It was almost 9:45 p.m. I’d come downstairs to use the PC in the Courier office, peeking through the door glass first to make sure Ben wasn’t working late. On top of everything, his rejection still stung. My eyes watered from the strain of reading in the dark. I’d kept the lights off. I didn’t want any of the Piqued who saw me as the murder suspect ogling through the window.
Doing research on the current value of Hugh’s drawings felt mercenary, but I needed to be practical. The numbers on the Artworldprices.com database were encouraging; one of the drawings had sold for $33,000 last month. Granted, the sketches in the Loving Nora book were small, but now they were part of the Hugh Walker legend, and the scandal would only increase their worth. I heard that happened with Carl Andre’s work. His story was legendary in the art world.
The infamous sculptor had been acquitted of killing his wife back in 1988. He claimed she was opening the oversize window in their apartment when she lost her balance and fell thirty-four floors. Andre was built like a bull. His wife weighed ninety-three pounds. When the police arrived, he had fresh scratches on his nose. Scratches. He was found innocent despite the incriminating marks.
Even with a discount for a quick sale, the money from selling Hugh’s sketches should take care of my legal bills and Aunt Lada’s expenses, plus some. The cash could save us both.
I logged off Artworldprices.com. The caffeine high had petered out, and my energy was flagging. I shut the computer, laid my head down on the desk and closed my eyes. Just for a moment, I thought. The smells of pencil shavings and furniture polish invoked kindergarten naps. I must’ve dropped off.
A faint rattling in the rear office woke me. It sounded like someone jiggling the handle on the building’s back door. Or jimmying it, attempting to break in. My first thought: the rock thrower. Was that cowardly bastard back? Or was it a thief after our office computers? Then the black van flashed through my mind.
I heard the creak of the door opening and I bolted, lurching in the dark toward Ben’s desk. The bat. Where was his baseball bat? I knelt down and groped. My hand found the smooth wooden knob. I grabbed it and jumped up. Gripping the neck with both hands, heart racing, I lifted the bat high over my shoulder as the lights popped on. Ben stood in the doorway of the back office, still wearing his coat, with his hand on the light switch. As our eyes met, his face flushed. Mine burned. I must be beet red.
“Nora? What the hell . . . ?”
Embarrassed, I lowered the bat.
“I thought . . . I thought you were a robber. Or the rock thrower, breaking in to smash up the office. I didn’t hear your motorcycle.”
“I got my car back this morning. Sorry. I wasn’t expecting to find anyone.” He pointed to the Pequod Liquor box by my left foot. “I came for my wine. I bought a case to have around for the holidays and keep forgetting to take it home.” He checked his watch. “What are you doing here this time of night?”
“I was checking my e-mail. The police took my computer. And my phone.”
“Right.” Ben looked at his shoes. “I heard.”
Long silence. I wanted to crawl under the desk. Being around Ben felt even more awkward than I feared. Should I say something? Suggest that we forget the kissing incident? Chalk it up to the heightened drama of the day? I leaned the bat against the wall.
“Well, it’s late. I suppose I’ll be on my way.” I squirmed. My nervousness had me sounding so phony.
Ben raised both palms, beseeching.
“Nora. Please. I have to apologize. It won’t happen again, believe me. I had no right to do what I did. I crossed the line. It was unethical. It was a Clarence Thomas move—an abuse of power and against everything I stand for. When you didn’t respond, I understood what an unfair position I’d put you in. I’m sorry.”
How could he think I didn’t respond? Was I that rusty? I really went for that kiss, but he thought I was a cold fish.
“Is there any way you can forget what I said in my voice mails?” he went on.
“Voice mails? I didn’t get any voice mails from you.”
“I left you three messages since yesterday morning.”
“No. There were messages from Grace and my aunt. And from Lizzie and Gubbins. The rest were from ‘unknown callers.’ Probably tabloids. I didn’t even listen. I erased them.”
Ben looked puzzled for a moment. “Wait. I called you from home . . . I just got a new Internet phone.” His whole body seemed to relax. “Your cell wouldn’t have recognized the number.”
Wait. Ben was the unknown caller? He’d really tried to reach me?
He moved out of the doorway, sat down on the edge of his desk and smiled. “You weren’t avoiding me.”
I shook my head. “No.”
He’d been worried that I hadn’t wanted to connect. Concerned he’d offended me. I realized I was smiling, too.
“I was afraid you were going to quit,” he said.
He was really worried. I’d had it all wrong. I felt sorry I’d misjudged him.
The phone in his pocket rang.
“Hold on.”
He took out his BlackBerry, glanced at the number and lifted an index finger.
“It’s my guy,” he said, putting the phone to his ear. “Wickstein here.” He grabbed a pen off his desk. “Okay. Go ahead.” He jotted notes on the back of an envelope. “Autopsy confirms both deaths caused by single .22-caliber GSW to the head.”
I winced. He stopped writing and listened, his face darkening.
“Say that part again.” He wrote some more. “Uh-huh. Huh . . .” He looked at me, expressionless. “Anything else?” He put the pen down and continued listening for another excruciating minute. “Thanks. I owe you.” He hung up and frowned.
“What?”
“Three factors triggered the warrant.”
“Three factors.”
“One, the FBI report came in.”
“FBI? When did the FBI get involved in this?”
“The county uses the fed’s profiler on multiple murders.” He read from his envelope: “Crime scene of a disorganized type. Consistent with a killer who has been rejected or humiliated.”
“But that fits him.” My heart sped up. “It fits him exactly.”
“Who?”
“Stokes Diekmann. He was sleeping with Helene. And she dumped him.”
Ben crossed his arms. “Really. I would never have called that one.”
“I have it from a reliable source. Kind of.”
“That’s valuable information. He’s worth checking out.”
He left the desk and walked toward me, stopping inches away. He looked me square in the eyes.
“The profile also fits you.”
I blinked nervously. I knew that too well. But I balked at the idea that Ben might suspect me. He didn’t even know about my sleepwalking.
“True, but . . .”
“Number two: the DA has an incriminating document that your ex-husband kept.”
“What?” I stepped back, alarmed. “What kind of document?”
“On the advice of his lawyer, Hugh kept a diary during the period you two were divorcing.”