“Close. I’ll show you.”
“Thanks.” He took the two leather leashes out of the car and draped them around his neck.
“You’re the one who wears the leashes?”
“They look better on me. If the dogs being loose seems to bother anybody, I use the leashes. Does it bother you?”
She shrugged. “No.”
He said, “Dave. Carol. Let’s walk.”
He and Zoe McDonald started down the sidewalk. It was a bright, pleasant early spring day with high, puffy clouds and a breeze that was mild but cool. The dogs widened their wanderings around Caldwell to include Zoe in the circle.
She said, “You told me on the phone you were retired. What did you do?”
“Nothing exciting. I worked for the government for a while, and then went into the investment business for the next thirty years. This seemed like a good time to retire.”
“People don’t come to Chicago to retire much.”
“I like a lot of things about big cities, but I’m happier if I don’t live in the thick of it.”
“What did you do in government?”
“Pretty much what I did for clients after I quit. I tried to help them use their money wisely. How about you? What do you do?”
“What I still do. I played the piano. Then I taught piano. Got married, had kids, got older, got divorced. Still play the piano.”
“I’ll bet you’re really good at it.”
“Better than I was at the other stuff. My kids turned out great, but I suspect they did most of that on their own.”
He said, “If they had been screwed up, would you have thought it must be your fault?”
“Probably.”
“Then you have to take some credit that they aren’t.”
“All right,” she said. “I will.”
They came to the park, which had a small lake and a lot of lawn, with a fringe of trees and some benches. The dogs were delighted with the place, which seemed to be full of new and intriguing smells. They were tentative about straying too far from the pair of humans, but they let their distance grow to about forty feet before they looked at Peter Caldwell to see if he wanted them back.
As they walked, Zoe McDonald’s mood seemed to change. She talked about how good it was to walk to a park and to live in a neighborhood with mature trees. Caldwell merely nodded and kept her talking, because it seemed to him that she was beginning to turn her remarks into a sales pitch. She was selling the place to both of them. Only once did he add anything. When she said, “Of course we’re right next to a huge city, and walking alone at night isn’t a good idea,” he shrugged. “Dave and Carol help with that. In daylight nobody thinks it’s worth trying to get past them for my wallet. In the dark they grow about fifty pounds each.”
She laughed. “I’ll bet they do.”
She pointed out to him the bus stops, the restaurants she’d tried, the delicatessen and the grocery store.
When a police car appeared up the street, Caldwell said, “Carol, Dave.” The dogs trotted up to him and let him snap the leashes on their collars. He patted them and said, “Good work, my friends.” He reached into his pocket and produced two bone-shaped biscuits. He looked at Zoe. “Would you like to give them their treat?”
“Yes.” She took the biscuits and let the dogs clamp their jaws on them. They crunched them into pieces and ate them from the lawn. She looked at her watch. “We’d better get back. Our rent is due today before six.”
7
Caldwell checked out of his hotel the next morning and moved in to the apartment. The process took about a half hour, including the fifteen-minute drive, since everything he owned other than his dogs would fit in one backpack. He bought a suitcase on the way, so he would look less suspicious.
Over the next few weeks Peter Caldwell was as quiet, considerate, and tolerant as he could be. He took Dave and Carol for a walk twice a day, sometimes for hours, and let them sleep in his room as they always had. He formed the habit of being the one who noticed the trash was full and needed to be taken out, and cleaned the common areas of the apartment every second day.
He spent a couple of hours on his laptop computer every day. He checked the news outlets in Vermont and New Hampshire, in New York State, and in Chicago, and then the national news. He checked many of his investment accounts under the names Peter Caldwell, Henry Dixon, and Alan Spencer, looking for some sign that they had been found. For the first five weeks he could find nothing. There was no mention of any of the shootings, and no sign that the authorities had found his extra names or frozen any accounts. For the moment he needed to stay out of sight, and now that he’d found a place to do that, he was very careful to keep it.