There are two doors behind the desk. One opens on his old pal’s private bathroom, the other on a closet. There are plenty of clothes in the closet, including two suits that look expensive. They’re of no use to Morris, though. He’d float in them.
He wishes the bathroom had a shower, but if wishes were horses, et cetera, et cetera. He’ll make do with the basin. As he strips off his bloody shirt and washes up, he tries to replay everything he touched since entering the shop. He doesn’t believe there’s much. He will have to remember to wipe down the sign hanging in the front door, though. Also the doorknobs of the closet and this bathroom.
He dries off and goes back into the office, dropping the towel and bloody shirt by the body. His jeans are also spattered, a problem that’s easily solved by what he finds on a shelf in the closet: at least two dozen tee-shirts, neatly folded with tissue paper between them. He finds an XL that will cover his jeans halfway down his thighs, where the worst of the spotting is, and unfolds it. ANDREW HALLIDAY RARE EDITIONS is printed on the front, along with the shop’s telephone number, website address, and an image of an open book. Morris thinks, He probably gives these away to big-money customers. Who take them, say thank you, and never wear them.
He starts to put the tee-shirt on, decides he really doesn’t want to be walking around wearing the location of his latest murder on his chest, and turns it inside-out. The lettering shows through a little, but not enough for anyone to read it, and the book could be any rectangular object.
His Dockers are a problem, though. The tops are splattered with blood and the soles are smeared with it. Morris studies his old pal’s feet, nods judiciously, and returns to the closet. Andy’s waist size may be almost twice Morris’s, but their shoe sizes look approximately the same. He selects a pair of loafers and tries them on. They pinch a little, and may leave a blister or two, but blisters are a small price to pay for what he has learned, and the long-delayed revenge he has exacted.
Also, they’re damned fine-looking shoes.
He adds his own footwear to the pile of gooey stuff on the rug, then examines his cap. Not so much as a single spot. Good luck there. He puts it on and circles the office, wiping the surfaces he knows he touched and the ones he might have touched.
He kneels by the body one last time and searches the pockets, aware that he’s getting blood on his hands again and will have to wash them again. Oh well, so it goes.
That’s Vonnegut, not Rothstein, he thinks, and laughs. Literary allusions always please him.
Andy’s keys are in a front pocket, his wallet tucked against the buttock Morris didn’t split with the hatchet. More good luck. Not much in the way of cash, less than thirty dollars, but a penny saved is a penny et cetera. Morris tucks the bills away along with the keys. Then he re-washes his hands and re-wipes the faucet handles.
Before leaving Andy’s sanctum sanctorum, he regards the hatchet. The blade is smeared with gore and hair. The rubber handle clearly bears his palmprint. He should probably take it along in one of the Tuff Totes with his shirt and shoes, but some intuition – too deep for words but very powerful – tells him to leave it, at least for the time being.
Morris picks it up, wipes the blade and the handle to get rid of the fingerprints, then sets it gently down on the fancy desk. Like a warning. Or a calling card.
‘Who says I’m not a wolf, Mr McFarland?’ he asks the empty office. ‘Who says?’
Then he leaves, using the blood-streaked towel to turn the knob.
6
In the shop again, Morris deposits the bloody stuff in one of the bags and zips it closed. Then he sits down to investigate Andy’s laptop.
It’s a Mac, much nicer than the one in the prison library but basically the same. Since it’s still wide awake, there’s no need to waste time hunting for a password. There are lots of business files on the screen, plus an app marked SECURITY in the bar at the bottom. He’ll want to investigate that, and closely, but first he opens a file marked JAMES HAWKINS, and yes, here is the information he wants: Peter Saubers’s address (which he knows), and also Peter Saubers’s cell phone number, presumably gleaned from the voicemail his old pal mentioned. His father is Thomas. His mother is Linda. His sister is Tina. There’s even a picture of young Mr Saubers, aka James Hawkins, standing with a bunch of librarians from the Garner Street branch, a branch Morris knows well. Below this information – which may come in handy, who knows, who knows – is a John Rothstein bibliography, which Morris only glances at; he knows Rothstein’s work by heart.