The Blue Journal (20 page)

Randi thought it over. “All right,” she said. Then she told him, leaving out only the reference to the notes. She was not certain why she still withheld that, but she had the feeling she should wait until she had more time to consider things.

“And that's everything?”

“Yes, it is. Does that help you with your list of suspects?”

“Not if you don't know who the caller was.”

“I truly don't.”

“You should lend me your phone, let me run a trace.”

“Oh no.”

“All right, we'll table that for now, but don't delete anything please. Meanwhile we could go through some of the names. Let's start with Nettie Sisson, for instance.”

He saw her flinch slightly at the mention of the name. “What would she have to do with this?” Randi asked.

“I'm not saying she has anything to do with it, but so far, she's the only person we can place in the house, right?”

“Why would Nettie want to murder Elizabeth?”

“I have no idea, but I read her confidential police file and spoke to a sergeant in Kettering, Ohio. You know her history better than I do. Took a butcher knife to her husband, then spent five years in a state psychiatric facility.”

Randi stared at him without speaking.

“And she is your patient, as was Mrs. Knoebel.”

“You play rough, Anthony.”

“Homicide is a rough line of work.”

“Nettie's husband was a violent, abusive alcoholic who didn't even have the courtesy to lay down and die when he should have.”

“From what I was told, I believe that's all true.”

“Thanks.” Randi took another sip of her wine.

“Then we'll leave Nettie Sisson alone for a minute,” he said. “How about we get back to Elizabeth's book?”

“I've been wondering when we would.”

“You probably know all the players she mentions, or most of them anyway. Maybe you could have a look, let us know whether you believe the stories are real or fantasy. Might actually jog your own thinking some.”

“Maybe.”

“You know a woman named Celia?”

Randi shook her head. “I don't think so. You have a last name?”

“Wish I did. It's in one of the chapters there.” He smiled. “She's not one of your patients you're not telling me about?”

“You don't give up easily, do you?”

“Depends what I'm after.”

“So what are you really after here?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Elizabeth's murderer.”

“For one thing,” he said, holding her gaze for a moment.

“What else are you after?”

He hesitated, then broke into an embarrassed smile. “More wine?”

“I thought only psychologists are supposed to answer a question with another question.”

He picked up the bottle and refilled their glasses. “What was the question?”

“Never mind,” she said. “Are you asking me to read her diary?”

“I would like you to.”

“All right.”

“Then you'll help me?”

“Let me read it first.”

“Fair enough,” he said.

As they finished their meal he asked her why she chose to live in the suburbs. “I told you how
I
got here,” he said. “But you're an attractive single woman. Assuming you haven't given up on finding a new relationship, what's the point of living in the midst of all these married couples.”

“And divorcees,” she reminded him.

“Well good,” he said with a grin, “if you're after a divorcee, that makes me a candidate.”

She wiped her lips with the paper napkin, placed it on the table and said, “It's late, I really should go.”

“No dessert?”

Randi laughed. “I generally don't have dessert after breakfast. Anyway, it's been a long day.”

She stood, leaving Walker no choice but to get up too.

“Let me help you clean up,” she said as she picked up her dish.

“No, it's okay. Gives me something to do.” He fumbled for the right words, then settled on the truth. “I wish you weren't leaving so soon.”

“Thank you,” she said in a quiet voice. “I should go.”

“I understand,” he said.

They were face-to-face now. “Your, uh, sweatshirt, I . . .”

“Don't worry,” he told her. “Actually, don't worry about anything.” He picked up the brown envelope and handed it to her. “This copy is for you. It's highly confidential, of course. Please don't let anyone else see it, and get it back to me when you're done.”

She looked down at it, feeling guilty for not telling him about the notes.

He said, “I think you owe it to yourself to read this.”

It seemed to her an odd thing for him to say, but she let it go.

When he walked her to her car they found the rain had stopped and the dark sky was clearing in the moonlight.

He said, “Maybe we can do this some other time, without the interruptions.”

Randi hesitated before saying, “You know, I think I'd like that.”

Walker laughed. “Don't sound so shocked.”

She tossed her damp blouse in the back seat and got in her sedan, the envelope in hand. She started the engine and rolled down the window. “Next time, I won't have to wear the sweatshirt, will I?”

He smiled. “You know, maybe you're not as edgy as I thought.”

She nodded, waiting.

“But you definitely have a quality,” he said.

“A quality? Now there's a neutral review if ever I heard one.”

“No, no, I mean a good quality.”

“When you figure out what it is, you be sure to let me know.”

He began to say something, but she just smiled and pulled away before he could answer.

As Walker trudged back to his apartment he shook his head and said, “Damn,” out loud.

“Is that you Anthony?” Mrs. Shapiro called from inside.

“Yes,” he said.

“Are you all right, dear?”

Walker told her he was fine, bid the old woman good night again, and headed back up the stairs. He opened the door and had a look around his empty apartment, then switched on the television to see what happened in the Yankee game as he went about clearing the table.

CHAPTER 23

The next morning, Mitchell Avery was going to leave town whether his wife liked it or not. He had traveled on business trips for years. Joan should have gotten used to it by now. Instead, she seemed to be complaining more than ever.

Before he left for the airport, she decided this was the moment to remind him again that he was not doing his fair share in raising their children, that he needed to devote more time to their upbringing.

“When was the last time you helped any of them with their homework? Or asked what they were doing in school? Or looked at one of their book reports or science projects? Why should the entire responsibility fall on my shoulders?”

Mitchell decided to take a pass on her inquisition. He said that he loved his children. He reminded her that he took them on trips and bought them things, although at the moment he could not recall which trips and what things. He told her that he felt all of the appropriate paternal feelings he should feel toward his son and daughter. He believed in quality time, not quantity of time.

Joan laughed in his face. “Name any of the children's teachers.”

He responded with an angry glare.

“Go ahead, Mitchell, take a guess what grades they're in.”

At least he got that one right.

Then she mentioned Kyle. Not “the children” this time, but Kyle. “You think I don't know?” she asked angrily. “You think I'm a fool?”

He assured her he did not think her a fool, but that was as far into the topic as he was willing to delve.

“You can't run away from the dangers here, Mitchell. You can't run away from the possibility . . .”

But he cut her off. He told her there was no real danger, and that they had time to deal with the problem.

“No,” Joan told him, “the dangers are real and the time is irreplaceable.” She told him to save the nonsense about quality time for his sessions with Dr. Conway and his comrades in group therapy. His son needed him and, by the way, so did she.

“We need you at home, not off on some boondoggle playing golf or sitti
ng watching baseball and football games at the country club. And when you
are
home, we don't want you reading business reports or napping in front of the television. We want you fully engaged with us, we want you to be part of this family.”

Jesus
, thought Avery as she went on and on,
what the hell does the woman expect from me? I earn a great living. My family lives a comfortable life. We live in a wonderful house, travel everywhere, buy everything we need. What am I supposed to do? Sit around the living room with the kids and have discussions about video games and the problems in the Middle East? I work my ass off most days. Am I supposed to come home from the office and then act like I'm some stay-at-home father from a fifties sitcom? Where the hell is this woman coming from?

But he knew exactly where she was coming from. He knew this had nothing to do with his children and nothing to do with the time they spent together. This was about the trip he was taking this morning, telling her he would be spending two days at business meetings in Nashville, knowing he was lying.

He marveled at her ability to sense these things, even though there was no way she could possibly know that he would actually be spending those two days in Miami. For Joan, it was enough that she suspected the truth, because at this point she trusted her instincts far more than she trusted him.

And yet, even after all this time, and all this therapy, and all the guilt and tears and arguments, and all the rest of it—even now the affair was too sweet, too great a temptation for him to resist. And this time he was certain there was no risk of Joan finding out again, because this time he was going to be especially careful.

So, when she finally began to run out of steam and stopped ranting at him, Mitchell told her that he loved her, making the statement with all the sincerity of a used-car salesman, went downstairs to bid his children good-bye, and set off for the airport.

Later that day, when his plane was supposed to be landing in Tennessee, he actually arrived at Miami International. He decided to call home at once, get that part of the program out of the way. He walked into the main terminal, took out his cell phone and dialed the number.

“Hi, it's me.”

“Hello Mitchell,” his wife said.

“The kids okay?”

“Fine. Where are you? It's noisy, I can barely hear you.”

“I'm in the airport at Nashville,” he said. “Just got in.”

Joan could hear the garbled sound of various announcements and boarding calls in the background. “Oh,” she said.

“I'm looking for my contact here. He's going to pick me up. I'm not sure where I'll wind up today, so I figured I'd call you now, before things get too hectic.”

The public address system behind his voice was becoming more distinct to her.

“You know how it goes with these deals,” he said, oblivious to the loudspeaker that announced arrivals and departures in the background.

Joan nodded at the phone. The words coming from behind him were unmistakable now.

“Look, I'll call you when I get settled somewhere. I should wrap this up and be home on the early flight day after tomorrow.”

“All right,” she said numbly.

“Love you,” he said.

Joan only said, “Good-bye,” and hung up, but the words still echoed in her head. The first time she thought it was her imagination. The second time it was clear. The loudspeakers inside the terminal had been shouting it out, as if wanting to be sure that she heard. She could not even draw a deep breath, the pressure in her chest was so painful. All she could do was listen to the words echoing in her brain.

“
Welcome to Miami International Airport. Baggage claim is located on level
 . . .”

CHAPTER 24

Randi Conway spent her Sunday reading
SEXUAL RITES
. One chapter after another leapt off the pages. As Walker predicted, she certainly knew the players. She was familiar with their descriptions, and too many of the incidents.

She also knew this was no fantasy, this was a catalog of Elizabeth Knoebel's predatory conquests, narrated with a cynicism Randi recognized as Elizabeth's true voice.

Yet, among all of these graphic anecdotes and derisive musings about men and women, there was one chapter that left her trembling with rage.

SEXUAL RITES
By Elizabeth Knoebel
Notes for Chapter 11

I was in New York City one evening after attending a seminar at the Hilton. I met him after the last lecture, in the hotel bar. He was having a cocktail with another man. I stood there, looking around for a colleague. He asked if I needed help. I told him a girlfriend was supposed to be meeting me, but it appeared she had changed her plans. He offered to buy me a drink but I refused. Then, after he insisted, I reluctantly accepted.

We eased into a conversation, and he asked me what I did.

“I'm a therapist,” I told him.

“What kind?”

“Private and group counseling.”

“Marriages? Divorces?”

“Among other things.”

“Marriage,” he said with a wry smile. “An imperfect condition, even in the best of circumstances, which I guess is good for your business.”

I suggested he might be in need of some therapy, not to mention an original thought.

“That's cold,” he said with a grin, but told me he would consider therapy if I would stay for another drink.

I told him I had to leave.

“Now I'm the one who's being stranded,” he said. He pointed out that his friend had already gone on his way. Then he called to the bartender.