Up in Smoke (19 page)

“I'm very sorry, Murray.” In all her years as a cop, she'd found the best way to bring bad news was not leave people hanging on a thread of hope but come right out with it. “Wakely Fromm shot himself.”

“What?” His face tightened with shock. “How bad is it? Will he be all right?”

“He's dead.”

Murray stared at her for several seconds, as though she'd spoken a foreign language and he was trying to figure out the meaning of her words. “He can't be dead. I just left him two hours ago.”

Susan brought him into a cheery kitchen with yellow walls and gray-and-white tile on the countertops. Angrily, he dropped the bags on the counter and, though clearly reluctant, sat down when she told him to.

“When did you last see him?” She sat across the table from him. Parkhurst leaned at the doorway.

“I just told you. Two hours ago. He was in bed watching a football game.” Murray kept his eyes on her, as though warily judging the moment when she'd pounce.

This was a young man who moved lightly, looked fit, with the quick reflexes of a fighter. How easily could he be pushed into striking out? “Where did you go?”

“Shopping. We were out of food and paper towels and—stuff.”

“Where do you live, Murray?”

“With him. Wherever he is. I told you, I take care of him.”

“Are you a relative or—”

“No. I'm paid to take care of him.”

“Who pays you?” Parkhurst crossed his arms.

Murray had to turn around to see him. “The governor. Governor Garrett. Does he know about this?” Murray shot up. “I got to tell him. He'll—”

“Sit down.” Parkhurst said.

“But—”

“We'll take care of it,” Susan said.

With obvious frustration—this was a man more comfortable with action—Murray sat back down and scrubbed his hands over his face.

“You always shop this late?”

Murray looked at his watch. “Yeah. I don't have to worry about him if he's watching football. I can take my time and not have to hurry.”

“How long have you been at this job?” Parkhurst asked.

Having to turn his head to see Parkhurst behind him was irritating Murray. “Three years. Little more.”

“Who took care of him before that?” Susan asked.

“Uh—a nurse, I don't remember his name. Jim something.”

“Why did he quit?”

“He wanted to go back to working in a hospital.”

“You a nurse?”

“Physical therapist.”

“Has Wakely been despondent lately? Depressed?”

“Yeah. He gets in these moods and lately—yeah, I'd say he's been depressed.”

“Why?”

Murray looked at her like she was a half-wit. “He couldn't walk, he couldn't jump out of airplanes, he couldn't f—make love to a girl, he couldn't even wipe his own ass.”

“Always depressed, or more so lately?”

“Ever since I've known him.”

“Did you like him?”

“Sure. I wouldn't stay if I didn't.” He propped an ankle on the opposite knee. Getting relaxed, less worried. “Sometimes more than others.”

“What about Governor Garrett? How did Wakely feel about him?”

Quick smile. “Depends on how much he'd had to drink.”

“Yes?”

“If he was drunk, he loved him one minute, resented him the next.”

“Wakely usually stays at Governor Garrett's farm. Why this place?”

Murray shrugged. “You'd have to ask the boss that, the governor.”

“Take a guess.”

“Oh hell, sometimes Wakely gets tired of it all, you know?” Murray turned again to look at Parkhurst, then back at Susan. “The whole campaign thing. TV cameras, reporters always asking questions. He doesn't always want to be on display. I can understand.”

“And the governor? Are there times when he doesn't want Wakely on display?”

Murray closed up, like he felt maybe he'd said too much. “You'll have to ask him.”

“Did they ever have a fight, an argument, Wakely and the governor?”

“Not really. Wakely ranted and raved sometimes, the governor was always just patient.”

“Never lost his temper?” When Murray turned his head to look at him, Parkhurst moved from the doorway over to a cabinet, so that Murray had to turn the other way. He was pissing on tires and getting Murray's back stiff.

“If that ever happened, he just walked out.”

“Since you've been in Hampstead, has anything happened?” Susan said.

“Like what?”

“Did he have an argument with anybody, make anybody mad?”

“Maybe. But it wouldn't amount to anything. Sometimes he ran off at the mouth and irritated people, but—”

“What people?”

“Anybody. People on the street, people running the campaign, people at the market.”

“People running the campaign?”

“Sure. They're the ones he sees the most.”

“Who in particular did he irritate?”

“All of them. Leon Massy, Todd, even Bernie sometimes and he's pretty hard to get steamed. Nora couldn't stand him. She kept working on Molly to get rid of him.” Murray looked at her, startled. “I didn't mean—”

She waved that aside. “What else can you tell me?”

“Well, I drove him here two or three times last month.”

“To this house?”

“No, to Hampstead.”

“Why?”

Murray gave her a slant-eyed look, trying to decide how much he should tell her. “He came to see a guy name Egelhoff, Vince Egelhoff.”

Susan's sluggish mind perked up. Vince Egelhoff, husband of Gayle Egelhoff who ended up dead in a car trunk. “Why?”

“I have no idea. This Vince guy died in a car accident or something and Wakely was kind of shook up.”

Skiing accident, Susan thought. Vince Egelhoff had gone to visit a cousin in Colorado and died in a skiing accident.

“Really upset him. He's been moody and negative and—yeah, I'd say depressed, damn depressed. He started talking about how he's nothing but a burden, and the governor does everything for him, and everybody'd be better off if he was dead.”

That sounded suicidal to her.

“Do all these questions mean there's something fishy about Wakely's death?”

Smart guy. “We're trying to determine what happened.”

“He's been drinking a lot lately.”

“You were worried about him?”

“Well—yeah. It was getting so he was almost always drunk now.”

“When did that start?”

Murray vigorously rubbed the flat of his hand across the top of his head. “Right after he started seeing that Egelhoff guy.”

What was it about seeing Vince Egelhoff that had Wakely drinking more than usual?

“You left him alone tonight.” Parkhurst made it sound like an accusation and almost had Murray out of the chair and coming for him. Susan could see the intake of breath and the clenched fists.

“He wasn't mentally incompetent, you know, or senile or anything. He was okay by himself. For a while anyway. Sometimes he wanted to be alone and he'd tell me to get lost.”

“Since he knew Vince Egelhoff, he also knew Gayle Egelhoff,” Susan said.

“Yeah. He went to see her once.”

“When?”

Murray thought a moment. “Friday.”

“Last Friday?” The day Gayle was killed. “What did they talk about?”

“I never listened to their conversations but since her husband was Wakely's friend, it was probably about him.”

Three friends, smoke jumpers, fought a forest fire twenty years ago. Now two of them were dead. “Did Wakely own a gun?”

“I never saw one.”

Susan raised an eyebrow. “It's possible he had one that you never saw?”

“Sure it's possible. I'm not a jailer. I take care of him, not pry into everything.”

“Do you own a gun?”

“No.”

“Who hired you?” Susan asked.

“The governor.”

“He came himself and talked with you?”

“Not exactly. Todd Haviland. You know, the campaign manager. Look, I really have to call and let them know what happened.”

“We'll take care of it,” Susan said.

24

Moonbeam slid off the bed to the floor and slithered across to the window. Moving the curtain aside a fraction of an inch, she peered out. Everything was black. By twisting her neck she could see the roof of Mrs. Hadwent's garage and by looking down she could see the path that led along the side of the house. Couldn't see shit beyond that. What did she expect? Bogeymen looking in the window. That thought scared her so much she almost ran screaming from the room. She couldn't tell what was going on in the front of the house.

Her heart was hammering so hard she wouldn't hear a rock band on the porch if there was one. She had to go into the living room where she could see out the front. Oh God.

Wildly, she looked around for some kind of weapon. Her old teddy bear? That'll do it. The guy will fall over laughing. She had an inclination to pick up the bear and hug it close. Oh God, she was really losing it. Sherry would be glad to hear about this. Maybe what she needed was a shrink.

With all the looking around and talking to herself, she hadn't noticed that the noises had stopped. She nearly dropped with relief. Oh God, it had all been her imagination. Okay, should she climb back in bed and pull the covers over her head, or should she go out and make sure there were no murdering psychos in the house?

She was shaking so hard her teeth were chattering. She clamped them together. She wasn't scared. She could take care of herself. Oh boy, what she would give for a gun. Hold that fucker in her hand and nobody would mess with her. Bring on all your psycho killers, see what I do to them. Yeah, man, holding cold steel in her hand—

Gun. Vince had a gun. Oh, Moonbeam, you stupid shit. Why didn't you think of that before. Where the hell was it? She looked around as though it might suddenly pop up, like on the dresser or something.

She only saw it that one time, going through the boxes in the attic looking for an old picture of her mom. Some of her parents' things were still up there because Gayle found it hard to throw stuff away and she couldn't bring herself to just toss out everything that had belonged to Mom and Dad.

All of Vince's stuff was still in the closet in their bedroom. Probably years before Gayle could have started getting rid of it. The gun had been in one of the boxes in the attic. Moonbeam had no idea where it came from. It must have been Dad's, unless it was Vince's. She could just see Gayle having a fit about it and Vince calming her down and saying he'd take care of it.

Was it still there? Would it be loaded? She hoped so, because she didn't see how she'd get any bullets, her being a fugitive and all.

A loud thump came from the kitchen.

Air got trapped in her lungs. Her heart rammed itself in her throat.

Oh shit! Somebody in the house!

So scared she could barely breathe, she eased across her bedroom to the door, stuck her head out, looked up and down the hallway. Empty. Flicker of light coming from the kitchen!

Somebody with a flashlight!

Looking for something?

She wondered if he had a gun. Could she race to the garage, find the ladder, run back to the hallway, climb up to the attic, rummage through boxes, find the gun, run back down and dash in to point it at him before he could kill her?

Keeping her eyes on that flickering light, she backed into the living room. Black as night! Ha, joke. She wished now she hadn't gone around and closed every curtain up so tight not even an ant could get in.

What was he looking for?

If this was just an ordinary, everyday burglar who broke in to steal something that would be just too much. Did God have a sense of humor? Maybe he was punishing her for all those bad things she did and for all the bad words she said and—

Well, if that was true then—

Flickering light coming her way! She started to run and banged into something that shouldn't be there. She careened into the coffee table and sent the glass bowl tumbling. Crash!

She whirled and ran.

In her bedroom, she slipped into the closet, clambered up to the top shelf. She nudged a stack of sweatshirts, jeans, and boxes out of the way so she could hide behind them. She wanted to hold her breath so she could hear better, but her lungs forced air in and out with raspy pants. Her heart was so loud, probably the whole world could hear.

She could hear him searching for her. Muttered curses, throwing things out of his way. She heard a muffled thud. Living room. She listened, straining to hear. Slam of closet door in Gayle's bedroom.

Coming down the hallway! Oh God, oh God. She buried her face in the crook of her elbow to stifle any cries that might escape. He was coming!

He was in her bedroom. What was he doing?

Touching her things? Ugh! Gross! She'd throw out everything she owned. Even her brand new, just bought fake diamond toe ring. She'd—

He was moving toward the closet!

Oh God, please let him just leave. Please let him not find me. Please God.

There was sudden silence. Where was he? She listened.

Then she sensed him at the closet door.

Don't move. Don't say anything. Keep quiet.

The door opened with a jerk.

The flashlight beam slid across the hanging clothes, swept across the jumble on the floor and rose. It moved slowly along the shelf.

A grunt. Then he started pulling things from the shelf.

The flashlight shined right in her eyes. Blinded, she froze.

Abruptly, she started yelling and pushing stuff off on him. Clothes, shoes, boots, books, old junk she'd forgotten she had, rained down on him. She rolled off the shelf, fell into him on the way down, and he swiped at her. She screamed as the knife cut across her upper arm.

He grabbed at her and caught her T-shirt. Yelling, she kicked and fought and felt the shirt tear as she pulled away. She ran. He pounded after her.