The Night Caller (4 page)

Lloyd Watkins was shorter than Coop imagined he would be, and not nearly as handsome as his photograph. He was wearing baggy dark sweatpants and a red T-shirt with small white lettering too faded to read. His hair was mussed and he appeared tired and grief-stricken, with eyes that seemed to see miles beyond what he was looking at.

“Lloyd Watkins?” Coop asked, making sure. When the man nodded, Coop introduced himself as Bette’s father.

The mention of her name seemed to strike Watkins like a physical blow. His eyes teared up and he backed away a step. “Jesus! It was…I mean what happened really got to me. I guess you know Bette and I were close.”

“I heard.”

“I tried to make it to New York to…the funeral, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I mean, I was so sick about what happened.”

“That’s okay,” Coop said, “I understand.”

Watkins shook his head, seeming to awaken from a trance. “Didn’t mean to leave you standing out there.” He offered his hand and the two men shook. “Come inside and sit down.”

The place was a mess. Magazines and newspapers were scattered over the floor. A blanket and pillow were rumpled on the sofa, and half a dozen empty Budweiser cans and a partly eaten sub sandwich sat on the coffee table. The cans were arranged in a circle, and the sandwich lay on top, spanning two of them. It reminded Coop of Stonehenge. Next to one of the beer cans was a coffee cup, still steaming.

Watkins must have noticed Coop looking at the cup. “Want some coffee? I’ve been drinking it a lot to keep awake during the day. All I want to do is sleep. Been sleeping too long, too late. It’s an escape, I’m sure. Gotta get back to work soon, get on with life. Can’t be a wreck like this forever.”

“Yes.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll have a cup of coffee, black.”

Watkins nodded and trudged toward the kitchen. He was muscular and moved like an exhausted athlete, slightly bow-legged, elbows out and arms swinging in abbreviated tight arcs. While he was gone, Coop looked around and saw cheap framed prints on the walls, a bookcase that held mostly stereo equipment, and a few books on computers. Watkins didn’t seem like Bette’s kind of guy, but love was a puzzle. There was a framed photograph of Bette on a table near the TV, with a wilted single red rose lying in front of it. Coop felt a pang of grief and looked away from the photo. He cleared some newspapers off a chair and sat down.

“Bette tell you much about me?” Watkins asked, when he returned and handed Coop coffee in a white plastic mug. On the mug was a likeness of the Three Stooges in wacky golfing outfits. The unexpected touch of levity made Coop angry all out of proportion. “Sorry, but it was my only clean cup,” Watkins said. Intuitive bastard.

“No problem,” Coop told him. “And I found out about you just today from someone at Prudent Stand. Bette didn’t mention you to me, which shouldn’t be surprising. She kept her personal life to herself.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s so.” Watkins seemed to be pondering this for the first time. He sat down absently on the sofa, on top of a
People
magazine. “And it isn’t like we were planning on getting married or anything. At least not yet. In fact, we had a big argument about a month ago and broke up. I’m sure we both knew it was temporary.”

“How can you be sure how she felt?”

“Well—I wasn’t. I guess I should have said I was hoping it was temporary.”

“What grounds did you have for hope, exactly?”

“I didn’t think the trouble was between us, if you know what I mean. Bette was under a lot of pressure at work. She just didn’t have time for me. We didn’t go out anymore, only saw each other at the office. That’s what the argument was about, really.”

“Did she tell you she was going to New York, to my beach cottage?”

“All she said was she was going away for a rest. She thought it was going to do wonders for her. Even hinted that when she got back, we’d make a fresh start. Or maybe I imagined that part.” He fell silent for a long moment, thinking that over. Then he said sadly, “Bette was a wonderful person, Mr. Cooper.”

“She mention I was an ex-cop?”

“Yeah. She talked about you some. She worried about you. You were…um, in poor health for a while last spring, weren’t you?”

Coop was surprised. Bette was as careful of other people’s privacy as of her own. If she had told this man about his illness, they must have been close. He said, “I’m better now.”

“Are you investigating her death on your own?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“I suppose because if I were you, that’s what I’d be doing. But maybe that’s impractical, like something out of a book or movie. I don’t know anything about police work.”

“I am looking into the matter some,” Coop said. “To satisfy my curiosity.”

“If you find out anything, will you satisfy mine? I’d like to know who killed her and why.” Watkins sipped his own coffee and studied Coop over the rim of the cup. “I guess I’m a suspect?”

“Why do you say that?”

“If I were you, I’d suspect me. Especially since Bette and I had the argument and temporarily split up. To tell you the truth, I’m glad I’ve got an airtight alibi. It was a chance thing that people were with me most of that day and that evening, when she…died. Normally I’d have had enough time to drive into New York and back. I might have had dinner alone after work, maybe watched some TV, then gone to bed.”

If this Watkins was guilty, Coop thought, he was really something. “I’ll check everything out. Don’t worry about that end of it.”

“I won’t,” Watkins said. “It’s hard enough to deal with the rest of this shit, believe me. Well, I guess you know.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Watkins noticed the sharpness in his tone. He said, “Go ahead, ask people anything about me. Come back and question me, if you feel you have to. I’ll understand.”

“You seem like an understanding guy,” Coop told him.

This time Watkins didn’t pick up on the irony. “My friends say that. People tend to spill their guts to me. Maybe I should have been a cop.”

“Everybody thinks that at one time or another.” Coop set the mug on a table and stood up to leave. The NYPD had asked Watkins the obvious questions; Billard could show him the file or fill him in. “It’s not like they imagine.”

“That’s what Deni Green said this morning about being a writer.”

“Deni Green?” The woman Hillary Bland had mentioned.

“Yeah. She said she was a book writer, doing research on Bette’s murder. So I talked to her awhile, answered some of the same questions you asked.” Watkins raised his thick eyebrows in sudden concern. “You think I shouldn’t have talked to her?”

“I think you should have consulted a lawyer before talking to either one of us,” Coop told him.

Honesty deserved honesty in return.

Honesty with each other was dear to both of them. Sitting outside in the cool Seattle night, each with a mug of light beer, Georgianna Mason and Cindy Romero waited for their vegetarian pizza to arrive. Though they were virtually on the sidewalk, the restaurant had see-through plastic curtains and overhead heaters that produced plenty of heat.

Georgianna and Cindy had been roommates years ago at Kansas State, and had remained friends after graduation. They had few secrets from each other. Now nearing middle age, they were still a striking pair, Cindy with her dark hair and eyes, and the fair-skinned and sandy-haired Georgianna, who possessed the delicacy of a porcelain ballerina that had just stepped down from the lid of a music box.

They both knew the pain of terrible marriages and bitter divorces, but both still held hopes for romance and permanent relationships.

“So you only met this guy on the Internet,” Cindy said. “You’ve never seen him face-to-face.”

Georgianna fluffed her long hair back in place where it had come loose in an outdoor heater’s warm breeze.
Hard on the ends,
she thought. “I’ve seen his digital photo.”

“If it
was
him. Some guys will lie to you about their digitals.”

Georgianna smiled. She’d expected skepticism. But if Cindy had read Bret’s (she’d discerned his name when he slipped up and used it) e-mail, she’d feel differently about him. From the first few exchanges of messages in a political chat room, both she and Bret knew something was going on between them. They not only shared liberal politics and a concern for the planet’s future, they liked the same books, movies, and food. They both worked out regularly and believed in alternative medicine. Cindy, along with the rest of the human race, would have to learn that electrons could carry first love. Georgianna had revealed her real name to Bret, but she understood his caution, why he still preferred to use only his screen name in correspondence. You could meet all sorts of people on-line, some of them pests that were hard to get rid of later.

Cindy took a swig of beer and smiled at her. “Don’t mind if I’m jealous and bitchy. I truly hope you’ll get on famously with this guy if you really meet.”

“Oh, we’ll meet. He’s down the coast in San Francisco. And he owns a new BMW he’s dying to test on the highway.”

“My, my. So he’s rich.”

“No, it’s a new
used
BMW. He emphatically told me he wasn’t rich. He has something to do with software development in Silicone Alley.”

“Then he’ll be rich.”

“Rich isn’t necessary,” Georgianna said. She took a sip of beer and lowered her frosted mug, grinning. “But it wouldn’t hurt.”

Cindy leaned toward her across the table. “Seriously, I know you’ve been down for a while. I hope the future is good for you.”

“Thanks,” Georgianna said, squeezing her friend’s hand. “At least now I feel like I’ve
got
a future.”

Coop remembered seeing a small bookshop, Long Good-bye Books, on First Street as he was driving into Haverton. After leaving Lloyd Watkins he drove there, found a parking spot immediately in front of the shop, and went inside.

The shop’s interior was small with narrow aisles, packed with books new and used that were mostly paperbacks. It was warm inside, and had a pleasant musty scent, the way Coop thought all bookshops should smell.

The cash register was on the right but no one was behind the counter. At a small round table at the back of the store sat a slender woman with straight blond hair and squared bangs. She glanced up from paperwork she’d been engrossed in and smiled at Coop. “Let me know if there’s anything I can help you with.”

“There might be,” Coop said, careful not to brush against books as he made his way to the back of the store.

“We’re a mystery bookstore,” said the woman, “named after a Chandler novel. I can help you with mysteries.”

“That I need,” Coop told her. “Ever hear of a writer named Deni Green?”

The blond woman put down her pencil and stared up at him. “The Maltese Kitten?”

“Pardon?”

“That’s the title of Deni Green’s latest Cozy Cat mystery. She was in here this morning and offered to sign whatever copies I had. Fortunately I had three of them.”

“Do you still have a copy?”

The woman smiled. “All three. Cozy Cat is an old series and getting kind of stale.”

“What’s it about?”

“What they’re all about: a woman who has a cat and solves crimes.” She got up and went to a crammed bookshelf, then pulled out a hardcover copy of
The Maltese Kitten.
“It’s a parody of the famous Dashiell Hammett novel,
Maltese Falcon.”

“I like Hammett,” Coop said.

“More’s the pity,” said the woman, and handed him the book.

The dust jacket illustration was of a gray cat sniffing at a smoking revolver against a field of bloodred. Coop looked at the back of the book and there was Deni Green’s photograph. She was a slightly overweight woman with short hair and dark ringlets on her forehead. Her features were symmetrical and strong, with arched eyebrows, a broad jaw, and thin, slightly curled lips. Coop thought that if she were a man she’d be described as looking like a corrupt Roman emperor, maybe Nero.

“I’ll take this,” he said to the bookshop woman.

“You won’t like it if you like Hammett.”

“You don’t seem eager to sell it.”

“I suppose I’m not. I’m more interested in my customers believing my recommendations and coming back to buy more books. You want a cat mystery, there’s always Carole Nelson Douglas. Or Lilian Jackson Braun or Rita Mae Brown. They haven’t used up all nine of their lives.”

“It doesn’t matter with me, I’m from out of town.”

“You’re still a customer.”

Coop studied the expression on her lean, pale face. “What was your impression of Deni Green when she was here?” he asked. “I mean, as a person?”

The bookshop woman gave him a gentle smile. “I didn’t like her much. She seemed arrogant and insecure.”

Coop went with her to the register at the front of the store and paid for the book. “I can’t wait to get into this,” he said.

She looked at him as if he were about to start down a ski jump without skis.

The Night Caller snapped on his latex gloves and explored. He saw that holistic medicine seemed to have caught Georgianna’s interest. There were various self-help medical books stacked in a bookshelf, and new wave posters on the walls espoused the benefits of various diets and exercise regimens. Some of the posters were political, about corporate greed and global warming. The posters, and the lineup of herbal food supplements in the medicine cabinet, left little doubt as to her newfound direction. She wanted to save herself and the world. Now, there was a tall order.

The refrigerator and a check of her various Internet visits and bookmarks on her computer revealed that she’d become a vegetarian. Magazine clippings, stuck to the refrigerator with magnets, explained how such a diet could virtually guarantee a longer life. The Night Caller smiled. More than most people, he knew there were few reliable guarantees in this world. Fate was unpredictable and sometimes sadistic.

Then the smile faded and was replaced by a thoughtful expression. Georgianna’s Internet lover was a worry and a risk. Something had gone slightly wrong and there were things she remembered even if only hazily—he was sure of it from their talks afterward. Things the soul searching of love and lovers’ talk might bring to the surface. The series of e-mails suggested that the cyberlover and Georgianna would soon meet face-to-face.

Perhaps they’d have lattes at Starbucks, share a bed, then decide that would be the extent of their affair. The simple rutting of fools.

But perhaps they would be delightfully compatible and their relationship would deepen, the way Internet romances were supposed to work in the second stage. True lovers had no secrets. Sin eating was one of the great benefits of passion, and one of the great dangers.

Each time before, the Night Caller’s visit had terminated long before Georgianna returned home, and she had entered an unoccupied apartment.

This time would be different. He wasn’t ready, didn’t have the terrible, wonderful need, but this time it was necessary in order to ensure his survival. That was his right. It was ordained out of darkness and insects.

She would enter confidently, locking the door and thinking she was separating herself from the perilous outside world. The Night Caller knew what an illusion that was for everyone. Locks were simply distractions to lovers and demons, who were usually on both sides of them anyway. Georgianna remembered that from the time of reptiles but denied it, like everyone else. Almost everyone else. The Night Caller knew how they thought and how they didn’t, all of them. He listened to their secret voices and knew their muted screams. They heard none of it, confident they were someone else. Someone safe.

Once inside, the click of the lock still in her mind, Georgianna would glance about, wary and vaguely aware. But there were places in the apartment where she wouldn’t look before lowering her guard even more, places where she didn’t really want to look. She would instead occupy herself in the way of women living alone, preparing a snack, taking a shower, reading, getting ready for bed. Thinking she was alone, protected by doors and locks and odds. Aware that no one could enter the building without the knowledge and approval of the doorman, or enter the underground garage without punching in a code on a residents’ keypad that would raise a gate. The code was also needed to use the elevator from the garage level. Very tight security in this building.

But hardly tight enough.

When all of his senses told him it was time, the Night Caller would approach Georgianna gradually but surely, closing the distance between survival and death until he was one with her.

Like the others, she wouldn’t hear a thing until it was too late.

It was his game, moving silently as time.

And he was on his game.