Crimson Joy

CHAPTER 22

Belson came by Susan's place at eleven in the morning and gave me a thick folder that had everything he and Quirk had learned about all seven suspects.

"Quirk says read it and think about it and then we should talk," Belson said. "You, me, Quirk, and Susan, if she will."

"Okay, I'll do it today," I said. "What are you going to do?"

"Go home, introduce myself to the wife and kids, and take a nap."

"Before you do that," I said, "see if you can compare this voice to the one I gave you before."

"Red call you again?"

"Among others. You'll see which one I mean. It's the one that says he might still be out there."

"I'll see if we can get an unofficial voiceprint even though I'm on vacation," Belson said. "I'll let you know."

Belson left and I began to read. Most of them were notable for not being interesting. There were no arrest records among them. Iselin, the Eastern studies prof, had had a jam while instructing in a private boys' school. A student had complained that Iselin solicited him, but nothing seemed to come of it. Two years later Iselin finished his Ph.D. at Harvard and stayed on to teach. Larson, the cop, had applied for sick leave, pleading burn-out, and been told to seek counseling. All were married except Felton and Iselin. Iselin had never been married, and Felton was divorced. They'd already eliminated Larson, the cop, because his work record showed he'd been on duty and accountable during the time at least three of the murders had happened. Gagne, the Frenchman, was out too. He'd been in France visiting his family when the second murder took place during Harvard spring break. Of the five remaining, Felton, the security guard, jumped out. There were two college teachers, a medical intern, the owner of a gourmet food store, and a security guard. We could probably eliminate a couple of others if we could talk with them or their co-workers. We could establish if Charles, the intern, had been on duty during any of the murders, for instance. But then they'd know they were being gum shoed I liked Felton. I took his folder and read it again. There's only a little you can do in a short time without creating suspicion. He was forty-three years old, divorced, father deceased. Current address was Charlestown, but he had grown up in Swampscott. There was a Xerox of a page from his high school yearbook. His picture was there among others and his school activities were listed.

"Son of a bitch," I said.

Under his picture it said Track 3, 4. Didn't prove anything. That was twenty-five years ago. But still. I put down the file and got on the phone and talked with the AD at Swampscott High School.

"Kid named Gordon Felton," I said. "Ran on your track team there in… it would be 1961 and 1962. What did he run?"

The AD said, "Why do you want to know?"

"Name's Arthur Daley," I said. "New England Sports Weekly. We're doing a retrospective. High school sports twenty-five years ago."

"Hey, nice idea. Hang on, I can check on it in a minute. We got pictures and stuff back to the war."

He was gone maybe five minutes while I listened to the sound of silence on the wires. What a great idea. It could replace Muzak.

Then the AD came back on. "Mr. Daley. Yeah, Gordie Felton was a hurdler. Third in the state in the 440 high hurdles."

"Thanks," I said.

"You don't know where he is now, do you?"

"Naw, I've only been here three years. I just got it out of the files."

"Okay," I said. "Thanks for your help."

We hung up. It still didn't prove anything. Because he could do it then didn't mean he could do it now. Still, a lot of men can't outrun me, and the guy that left the Red Rose could.

I read all the folders again except Larson and Gagne, and read them again and then put them down and stood and walked around Susan's place, looking out the windows, checking the refrigerator, looking out the windows on the other side. The refrigerator had a head of cauliflower, some broccoli, two Diet Cokes, and a package of Chinese noodles. Bon app tit.

Hawk showed up at one with tuna fish subs, everything but onions, and a large bag of Cape Cod potato chips.

"I wish we'd catch the bastard," Hawk said. "I'm getting rock-jolly sitting around here every day."

He was wearing a brown Harris tweed sport coat and a blue oxford-weave button-down shirt with no tie and three buttons open. His jeans were starched and ironed and he had on mahogany cowboy boots.

"What are you today," I said, "a Harvard cowboy?"

"Eclectic," Hawk said, and began unrolling one of the subs. We ate at Susan's island, leaning over the unwrapped paper to keep from slopping on the counter.

"One of the guys on the list used to be a hurdler in high school," I said. "Was third in the state in his senior year."

"Must have been a while back or he'd a been a brother," Hawk said.

"Nineteen sixty-two," I said.

Hawk nodded. "Don't mean a hell of a lot," he said.

"He's a security guard," I said.

"Maybe wish he were a cop?" Hawk said.

"Might even claim to be," I said.

"How she doing?" Hawk said. When he talked "she" he always meant Susan.

"She thinks she has an idea who our man might be," I said, "but she can't be sure."

"So she sit and listen to him and nod and let him talk and she don't know for sure he won't stick a handgun in her and pull the trigger."

Hawk said.

"Which is why she has one of us baby-sitting twenty four hours a day," I said. "She's getting sort of rock-jolly too."

Hawk nodded. "Time to review the evidence again?"

"Yeah. The hurdler has an ex-wife," I said. "Maybe I'll go talk with her."

"Take my picture along," Hawk said. "Tell her she can meet me if she cooperate."

"And if she doesn't," I said, "she meets you twice."