Artist's Proof (15 page)

Without looking back to see if I was there, he held open the kitchen door, and I went through it to the small backyard. Is this where he took Cassie when he believed she had earned a good thrashing?

A frayed hammock that had barely survived the winter hung over a balding lawn. Nora Brennan kept a tidy house, but it was clear that she never came back here to put this area in shape. I wondered if Cassie had lain in that hammock last summer when her father was nowhere around, and dreamed of the bright future for herself that didn't include this town.

Brennan turned around and faced me. “Okay. What the hell were you doing with Cassie?” he demanded. “With my girl?”

“I was drawing her picture. It's the way I make my living. Cassie sat for me.” Was I going to have to pick my way through another labored explanation? “Your wife knows about our arrangement. Talk to her.”

“I'm talking to you. I don't have to talk to her.”

“Okay, talk to me.” With luck I could talk him down off his high.

He wasn't prepared to talk, only to confront me. “She was a kid,” he offered weakly. “Still in school, for Christ's sake.”

“Cassie graduated last January. Didn't you know?”

He possibly didn't; the red blotches stood out in his face. He didn't want me asking questions, only answering them. He shouted, “You son of a bitch, were you humping my daughter?”

“No.” I was tempted to say, Were you? “The work we did together was intense but it was strictly business. And it brought good results. For us both.”

“Bullshit. You did her bareass naked.”

He knew that if we stuck to words I might get the better of him. With no further warning he lurched toward me and threw a roundhouse punch. It came slowly, and I was able to move out of its path. And then, almost by reflex, I stepped forward and drove a fist deep into his soft belly. I was sorry the instant it connected.

He said, “Oof,” and doubled over.

Now people were spilling out of the kitchen door, and a low rumble of disapproval floated my way. I had done a dumb thing; they saw the mourning father sunk to one knee and looking like a whipped dog.

He straightened up and I read the humiliation in his mottled face. He was getting ready to deliver another punch. I braced myself and moved to take this one. He was drunk; how much harm could he do?

More than I guessed. He wasn't all flab, and there were nearly two hundred pounds behind his meaty fist. It caught me on the left shoulder, and I spun around and went down on my butt. A shock wave traveled up my spine to the back of my neck.

When I looked up, Jack Beltrano had grabbed the outraged but now satisfied father of the deceased by the waist. “Easy, Jim, easy,” he said and led him away. Someone behind me was helping me to my feet.

It was Chuck Scully. He said softly, “Don't these people have trouble enough? What are you doing here?”

“Paying a condolence call.”

So much for my noble sacrifice; I hadn't damaged my hand, but my shoulder and neck were killing me. If that kept me from painting I would brain that drunk Brennan.

“Some condolence,” Scully was saying. “Jeez. Can't you control your temper?”

He was spanking yard dirt off the back of my good clothes. He said, “No wonder Docherty locked on to you. And in case you thought he'd forgotten, he wants you in tomorrow morning. To answer some questions. Nine
A.M
. at police headquarters. Meanwhile, why don't you go home and paint a picture or something?”

I said, “I think I'll do that.”

T
HIRTEEN

I
DIDN'T NEED
Gayle to point out that I had behaved like a damn fool; my shoulder explained that to me all the way back to her place.

“I found out why Jim Brennan has that chip on his shoulder,” she said. “Did you know the Brennans had another daughter?”

“Cassie told me she died.”

“She was run over. Five years old. Her father was supposed to be watching her, but he'd slipped off to a bar for a quick one. How's that for a load to carry around?”

As she got out of the car she invited me up for comfort food—cold chicken and a beer.

I thanked her but explained that I was eager to go home; I could still get in a few hours of work before sleep. What I was thinking was, Chicken, Gayle? I've already eaten crow tonight.

*   *   *

T
HE MINUTE I
got home I changed into sneakers and sweats. My neck was almost back to normal; I figured a half hour's jog on the beach, working my arms vigorously, would keep that shoulder from stiffening when I started painting. It was not much after nine o'clock, and the May air was still mild. Good weather for a run.

Out on the sand I took a precautionary first step in aid of the shoulder; arms extended to the sides, I cut small circles in the air while I listened to the whispering ocean. I happened to be facing west, and up the beach a quarter of a mile I could see a light in the Sharanov house. Not a room light, more like a small lamp. If there were any more ambient illumination it wouldn't have shown, but the moon was no bigger than a fingernail paring.

And then the light winked, bobbed, threw a beam, and slid from one upstairs window to another: I was looking at a flashlight. Sharanov was in the city, and someone was in his house, almost certainly without an invitation. A persuasive argument for my jogging west rather than east.

I weighed one other decision: Should I go back in the house for my off-duty pistol? The compact Smith & Wesson five-shot had been a comforting weight in the small of my back for years, my faithful companion on long subway rides and latenight trips to the convenience store. Like all retired cops I was licensed, but the S&W lay in my desk drawer unloaded. I hadn't fired so much as a single practice round in half a dozen years, and I might do more harm than good with the piece.

The clincher was that I couldn't remember where I had stashed the .38 ammo. By the time I found it, Mr. Flashlight might vanish. So I jogged off unencumbered. Toward the Sharanov house.

When I was a cop, if I had gone to investigate a possible crime in progress without both a weapon and backup I would have drawn a reprimand. So why was I so hell-bent now? It was beyond hope to expect Cassie's assailant to be sniffing around the scene of his crime at this late date. But something was up; it certainly wouldn't hurt to take a look.

I advanced at less than warp speed. In the pitch dark along the beach I had to be wary of where I placed my feet; the scattered rivulets and gullies changed shape and position from day to day. And every time I lifted my head from my sneakers the distant flashlight had moved to a new spot. By the time I got close to the house, still working my arms therapeutically, the light had long since floated down the ramp to the bedrooms. That was one busy prowler.

Without taking the time to stop and decide exactly what I intended to do, if anything, I moved around the house to the front entrance and glided up the corkscrew ramp to the door. I would shape a plan at the top.

One choice was to wait beside the door for the intruder to leave, and jump him as he came out. Another was to knock firmly and see what that stirred up.

The choice was made for me when I touched the knob. The door was unlocked.

I slipped in and eased it closed. Here in the dark of the living room I expected to have a moment or two to make a further decision. Should I look for the switch and turn on the lights? Should I slip down the ramp in the dark and assess the situation? Or should I find the phone and make a whispered call to the police? And why hadn't I thought of this last before I jogged the quarter of a mile up the beach?

The choice, it turned out, was not to be mine. Almost immediately, I spied the flashlight beam bouncing back and forth on the interior ramp. The visitor was making his way back up to this level.

I flattened myself against the living room wall at right angles to the top of the ramp. And realized I had now more than half-committed myself to mixing it up with whoever was on his way up. Conscious of the dull ache in my shoulder, I was probably about to go one-on-one with someone for the third time in four days—more often than I had in my last ten years on the job. My out-of-shape and aging body was protesting, and so was my cautious mind.

At least I had surprise on my side. I had better use it decisively.

That light beam was pointed dead ahead while the feet that moved it up the ramp dragged. This clod was taking forever to make it to my level. When he did, I was ready. I came out low and charging.

I connected with a hip. The attached body toppled over backward and I landed on it. The two of us rolled a few yards down the ramp, first me up, and then him, before we came to a stop. With me, as luck would have it, on top. Meanwhile my opponent, who was softer than a jelly doughnut and had about that much fight in him, had been yelling “Hey! What the hell! Damn it, stop!”

The yell was urgent and frightened, but its undertone was almost languid, as though urgent and frightened were alien to this voice. I had heard the voice before.

Still straddling my adversary, I yanked the flailing flashlight out of his hand and shone it in the face of Kitty Sharanov's lounge lizard brother. What was his name? Roy Chalmers. He still couldn't make out who was sitting on him, and now he was shouting, “It's no use, all I have is six dollars. Take it, it's yours.”

I said, “You'll need it for gas and tolls, Roy. Unless the village police hold you for breaking and entering.”

I turned the light to my face. Chalmers took a moment to place me and then I felt his body untense. He said, “What do you mean, breaking and entering? I have a key to the front door. What are you doing in this house?”

It was a reasonable question.

*   *   *

W
E WERE SEATED
in matching chairs on the west side of the living room. By agreement the only light came from a small lamp we had placed on the floor between us. There would be no one in residence in the summer homes to the west, practically no likelihood of the light being seen to the east, where the nearest house was mine. But why take chances?

Chalmers was relaxed now, comfortable in the designer chair; he knew how to lounge, all right. He was dressed in his snooping clothes—a pair of good lightweight wool slacks, a maroon cashmere sweater over an open shirt, and Italian shoes with adjustable buckles, in case, I supposed, he lost weight in his feet during the caper. I had already explained that as a conscientious neighbor I had come over to investigate what I thought was a prowler. And what was his excuse for being here in the dark?

He said he didn't need an excuse; he reminded me that his sister was mistress of this house, and she had given him the key to pick up a few things for her.

“With a flashlight?”

“With a flashlight or a flaming torch,” he said languidly. “What the hell business is it of yours?”

“None,” I said. Then, “But don't you think your brother-in-law might be interested in your reason for this visit? If he is, you'd have to give him a full explanation because I happen to know he gets impatient with people who are less than totally candid with him. Have you ever seen Misha impatient? He's really bad news.”

Chalmers's posture shifted noticeably. No longer lounging, he now veered toward cringing. “The man's impossible to live with,” he whined. “Temper, temper, temper. Plus, he's a flagrant adulterer.”

He wrestled with himself briefly before delivering the rest of the news. “You'll hear about it anyway. Kitty filed for divorce today.”

“No kidding,” I said; she had plenty of cause but I hadn't thought she had the guts.

“Misha's furious,” Roy went on. “She's afraid he won't allow her access to some things here that are indisputably hers.”

“Why not?”

“Sheer spite. Clothes, accessories, personal items. There's no reason for you to fan the fire by bringing my presence here to his attention. You met Kitty. She's a decent woman but dreadfully pliant. Misha will roll right over her. She may end up with nothing. After nearly fifteen years with the creature from the black lagoon.”

If she ended up with nothing, so would brother Roy. I said, “You've been poking around here in the house for—what?—a good twenty minutes. If you're collecting Kitty's personal effects, where are they?”

He wasn't prepared for the question. After a painful silence he murmured, “I was basically doing an inventory this time out. I plan to return with a minivan in a day or two.”

I wasn't going to let him off with that lame excuse. I said, “Kitty's things would likely be in one or two places—the bedroom and her bathroom. You were running all over the house with that light. Looking for what?”

His mouth pursed. He didn't want to go into that.

I pressed. “How about you were looking for something you didn't need a van for? Like cash.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Whatever wretched little money Kitty has is in the bank.”

“I mean Misha's cash. A bundle or two he might not be able to put in a bank. Skim from his restaurant in Brooklyn.”

Dismissively, “The Tundra? I wouldn't know anything about that.”

My hunch was that possibly he did. He would if Kitty did. But if that was it I wasn't going to get it out of Roy Chalmers. Cash money was serious business. Hot irons to the soles of his feet wouldn't coax that truth out of him.

Two minutes later we left the house together, and Chalmers locked the front door. I watched him get into his Mercedes—his sister's, I supposed—and drive off.

I called after him, “Be sure to give my regards to Kitty.”

*   *   *

I
REALIZED WHEN
I got home that at least one good thing had come out of the encounter. Jogging hadn't done the job, but rolling down the ramp in an embrace with Roy Chalmers had readjusted my shoulder; the pain was almost gone. I would have to remember the remedy.