Muller, Marcia - [McCone 03] Cheshire Cat's Eye, The_(v.1,shtml) (29 page)

I sat on the window seat in Greg's little redwood house on Twin Peaks, looking out at the city. It was very late, and from this distance San Francisco looked softly beautiful. The high-flying mist obscured what I knew was down there: the fleabag hotels, the winos on doorsteps, the rotting slums, the ugly sleeping secrets in places both high and humble.

I remembered Eleanor van Dyne's words about the spring Richard Wintringham had died: "It was a lovely spring; we'd never seen better… The loveliness was such a contrast to what was happening there on Steiner Street. It made everything seem all the more terrible."

I shivered and raised my brandy glass, sipping deeply.

The postmidnight hours I had spent at the Hall of Justice, making my formal statement. One does not walk away from chasing a murder suspect over a cement wall to his death without first crawling through a maze of red tape, not even if the lieutenant on the case is a good friend. Greg had been matter of fact, throwing out none of his usual barbs, but still I'd had no easy time of it. His comments about me concealing evidence had been terse and stern. As I talked, I discovered I'd liked Paul Collins in spite of his murders. He was a gentle man, ill at ease with his nature, and ultimately the rough world had driven him too far. While knowing that did not excuse his crimes, it made them more understandable.

With that understanding came a cool, clear wave of sorrow that now washed over me again. I sipped brandy, stared at the city, and thought of David Wintringham.

When I'd emerged from Greg's office, I'd spotted David and Charmaine seated on a bench in the squad room. Wintringham leaned forward, his lanky arms dangling over his knees. Charmaine, still in the bloodstained jumpsuit, smoked and jiggled one crossed leg in a staccato rhythm. I went over to them.

"David," I said. "I'm sorry."

He looked up, his eyes dull as they had been after French's murder. "Don't be."

"But Paul…"

"No." He stood, taking both my hands in his. "I suspected Paul. Not consciously, but somewhere inside I've wondered ever since my father died. When Jake was killed, I verified Paul's alibi again, but I realized that both times he'd said he was in the house with me, and I'd merely seconded it, believing him. The first time, he claimed he'd been in the kitchen fixing tea. Even though we lived separately, we took our meals together, and he had brought me a cup that evening, although I wasn't really too clear on the time."

Wintringham paused. "Imagine, bringing a person a cup of tea after you've killed his father."

I shuddered. "What about the night Jake died? Where did he say he was?"

"Upstairs reading. I should have known. You can tell when there's another person in the house and when there's not. But I guess I didn't want to know." His hawk-like features twisted.

I held tight to his hands for a moment. "The Cheshire Cat's Eye," I finally said. "Was it badly damaged?"

"Not that much." Charmaine startled me by speaking. "I saw it when they brought it in here. It's fixable. Your raincoat is another story, however."

I remembered throwing it on the flames. "Doesn't matter."

Wintringham turned to Charmaine. "Do you think you could repair the lamp?"

"Sure." She stubbed out her cigarette and stood. "Send it around once the police release it." To me, she added, "They
will
give it back, won't they?"

"Eventually."

"Good." Wintringham dropped my hands and rubbed his together briskly. It was a gesture of getting on with his life. While it helped him now, I doubted he'd be able to return to normalcy so easily. About Charmaine I had no similar fears.

"You fix the lamp, Charmaine," Wintringham said. "Then I want Sharon to have it."

"But it's your family…" I began.

He shook his head. "It would be too painful for me to have it around. The Cheshire Cat should go to live at your house now."

Scarcely knowing what to say, I pictured the lamp as it had sat on my bureau: a gentle reminder of the old among the new. "Thank you, David." I turned toward the elevators, but someone touched my shoulder. I looked up at Greg.

"You all right?"

"Sure."

"Good." He placed a key in my hand and closed my fingers over it.

"What's that?"

"My house key. Why don't you go there and wait for me? Have a drink; you know where the liquor cabinet is."

"But I…"

"You don't want to be alone tonight."

Truthfully, I didn't. "Okay. I'll see you there."

"I won't be long."

When the elevator doors closed, Greg was still standing there, looking concerned and a little tired.

Now I heard the garage door open and, moments later, Greg's footsteps on the stairs. He crossed the room and flopped into an armchair next to me, rubbing his hand across his eyes.

"Is it all wrapped up?" I asked.

"Reasonably." He reached for my brandy glass and sipped. "We found the broken replica of the Tiffany lamp at French's apartment, stuffed behind some towels in a linen closet. Al Prince identified it as the one Jake Kaufmann borrowed from him. And we found bloodstained clothing between the mattress and the box spring in Collins' room. I've no doubt the blood will match the types of the last two victims, and that the hammer he threw at you will test out to be the murder weapon."

"And that, plus my statement and Wintringham's admission of his suspicions, will close all three files."

"Yeah." Greg handed the brandy back to me. "You had a lot of that?" He gestured at the glass.

I had, but it had left me strangely clearheaded. "Yes and no."

He nodded.

After a few minutes of silence, he said, "You'll never learn."

"Learn what?"

"Not to go running off chasing killers and putting yourself in danger."

"I tried to reach you when I figured out who it was, but you weren't taking calls."

"You could have waited."

"It's not in my nature to wait."

"I guess not." He stood up. "It's late, papoose. Let's go to bed."

I looked at his outstretched hand. There was something… Oh, yes. "Are you sure the other cop would approve of that?" I asked acidly.

He stared. "Who?"

"Remember: Screwing a private eye is just like screwing another cop."

Greg began to laugh. "You are so goddamn literal minded! That, papoose, was a figure of speech. I've never so much as touched another cop in my life."

"Oh? Well, then, what's that extra pillow and all the feminine gear doing…?"

"I am delighted!"

"What?"

"I never thought you'd be jealous. This opens up whole new prospects—"

"I am not jealous!" I jumped up.

"Hush." He reached out an arm and pulled me close. "You're right; an explanation is in order. As you may recall, I've pursued you steadily these last months."

"Well, yes."

"And I didn't want to be caught unprepared."

"Boy Scout, huh?"

"So I went out, in anticipation of Saturday night, and bought a few necessities. If you'll look at the pillow, you'll find the 'under penalty of law' tag is still attached."

"Oh, for lord's sake."

"Of course, if you don't come to bed, you won't be able to verify that."

Blackmail. Subtle, but blackmail no less. I slipped my arm around Greg's waist as we started up the stairs.