“What about the gun?” I asked.
“An Astra Constable registered to Austin’s dad. Apparently, Fritz stumbled across the weapon during the party and ended up taking it to the scene. Who knows what was going on in his head? He was brandishing the gun when Sloan made a break for it and headed into the woods. Fritz had no experience with a semiautomatic. He fired and kept firing until it was quiet in the underbrush. Turns out he hit her three times, the final wound being fatal, which he claimed wasn’t his intent. Good luck on that score. He was fifteen, tried as a juvenile, and sent to CYA. He was not your model prisoner. He’d been accused of attempted murder; he’d run dope; and he’d made an escape attempt. I don’t know what other kind of trouble he got into, but at age twenty-five they had to let him go. The weapon was never found. It was Troy who drove the pickup truck that was used that night.”
Ruthie spoke up. “He works as a mechanic at the repair shop where I take my car. He’s good at what he does, but it’s hard to look him in the eye if you know about his past.”
I said, “And Austin Brown disappeared.”
“The day he found out Fritz confessed,” Jonah said. “Rumor has it, he’s left the country, but I’m not sure how he managed it. He was in such a hurry he left his passport behind. A fake would have been easy enough to come by, but it would have cost him plenty.”
“He had money?”
“Pocket change. It’s possible his parents have been funneling cash in his direction over the years. Not that we have proof. We ran a mail cover for a while, but it netted us zip.”
“What do you think happened to the tape?”
“It must have been in Sloan’s possession at the time she died, but there’s been no sign of it. We got a search warrant and went over her room with a fine-toothed comb, but turned up nothing. Her mother closed and locked the door to her room at that point and she’s kept it locked ever since.”
The outside door opened again and Camilla Robb came in. She breezed past our table without so much as a nod in my direction and continued to a booth at the rear, where she sat down with her back to the room. Jonah got up automatically and returned his chair to its place at the table. “At any rate, let me know if I can help.”
“Ciao,” I said, for lack of anything better.
He took his beer with him as he sauntered in Camilla’s direction, trying not to look like a dog being called to heel. He slid into the booth across the table from her. All I could see of Camilla was a portion of her left shoulder, her left arm, and her left hand, on which she wore her wedding band, which she was rotating with her thumb.
Ruthie stared after her. “Who the hell was that?”
“Jonah’s wife. I’m surprised you haven’t run into her before.”
“Did she just snub you royally or were my eyes deceiving me?”
“Cut me dead. She’s not a fan.”
“What’d you do to her?”
“Slept with her husband during one of their many epic separations.”
“You naughty girl. Recently?”
“Seven years ago.”
“Oooh. The lady knows how to carry a grudge.”
“Her best quality,” I said.
Ruthie shook her head, but I could have sworn she looked at me with a new respect.
I was home by seven, grateful for the heads-up about the dinner special. I topped off my evening with a hot hard-boiled egg sandwich with way too much mayonnaise and way too much salt. Of special note was the fact that I was able to return to my Elmore Leonard while I ate, which made it a double treat. Though I was unaware of it at the time, this was a lull before the gathering storm, if you fancy such talk.
3
Saturday, September 16, 1989
The McCabes’ address on State was marked by a decorative Spanish tile with a stylized number 1319 embedded in a stucco wall of a building adjacent to the Axminster Theater. A wooden door, painted turquoise, opened onto a stairway lined with the same decorative tiles. Halfway up, the stairway was broken by a landing, which eased the climb to the second story. At street level, the row of buildings boasted the local Christian Science Reading Room, a store selling high-end home furnishings, two restaurants, a florist, and a Pendleton’s shop.
When I reached the top of the stairs, I knocked at a second, interior door, which was opened moments later by a housekeeper who was on her way out. In her left hand, she carried her purse and a big brown paper bag. In her right, a lightweight vacuum cleaner. I worried she’d make a misstep and take a tumble.
“You need help?”
“No, I’m good. This is lighter than it looks,” she said, indicating the vacuum cleaner. She called back over her shoulder, “You have a visitor, Mrs. McCabe.”
“Thanks, Valerie. I’ll be right there.”
“See you Tuesday.”
The housekeeper continued down the stairs. Lauren appeared in the doorway wearing embroidered flats, trim slacks in navy blue wool, and a teal silk blouse with long sleeves. She was probably in her early fifties, but she carried the years well, possibly with cosmetic assistance though I saw no overt evidence of surgical tampering.
I’d never seen a woman decked out in so many diamonds: rings, earrings, a necklace, and a jumble of bracelets. Her hair was straight, a shiny unapologetic gray that she wore in a short bob that framed her face. She was blue-eyed, tanned, and attractive without being beautiful. The air around her was scented with lily of the valley cologne, like a faint whiff of spring.
“You must be Kinsey. I’m Lauren McCabe,” she said, holding out her hand.
“Nice meeting you,” I said. As we shook hands, I registered the strength of the cool, narrow fingers she offered me.
“Please come in.”
She stepped aside so I could pass into the apartment ahead of her. A small foyer opened into the living room, where the ceilings were high and light poured in through a series of French doors that opened onto a second-floor loggia. The interior walls were white, the furniture upholstered in neutral tones. In lieu of color, there were textures—wool, velvet, corduroy, cashmere, and silk. A black baby grand piano was dwarfed by the proportions of the room, which was grounded in polished red tiles covered by a muted, palace-sized Oriental rug. Sheers billowed with a passing breeze that made the place seem chilly. She closed two of the French doors, muting the street sounds outside. I felt a moment, not of envy, but appreciation. Living here, you’d be in walking distance of the whole of downtown: retail shopping, hotels, restaurants, movie theaters, even medical and dental offices.
I said, “This place is amazing. Is yours the only unit up here?”
She smiled. “We have it all to ourselves. We had a house in Horton Ravine, but that was sold eight years ago to cover legal bills.” Her tone was casual and the reference came with ease. She didn’t spell out the circumstances, probably assuming I would know. “I made some coffee if you’re interested.”