing her job really precipitate Delaney's death? she wondered anew. It was a persistent question in her mind. The other facts in the case seemed blatant, but the motive seemed so bland. But then she remembered reading about other cases not dissimilar, like the postman who lost his job, went back to the post office with an assault weapon, and killed nine people before turning it on himself. Perhaps it wasn't as bland as she thought.

Thinking about Edith Stoddard, she stared into the closet. From where she was sitting, she could see the entire area, which was adjacent to, and formed a small hallway into, the bathroom; a large closet, empty except for a suit, a couple of shirts on hangers, a bathrobe, a pair of leather slippers, and a pair of black loafers.

But something else caught her attention. As she stared at it, she realized that the closet wall was off balance. One side of the closet was deep, stretching to the wall, the other side was just wide enough to hang a suit. It was at least two feet narrower.

She stared at it for a full two minutes, her old instincts working, a combination of paranoia and nosiness that had made her the best prosecutor of her time.

'Why is that closet off centre,' she said aloud to herself.

She went into the bathroom and checked to see if there were shelves behind the wall, but the commode was located behind it and that wall was tiled. She went back into the bedroom, entered the closet and turned on the light. Only a woman would be curious about this odd bit of interior architecture, she thought. Only a woman would be concerned about the loss of that much closet space. She rapped on the wall with her knuckles, thinking perhaps it was a riser, but the tapping was hollow.

A hollow space, two feet deep and five feet wide? A safe, perhaps? Secret files, something incriminating? Something she could use in court to taint the victim? She traced the seam where the two walls joined but found nothing. She stood at the juncture of the two walls and shoved against one of them.

It gave a little. She shoved harder. It bowed a little at the top.

The wall panel was not nailed; it was locked in the middle. She stepped back and once again scanned the seams, top, bottom, and sides. It was a door. Now she had to figure out how to open it.

She ran her fingertips around the doorsill and along the carpeting. Nothing.

She sighed and sat back down on the end of the bed and stared some more. She looked at the clothes rod. There were no clothes on the narrow side of the closet. She went back in, reached up, and jiggled the rod, then twisted it. The rod was threaded. She turned it four full turns before the whole end of the rod pulled away from the wall. She laid it on the floor and examined the receptacle. There was a button recessed in the threaded rod holder. She pushed it, heard a muffled click, and then the panel popped open an inch or two. A light blinked on inside the smaller closet. She swung it open.

Her breath came in a gasp. Her mouth gaped for a moment as she stared with shock and disbelief at its contents.

'My God,' she whispered.

Then her eyes moved down to the floor of the secret compartment.

The gun.