Final Appeal (15 page)

She carried the coffee down the stairs, along with the three aspirin she'd tucked in her apron pocket. Now which viewing room would he have chosen? Not the little one, certainly. It held two love seats, and they'd be much too small for Lester's six-foot frame. And the couches in the middle one had scratchy material. He'd pick the largest, no doubt about it. He was probably sleeping like a baby right now on their new eight-foot crushed-velvet couch.

Michael rolled over on his back and smiled in pure satisfaction. Early morning sunlight streamed into his bedroom and was apportioned into slivers of gold by the mini-blinds on his window. He felt marvelous after the best night's sleep he'd had in as long as he could remember.

He stretched and got out of bed, then walked barefooted, to the window. It was the most perfect day he'd ever seen. The grass in the courtyard was lush and green, a thick carpet of vivid emerald spread out below him, and above him the sky was a clear, unsullied blue. It was a picture-postcard morning. He wished he had a camera so he could send a snapshot to all those unfortunate people who didn't live in Southern California.

Michael slipped on a robe and went to the kitchen to make his coffee. While he was heating the water, he g1anced at the clock on the microwave. Twenty past seven. He was up early this morning. He usually crawled out of bed just in time for his nine o'clock run with Toni.

Toni. Michael stopped short as he recalled what had happened last night. No wonder he felt so good! He remembered how contented he'd felt as they'd fallen asleep in each other's arms. But why was he here, in his own apartment? He didn't remember getting up and coming home.

Michael rushed back to the bedroom and checked the chair where he usually tossed his clothes. The pants and the shirt he'd worn last night were there. At least he hadn't sleepwalked through the hallway to his door buck-naked!

Would she think it was strange when she woke up and found he'd left? Of course, she would. He'd have to think of some excuse fast. Then he remembered hearing his telephone ring. Was it true? Had it really rung? No, that was impossible. But he could always tell her he'd dashed out to get something for their breakfast.

Michael opened the freezer and found something that would substantiate his claim. Six frozen Danish would do. While the Danish was defrosting inside the microwave, he rushed back to the bedroom and dressed in the same clothes he'd worn last night. Then he hurried back to the kitchen to get the Danish and raced down the hallway to knock at Toni's door. No time to think about what he'd done last night after he'd dressed in a dream and left Toni's apartment. He could try to remember later, when he was alone.

“Mike!” Toni opened the door and smiled as she saw the Danish. “I was wondering where you'd gone.”

“Did you just wake up?” Michael made an effort to keep his voice steady. If she'd missed him in the middle of the night, he'd have to make some other explanation.

Toni nodded. “I put on the coffee right away, but it isn't quite ready yet. “Those Danish look wonderful. I'm starving to death. What time did you leave?”

“I'm really not sure. I didn't look at the clock. But I was very quiet.”

“You didn't have to be quiet on my account. A brass band could march into my bedroom playing ‘The Stars and Stripes Forever,' and I'd sleep right through it. I absolutely never wake up before seven-thirty.”

“You must sleep like a rock.”

“A boulder.”

“How did you ever manage to get up for that seven o'clock computer class you told me about?”

“Oh, Doris came up with a sure-fire system to get me out of bed. Are you sure you want to hear all this? I think the coffee's ready by now.”

“I want to hear it.”

“Okay. Harry was working the graveyard shift back then, eleven to seven. Doris told me to put the telephone right next to my bed, and Harry called me at six every morning.”

“The telephone woke you when the alarm clock didn't?”

Toni nodded emphatically. “Oh, yes. There's something about a ringing telephone I just can't ignore. My curiosity gets the best of me, and I have to find out who's calling.”

“So you answered?”

“That's right. And to keep me from hanging up and going back to sleep, Harry made me sing ‘The Star Spangled Banner' all the way through.”

“It worked?”

Toni nodded. “Like a charm. By the time I got to ‘and the rocket's red glare' I was awake. I always have trouble with those high notes. Come on in the kitchen, Mike. The coffee must be ready by now, and we can start in on those Danish.”

“After we eat maybe we could climb back in bed. I think I'd better take advantage of the fact that you're awake.”

“Good idea.” Toni blushed just a little. “When I woke up this morning I was going to ask you if you wanted to shower together. I read something about that once and it sounded like a whole lot of . . . on second thought, the Danish can wait. I m not very hungry after all. Unless you are.”

Michael's stomach rumbled, but he shook his head. There were some things more important than food.

 

 

Lenny carried his coffee into his office and picked up the phone to try Eddie's number again. He was at work early, after a sleepless night. It seemed Margo was even more trouble dead than alive. The cops had put him through the wringer with all their questions, but he thought he'd convinced them that he knew nothing about Margo's murder. He'd come clean and admitted that she was blackmailing him, and he'd probably get a slap on the wrist and a fine from the IRS for those papers she'd kept, but they really weren't all that incriminating. The dizzy little broad had ditched the ones that could have gotten him indicted, and the only things she'd hung on to concerned a little bit of perfectly legal revenue he hadn't reported to the government. If he'd known that was all she'd had on him, he would have cut her off right at the beginning.

Ten rings and Eddie still hadn't answered. Lenny hung up the phone and took a big gulp of coffee. Where the hell was that little creep? He'd called Eddie's apartment a dozen times a day, but he was never home. Lenny had to get him to call off his hit man. Two jurors had been killed already and if Eddie had fingered the whole damn jury, the cops would wise up sooner or later.

Was there any way to weasel out of it? Lenny sighed deeply. He could claim they'd just been joking around, and he'd never expected Eddie to do something that dumb, but that was really lame. This could turn into some serious business. If Eddie opened his mouth to the wrong person, he'd be up the river for the big one. Or the big two. Or however many people got hit before that crazy little bastard came home.

Lenny opened the paper and glanced at the front page. What he saw made his face turn white and pasty. Holy Crap! There was number three!

There was a picture of Lester Robinson and his wife in front of their mortuary. Margo had liked Lester when they'd served on the jury together, and she'd gotten all romantic and mushy when she'd received an invitation to his wedding eight years ago.

Lenny groaned as he read about Lester's murder. The hit man had been pretty smart, carving up that artist's body to make it look like some weirdo had done it, but the police were bound to catch on pretty quick. First they'd go after Michael Hart. He was the logical suspect. But what if the officials couldn't find him? Or what if Hart had an alibi? Or what if Eddie's guy hit the next one after Hart had already been picked up? This could turn into a real mess and there wasn't a thing he could do to fix it.

 

 

“Mike? Stan here. Did you catch the news?” Michael saved his file and leaned back in is chair.

“No, Stan. Another juror's dead?”

“How did you know? You just told me you hadn't seen the news.”

“I didn't watch the news. But that's the only reason you ever call me in the middle of the day. Are you serious, Stan?”

“I'm serious. Remember Lester Robinson the mortician?

“Sure.” Michael sighed. “He satin the back. Thinning blond hair, moon-shaped face, and he perspired a lot.”

“That's uncanny, Mikey. Your memory for detail is amazing. I don't remember that much about him.”

“I was an actor, Stan. We were trained to look for character types in class. How did he die?”

“It's not a pretty picture, Mike. I'd rather not upset you by going into details. But suffice it to say he was found dead in his mortuary this morning.”

“Heart attack?”

“No, Mikey. Murder.”

Michael began to feel real panic. He knew he'd had the dream again last night. He vaguely remembered it. And he'd certainly sleepwalked. There was a wide gap in his memory between the time he'd fallen asleep in Toni's apartment and when he'd opened his eyes this morning to find himself in his own bed. There had been something about a taxi in his dream, a ride through the darkness. Was that just his imagination, or had it really happened?

“Mikey? Are you there?”

“Uh . . . yes, Stan. It's just a shock, that's all. Do the police know who did it?”

“They've already pulled in a suspect for questioning, and my contact at the precinct says the odds are he did it. The guy's a real nut case. Same M.O., although he hasn't resorted to murder before.”

“How did it happen?”

“It's pretty clear that Robinson surprised an intruder, someone who'd broken in to”—Stan stopped and cleared his throat—“well, that part of it's irrelevant. I just wanted to reassure you that there's no way they could possibly connect you to this one. I hope I didn't upset you too much, Mikey.”

“No, you didn't.”

Michael felt the relief wash over him in waves. If the police had already picked up the killer, there was no reason to suspect he'd done anything in his sleep except walk through the hallway to his own apartment. “Thanks for telling me about it, Stan. Will you be calling again tonight?”

“Of course I will, Mikey. Don't you worry about that for a minute.”

Michael began to smile. He hadn't been worried about it. He'd been hoping to get out of their nightly call so he could spend an uninterrupted evening with Toni.

“Do you suppose you could do something for me, Stan?”

“Anything you want, Mikey. All you have to do is ask.”

“I was just thinking about Aunt Alice's house, the one she had when we first moved in, and I was wondering if there were any pictures.”

“Pictures?” Stan sounded surprised. “I don't have any. Why do you want them?”

Michael thought fast. He couldn't very well say that he was writing the true story of his life and needed them for a setting. Stan would insist on reading the finished product, and he wouldn't be at all pleased by the character representing him. .

“It just bothered me, Stan. I know we slept in separate rooms, but I can't visualize more than two bedrooms. Aunt Alice's was downstairs. I remember that. And so was mine. But where was your room?”

“Are you sure dredging up old memories is good for you, Mikey? You have to be careful to keep on an even kee1.”

“Don't worry about that. I'm doing just fine now that you got me out of Oakdale. I happened to remember the house last night, and I'd like to get a clear picture, that's all.”

“Oh, that's different.” Stan sounded relieved. “A little reality check, right?”

“That's right.”

“Well I can help you out on this one. I'll never forget the layout of that house. Aunt Alice converted the dining room into a bedroom for you. That's why we always ate in the kitchen, even when we had company. I slept upstairs.”

“Why didn't she put me upstairs with you? The room was big enough, wasn't it?”

“It was enormous—the whole length of the house. It was more like an attic than a bedroom. But don't forget you sleepwalked, Mikey. Aunt Alice was afraid you'd tumble down those stairs. And there was another reason, too.”

“What was it?”

“It was too scary for a little kid up there. All those rafters and empty spaces by the chimney. She thought you'd have nightmares, and she'd have to climb the stairs every night. I was older, and she must have figured it wouldn't bother me.”

“So she gave up her dining room for me?”

“For two years. Then we moved into an apartment building. Aunt Alice and I had the rooms in the back, and you had the big master bedroom.”

“I remember that place. Do you have any idea why she gave me the big bedroom, Stan?”

“That's easy. You had such a large collection of stuffed animals that they wouldn't all fit in one of the smaller rooms. Aunt Alice used to buy you a different one every week. I remember I counted them once, and there were over three hundred.”

Michael nodded. He remembered the toys. “Aunt Alice must have had some money back then.”

“No not really. But you were the baby, and she said babies' shouldn't grow up without toys. Don't you remember the stuffed lion you got for Christmas, Mike? It must have been at least five feet tall. She had your picture taken with that lion, and it was bigger than you were.”

Michael frowned as he began to remember the elaborate presents Aunt Alice had given him. “What did you get that Christmas, Stan?”

“Oh, I don't know. Probably a book. Aunt Alice always gave me books. She said she wanted me to be a good student. And she was never satisfied unless I was at the top of the class.”

“But you always got excellent grades, Stan. I remember your report cards. Aunt Alice must have been very proud of you.”

“She never said so. Not once.” There was bitterness to Stan's voice that made Michael wince. “If I did well, she claimed all the credit because she'd made me study so hard. And if I dropped a few points on a test, she blamed me. It was my entire fault because I hadn't applied myself.”

Michael sighed. “She must have been disappointed in me, then. I never made the honor roll once.”