“Holly, we ought to go,” Hodges says. He wants to get over to the Saubers home. Wherever Pete is now, he’ll turn up there eventually.
“Okay . . . I guess . . .” She sighs. Although in her late forties, and even with the mood-levelers she takes, Holly still spends too much time on an emotional rollercoaster. Now the light in her eyes is going out and she looks terribly downcast. Hodges feels bad for her, wants to tell her that, even though not many hunches pan out, you shouldn’t stop playing them. Because the few that do pan out are pure gold. Not exactly a pearl of wisdom, but later, when he has a private moment with her, he’ll pass it on. Try to ease the sting a little.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Ricker.” Hodges opens the door. Faintly, like music heard in a dream, comes the sound of “Greensleeves.”
“Oh my gosh,” Ricker says. “Hold the phone.”
They turn back to him.
“Pete did come to me about something, and not so long ago. But I see so many students . . .”
Hodges nods understandingly.
“And it wasn’t a big deal, no adolescent Sturm und Drang, it was actually a very pleasant conversation. It only came to mind now because it was about that book you mentioned, Ms. Gibney. The Runner.” He smiles a little. “Pete didn’t have a friend-who, though. He had an uncle-who.”
Hodges feels a spark of something bright and hot, like a lit fuse. “What was it about Pete’s uncle that made him worth discussing?”
“Pete said the uncle had a signed first edition of The Runner. He offered it to Pete because Pete was a Rothstein fan—that was the story, anyway. Pete told me he was interested in selling it. I asked him if he was sure he wanted to part with a book signed by his literary idol, and he said he was considering it very seriously. He was hoping to help send his sister to one of the private schools, I can’t remember which one—”
“Chapel Ridge,” Holly says. The light in her eyes has returned.
“I think that’s right.”
Hodges walks slowly back to the desk. “Tell me . . . us . . . everything you remember about that conversation.”
“That’s really all, except for one thing that kind of nudged my bullshit meter. He said his uncle won the book in a poker game. I remember thinking that’s the kind of thing that happens in novels or movies, but rarely in real life. But of course, sometimes life does imitate art.”
Hodges frames the obvious question, but Jerome gets there first. “Did he ask you about booksellers?”
“Yes, that’s really why he came to me. He had a short list of local dealers, probably gleaned from the Internet. I steered him away from one of them. Bit of a shady reputation there.”
Jerome looks at Holly. Holly looks at Hodges. Hodges looks at Howard Ricker and asks the obvious follow-up question. He’s locked in now, the fuse in his head burning brightly.
“What’s this shady book dealer’s name?”
29
Pete sees only one chance to go on living. As long as the man with the red lips and pasty complexion doesn’t know where the Rothstein notebooks are, he won’t pull the trigger of the gun, which is looking less jolly all the time.
“You’re Mr. Halliday’s partner, aren’t you?” he says, not exactly looking at the corpse—it’s too awful—but lifting his chin in that direction. “In cahoots with him.”
Red Lips utters a brief chuckle, then does something that shocks Peter, who believed until that moment he was beyond shock. He spits on the body.
“He was never my partner. Although he had his chance, once upon a time. Long before you were even a twinkle in your father’s eye, Peter. And while I find your attempt at a diversion admirable, I must insist that we keep to the subject at hand. Where are the notebooks? In your house? Which used to be my house, by the way. Isn’t that an interesting co-inky-dink?”
Here is another shock. “Your—”
“More ancient history. Never mind. Is that where they are?”
“No. They were for awhile, but I moved them.”
“And should I believe that? I think not.”
“Because of him.” Pete again lifts his chin toward the body. “I tried to sell him some of the notebooks, and he threatened to tell the police. I had to move them.”
Red Lips considers this, then gives a nod. “All right, I can see that. It fits with what he told me. So where did you put them? Out with it, Peter. Fess up. We’ll both feel better, especially you. If ’twere to be done, ’twere well it were done quickly. Macbeth, act one.”
Pete does not fess up. To fess up is to die. This is the man who stole the notebooks in the first place, he knows that now. Stole the notebooks and murdered John Rothstein over thirty years ago. And now he’s murdered Mr. Halliday. Will he scruple at adding Pete Saubers to his list?
Red Lips has no trouble reading his mind. “I don’t have to kill you, you know. Not right away, at least. I can put a bullet in your leg. If that doesn’t loosen your lips, I’ll put one in your balls. With those gone, a young fellow like you wouldn’t have much to live for, anyway. Would he?”
Pushed into a final corner, Pete has nothing left but the burning, helpless outrage only adolescents can feel. “You killed him! You killed John Rothstein!” Tears are welling in his eyes; they run down his cheeks in warm trickles. “The best writer of the twentieth century and you broke into his house and killed him! For money! Just for money!”
“Not for money!” Red Lips shouts back. “He sold out!”
He takes a step forward, the muzzle of the gun dipping slightly.
“He sent Jimmy Gold to hell and called it advertising! And by the way, who are you to be high and mighty? You tried to sell the notebooks yourself! I don’t want to sell them. Maybe once, when I was young and stupid, but not anymore. I want to read them. They’re mine. I want to run my hand over the ink and feel the words he set down in his own hand. Thinking about that was all that kept me sane for thirty-six years!”
He takes another step forward.
“Yes, and what about the money in the trunk? Did you take that, too? Of course you did! You’re the thief, not me! You!”
In that moment Pete is too furious to think about escape, because this last accusation, unfair though it may be, is all too true. He simply grabs one of the liquor decanters and fires it at his tormentor as hard as he can. Red Lips isn’t expecting it. He flinches, turning slightly to the right as he does so, and the bottle strikes him in the shoulder. The glass stopper comes out when it hits the carpet. The sharp and stinging odor of whiskey joins the smell of old blood. The flies buzz in an agitated cloud, their meal interrupted.