“What about a book? Have you ever wanted to write a book yourself? Like the kind of tribute to Poe and his life that Thorne wrote?”
Larry hesitated, staring at him. He reached for the sugar and stirred some into his coffee. “I was the one who suggested to Thorne that he write the book, using a lot of the information we’d discussed at our meetings. You’ve got to understand. We all have real lives—we’re not totally focused on the memory of a doomed poet. But Poe is an arresting subject. He was brilliant, but also sad. His own worst enemy. And did you know that the first reading of ‘The Raven’ was in Greenwich Village? Anyway…sure, one day I’d like to write a book, maybe about Poe, maybe not. But that doesn’t take away from the fact that Thorne wrote a damn good biography of the man. I envied him his talent, sure. But I was at work the entire afternoon he was killed. I was going to attend the same dinner, and that’s why I was at work. I’d screwed around with some friends in from Buffalo on Friday, when I should have been finishing up a few routine articles, so I worked Saturday, instead. And you can check it out.”
Larry certainly sounded sincere.
“What’s your take on the other folks on the board?” Joe asked him.
Larry laughed. “They’re supposed to be my friends, but…you want it honestly?”
“Of course.”
“Let’s see. Lila’s place in society and her inheritance allow her to be a blowhard. On top of that, she’s opinionated, and I think she had a crush on Thorne. Thorne, of course, would never have looked twice at her. With his kind of money, he got pretty young things hanging on him all the time. Lou, well, it’s just not in her nature. Barbara is a mouse, but at least she’s a mouse who loves Poe. Eileen? She’s pure class. Mary Vincenzo was only around because of Thorne and Jared. Jared? Rich kid. Brat. Don Tracy likes to hear himself talk and hangs around with the literati so he can get his name in the papers. Brook Avery wants to be a literary giant, but he’s got a long way to go. Nat Halloway is a money man who wants to hang with a more artistic crowd, and because of his connection with Thorne, he was able to do so. Sam Latham? Good man, and I hope he gets out of the hospital soon.”
“So who killed Thorne, in your opinion?” Joe asked.
“Lila,” Larry assured him knowingly.
When Joe left Larry, he had a notebook filled with the names and numbers of people Larry was convinced could assure Joe that he’d been working all day when Thorne had been murdered. And he had a gut feeling—which admittedly didn’t prove anything—that Larry was telling him the truth, at least about his own whereabouts. He wasn’t convinced that Lila had killed Thorne, though. She was far too vocal about accusing Larry, making far too much of a fuss. Guilty people had a tendency to lie low. Lila was doing anything but.
It was growing late, and Joe found himself wandering the neighborhood. He loved Lower Manhattan, but he hated it, too, for everything he had lost here. Eventually he found himself standing on the sidewalk across the street from one of the area’s prime historic landmarks, Hastings House. Matt had died in an explosion there, and Leslie had almost died at the same time. But she had lived to return to the city, and to Hastings House.
And then she had died after all, saving Genevieve.
He stared at the house. It was open to the public, but the last tour of the day was long over. As he stood there, though, the front door opened. To the best of his knowledge, Leslie had been the last one to stay at the restored colonial manor. The tunnels that had led from the house to the old subway line where Genevieve had been held prisoner had been closed. Blasted shut.
No one should have been there, and in fact, no one was in sight, yet the door had opened.
He instinctively felt for the concealed gun at his hip and walked across the street.
The gate to the front walk opened to his touch, though it should have been locked.
One of the staff could still be there. One of the costumed historians who welcomed tourists could still be working, and the unlocked door could simply have blown open.
He felt responsible for the house, though God knew why. Perhaps he felt he owed it to Leslie, he thought. Her appreciation for the past was something that had stayed with him.
And she had loved this house, even after Matt had died here.
He walked through the gate and headed up the steps.
The only light inside the house was the red glow of the security lights. He stepped through the doorway and paused. “Is anyone here?” he called out. He walked into the parlor and looked up the stairway. Darkness loomed above him.
“Hey, is anyone here?” he said again.
He felt as if something brushed his cheek.
Joe.
It was just a whisper, so faint that he might almost have imagined it.
He was crazy. He had imagined it. He was tempted to go running from the house, screaming.
Hardly a macho thing to do.
Did he think of himself as macho?
No, but he’d never thought of himself as an overimaginative coward, either.