The Autumn Dead (5 page)

"The drive-in?"

He nodded. He had a great and grave dignity. He certainly had the right demeanor for a shrink.

"True," I said.

Then I went back to staring out the window at the kite and the birds. The silence was back.

I went and found a bathroom and came back. When I slid into my place in the nook I found a new hot cup of coffee in my place. He was pouring Wild Turkey into it.

He said, "Three months ago she told me she desperately needed money for her mother. Some illness. She was very vague. I gave it to her, of course."

"There's something I should tell you."

"You don't need to. I looked through an old scrapbook of hers. Her mother died in nineteen-sixty-four."

"Right."

The pain in his eyes was not simply from the head wound. "I really thought we were going to be married.
"
His lips thinned. "God, what a stupid bastard I was.
"

"Was she a patient of yours?"

For the first time, he smiled. "A patient? You think she'd ever seek help? Ever think she'd need help? Her version of things is that the world is here to serve her, and if she occasionally has to inconvenience or hurt somebody to be served, then she just hopes there will be no hard feelings; Holly Golightly."

'That's Karen."

"I met her at a party." Miserably, he said, "Her pattern is to have a new one ready to go before she notifies the old one that he's finished."

"You know who the new one is?"

"No. But I'm sure there is one and has been for some time now.
"
His
-
face tightened. "You can tell.
"
He shook his head. "She got calls a few times from a man named Ted Forester. Somehow, I didn't get the impression it was romantic."

So I sat there and thought about Ted Forester and his money and his arrogance. Then I remembered something I hadn't thought about in a quarter century. All the time I'd been going out with Karen, Forester had been skulking in the background, calling her, buying her gifts, waiting me out. She'd admitted this to me one night, saying, "Ted doesn't know what to do with himself now that he's fallen in love with a girl from the Highlands." Which was true enough. It was hard to imagine his parents approving of such a match. Then I spent a moment or two thinking of how Malley and I had smashed out his car window.

Glendon Evans said, "I suppose she told you I hit her."

''No."

"I did. I actually hit her. Not hard. Just sort of a slap. It was something I never thought I could do. Ever."

"She seems to have survived."

"Would you like some more bourbon?"

"No, thanks. Just some more coffee." I was making instant Folgers with tap water and setting it in the microwave. "You want some more?"

"Please."

So I made us some and sat back down and said, "What's in the suitcase?"

"I don't know."'

"Really?"

"Really. She kept it in her closet. It had a clasp lock on it. Several times, after things started going badly for us, I was tempted to open it and look inside, but I couldn't see any way to do that without her finding out."

"You never got a glimpse inside?"

"Not a glimpse."

I sipped my coffee. "You have any idea who hit you?"

"None."

"Tell me about it."

He shrugged lean shoulders beneath the expensive blue silk robe.
"
I came home early today. The
flu
.
I got undressed and into my pajamas and robe and went into the den to lie on the couch and watch the news on cable and that's when somebody came up behind me."

"You remember anything about him?"

"Not really."

"He didn't say anything?"

"No.''

"You remember any particular odors or sounds?"

''No.

"How long've you been out?"

"Maybe an hour."

"So he was in here, waiting?"

"Apparently."

"It doesn't sound as if he got the suitcase."

"I know he didn't."

"How do you know?"

"I looked for it yesterday. It was gone."

"You sure she left it behind when she left?"

He touched manicured fingers to his lips. Thought a mo
ment. "That's it. Now I remember. She said she'd pick up
the suitcase when Gary Roberts got her things."

"Did she get it then?"

"No. That's the strange thing. He asked for the suitcase, but when I looked for it, it was gone."

"What did Gary say?"

"Oh, he's always polite. He's a holdover from the sixties
and he can't let himself consciously admit that it bothers him
that she'd live with a black man. He doesn't mean to be a
bigot. I feel sorry for him."

"He got all her other things?"

"Yes."

"And he just left without the suitcase?"

"Yes.
"
He thought a moment. "I could be wrong, but I
believe the day before Gary came, somebody jimmied one of
my windows."

"And got in?"

"Possibly."

Now Karen's coming to me made sense. She had sent Gary
over to get her things. When Glendon Evans said the suitcase
was gone, she refused to believe him. So she looked me up, sent me in to get it.

"I don't know if I'll ever feel safe here again."

More to myself, I said, "What the hell could be in the suitcase that so many people are interested in it?"

He laughed.
"
It couldn't be money. Not the way she depended on my Visa and American Express cards." His laugh was as harsh as my own. Then, "The terrible thing is I'd take her back. How about you?"

"
Oh, no. She's been out of my system for a long time."

"So why did you agree to help her?"

"We're from the Highlands."

"Oh, yes," he said. "The Highlands."

"So she talked about it?"

"Frequently. She even had nightmares about something that happened back there. Always the same thing. She'd be waking up screaming and bathed in sweat and—" He stared down at his coffee. "My father was a surgeon. I rode around in a Lincoln and went to private school. I almost feel guilty."

I was curious.
"
She never told you what the nightmares were about?"

"No. But she did always use the same word. Pierce."

"Was that somebody's name?"

"I don't know. I thought you might, being from the Highlands.

"No."

He put a hand to the back of his head. "I'm afraid I'm going to need stitches."

"I was wondering about that."

"Would you give me a ride? There's a trauma center not too far from here."

"Sure."

He stood up. He was still wobbly. He put his palms flat against the table as a precaution.

"You all right?"

He looked up. He looked pale beneath his light-brown skin. I pretended I didn't see the tears in his eyes. "She's never going to come back to me, is she?"

Soft as I could, I said, "I don't think that's her style. Coming back to people, I mean."

F
rom a drive-up phone I tried my service to check
or calls, discovered I had a radio spot for tomorrow
in a downtown studio—a local spot but one that promised decent residuals—and that the same woman had called three times but had not left her name.

Finished with my service, I called Donna Harris' apartment. It was publication time for
Ad World,
and I didn't really expect her to answer—she tended to a bunker mentality the day everything got put to bed, eating innumerable and exotic pieces of junk food (I'd once seen her mix Count Chocula and Trix into a kind of bridge mix)—but she surprised me by being home.

"
Hi,
"
she said.
"
I was hoping you wouldn't call because I'm so damn busy, but then I was hoping you would call because if you didn't, I'd feel neglected. You know?"

"I know."

"
I wish we could go to a movie tonight."

"That would be nice, wouldn't it?"

"You finished working?"

"At Security I am. Actually, I'm working on something else."

I explained what that something else was.

Her voice got tight. "You've mentioned her before, haven't you?"

"Karen Lane?"

"Uh-huh."

"Yes, I suppose I have.
"
I sighed. "Please don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Get jealous. There's nothing at all to get jealous about."

"I trust you, Dwyer."

"Really?"

"The rational part of me does, anyway."

"How about the irrational part?"

"How does she look after twenty-five years? God, that sounds like a long time."

"It is a long time, and she doesn't look all that sensational."

"In other words, she looks gorgeous."

"
She looks all right."

"Now I know gorgeous for sure."

"It's a job. You seem to forget that little incidental fact. She's actually paying me money."

"Otherwise you probably wouldn't want to get involved with her at all, would you?"

"You probably won't believe this, but no, I wouldn't. She's a classic example of retarded adolescence. Nothing to her matters quite so much as her tan or her new sweater or how that cute guy at the health club looked her over. It's a seventh-grade mentality and we're headed toward fifty. The big five-oh. It's a pain in the ass."

"You figured out what's in the suitcase?"

"Obviously something valuable."

"You think she might have stolen something from somebody?"

It was then I saw it for the first time. The sleek black Honda motorcycle. Driven by a sleek black-leathered figure. Black leather head to toe, with a black helmet and black mask. Across the street. Just sitting there. I looked back from my rearview and said, "I'm assuming that's what it's all about. Some kind of theft. Otherwise Glendon Evans wouldn't have gotten beaten up."

She sounded a bit scared. "I'm sorry I was so pissy."

"It's all right. You know how I got the other night when that old actor friend of mine stopped by our booth and spent twenty minutes staring at you."

"God, why are we so jealous?"

"Insecure."

"But why are we so insecure? I mean, we're bright, we're
attractive. We should have at least a little self-confidence."

"
Probably our genes.
"
I looked into the rearview again.

The black-clad rider still sat astride his black Honda.

"Your mind is drifting. I can tell over the phone."

"Sorry."

"
Something wrong?"

"I don't think so. Just my usual paranoia." Then I said,
"
You could do me a favor."

"What?"