He could sense Henry hedge. Archie was on leave. He had no right to know anything about a police investigation. “Susan Ward got a tip and found a body in an abandoned house on North Fargo,” Henry said. “And someone dumped a head in the yard up at PittockMansion.”
They’d found one of Gretchen’s victims on the grounds at PittockMansion just months before she was caught. She’d never repeated herself before. But it couldn’t be a coincidence. “Eyes?” Archie asked.
“The head’s too decomposed to tell,” Henry said. “Robbins is looking at it now. Body in the house has eyes. He’s fresh. Killed sometime overnight.”
Archie glanced back at the TV screen where KGW news anchor Charlene Wood now stood at the scene interviewing a bystander. “Is it Gretchen?” Archie said.
Henry exhaled. “There are hearts drawn on the wall next to the body,” he said. “Like at the rest stop. Susan called the paper. It went out on the wire. There are reporters everywhere.”
Archie felt his chest tighten again. “Is Susan okay?” he asked.
“She’s a pain in the ass,” Henry said. “Won’t give up the source who tipped her.”
Archie couldn’t help but smile. “Parker would be proud.”
“Yeah, well, it’s fucking dandy that her journalistic testicles have dropped, but that doesn’t help me much with the crime fighting,” Henry said. “It looks like the victim’s missing his spleen. That’s not public yet,” he added. “But it will be.”
The old woman unpacked another angel.
“I can send a car for you,” Henry said.
Archie turned and glanced behind him, back into the hall. He thought about telling Henry, but he couldn’t without giving up the phone. What was he supposed to say? “I think she’s got someone inside the hospital who’s spying on me”? “I just have a feeling”?
He’d sound like a lunatic.
“I’m just not up for it,” Archie said. He didn’t need to find her. She would find him. He was sure of it.
“Your family still coming tonight?” Henry asked.
Debbie brought the kids by every Wednesday. It was something Archie usually looked forward to, but with all the drama, he’d lost track of what day it was. “They’re still coming,” Archie said, rubbing his eyes.
“Say hi,” said Henry. He hesitated, and then, in a tone that made Archie wonder if Henry sensed something was wrong, he added: “I’ll check in later.”
“Okay,” Archie said. He dropped the receiver back into its cradle and glanced up at the TV. It had already gone back to Perry Mason.
“You’re him, aren’t you?” The old woman tilted her head again in the direction of the front window display.
“No,” Archie said.
She nodded. “You’re that detective.”
She picked up one of the angels and held it out to him. There was a brass plaque at the angel’s feet with a pretty script. Three words.
WATCH OVER ME.
She set it in his hand.
C H A P T E R 17
A sign posted in the elevator up to the psych ward read:
SHOULD THE ELEVATOR DOORS FAIL TO OPEN DO NOT BECOME ALARMED. THERE IS LITTLE DANGER OF RUNNING OUT OF AIR OR OF THIS ELEVATOR DROPPING UNCONTROLLABLY.
“That’s reassuring,” Archie said to the candy striper riding in the elevator next to him.
Her eyes widened.
“It’s for the crazy people,” Archie explained. “We panic easily.”
He wasn’t making her more comfortable. He decided to stop talking. Then he noticed that she was holding an envelope in her hand with his name on it. The envelope was big and square and pink and hard to miss. The candy striper was fanning her face with it. They weren’t called candy stripers anymore. Archie didn’t know what they were called.
“That’s for me,” Archie said.
She wasn’t a teenager. College, maybe. She shot Archie a reflexive smile. “I have to deliver it to the ward,” she said. “Before I can go to lunch.”
The elevator doors opened and they both stepped out into the psych ward’s minuscule lobby. The girl was hesitant.
“You’ve never been up here before,” Archie said.
“Are there psychos?” she whispered.
“Tons,” Archie said. He pressed the call buzzer. “It’s Archie Sheridan,” he said.
“Just a minute, Mr. Sheridan,” a nurse’s voice responded.
The girl looked down at the name on the card. “I guess you are you,” she said.
“I’m pretty sure I still am,” Archie said. He noticed her nails then. French pink with bloodred tips. Women liked it when you complimented them. Archie didn’t know much about women, but he knew that. “I like your nails,” he said.
Her cheeks dimpled and she inspected a fluttering hand. “It’s called a ‘Beauty Killer,’ ” she said. “My manicurist says all the celebrities are doing it.”
Archie nearly choked. A Beauty Killer manicure? Everyone had lost their minds.
“Are you okay?” the girl asked.
Muffled hollering echoed from behind the door. Archie recognized the bellicose ranting of his roommate, Frank.
The girl drew a sharp breath.
“He’s harmless,” Archie assured her.