When she finally left, Mr. Gregory walked her to the door. Before Rachel could step through, he stuck out his hand. “Thank you,” he said, shaking her hand vigorously. “Thank you very much.”
That night, Rachel when Rachel slipped into sleep, she dreamed of Flynn and his gray eyes. He was trying to tell her something, but she couldn’t hear him, and when she tried to move closer to him, a giant spoon fell on her car and smashed it, and then Mr. Valicielo was chasing her with the spoon.
Back at his flat, Flynn pulled out his mobile and hit the speed dial. “Yeah,” a sleepy Joe said.
In the background, Flynn could hear the sound of some sort of sport blaring out of a telly. “Once again, you owe me,” he said pleasantly as he loosened his tie.
“Oh, yeah?”
“One of the weavers had a death in his family and she’d gone to pay her respects.”
“No kidding,” Joe said thoughtfully.
“I wouldn’t kid about something as dreadfully serious as ten quid, mate,” Flynn said with a grin, reminding him of a little wager they’d made earlier.
“Yeah, yeah, you’ll get your ten quid.”
“Just so we’re clear, that’s about fourteen dollars American.”
Joe snorted at that. “Did you get anything else?” he asked.
“Nothing, really. Except that earlier, before she arrived home, her friend—the tall one with the blondish-red hair?”
“Yeah,” Joe said appreciatively.
“She stopped by and left with two paper bags that appeared to be quite heavy.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I thought it a bit odd . . . seemed rather like she was filching it.”
“That whole damn crew is odd if you ask me,” Joe said, and yawned. “Okay, see you bright and early in the A.M.”
“With my ten quid, if you please. Cheers,” Flynn said, and hung up over Joe’s grousing.
He walked into the tiny bedroom, removed his coat and tie, then sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, staring out over the parking lot of the Corporate Suites. He did not see the concrete below him, but rather Rachel’s smiling face, the flush of cold in her cheeks, the tiny little curls that framed her face, and the fullness of her lips. He was quite looking forward to their evening on Wednesday. Quite. So much so, that he was beginning to worry a bit about himself. These feelings were starting to approach Richter levels, and he wasn’t entirely certain what to do about that.
This was quite bothersome, really, as there was a bit of reality gnawing a hole through him, and as of late, it felt as if that hole was becoming unmanageably large.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Flynn and Joe caught up with Mr. Castaneda, the Wassermans’ yardman, on Tuesday, who assured them he had not seen anyone come or go from the Wasserman house the day Mrs. Wasserman was murdered.
“I left around two,” he told them at the burger joint where they had convinced him to meet. “Didn’t see no one.”
“Did you have anyone helping you that day, Mr. Castaneda?”
“No, no one.”
“You gonna eat those fries?” Joe asked Flynn.
Flynn turned his head and gave Joe a look. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks,” Joe said, and picked up a handful.
Flynn turned his attention back to Mr. Castaneda. “Did you happen to note if Mr. and Mrs. Wasserman were home that afternoon?”
“I know she was. I saw her walking the dog,” he said.
“And did you happen to see Mr. Wasserman that morning?”
“No. I think he was already gone when I got there,” Mr. Castaneda said as he watched Joe take another handful of Flynn’s fries. Joe noticed him looking at him and offered him one. Mr. Castaneda shook his head.
“And you saw no one else come or go from the house but Mrs. Wasserman. Is that likewise correct?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding.
“What about that pickle? You gonna eat that pickle?” Joe asked Flynn.
Flynn abruptly shoved his plate in front of Joe, who smiled and picked up the pickle.
“And again, how long would you say you were there, sir?” Flynn asked.
“Got there around eleven and left at two.”
“Brilliant, thanks. Just one more thing, if you’ll indulge me—had anyone assisted you at the Wassermans’ house prior to that morning?”
“Sure!” Mr. Castaneda said. “In the summer, there’s too much work to be done. I use my nephew.”
“His name?”
“Joaquin Castaneda,” he said readily. “But he didn’t do it, Mr. Oliver. He’s in the army now.”
“Anyone in addition to Joaquin?” he asked as Joe polished off the pickles and the last of the fries.
Mr. Castaneda squinted his eyes as he thought about that. “Maybe once or twice.”
“This summer?” Flynn pressed.
Mr. Castaneda shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t remember. If I did, it was in the spring, I think. One of Joaquin’s friends.” He glanced at his watch. “Are we about done here? I have to get back to work. I got two yards this afternoon.”