Murder at the Foul Line (5 page)

The next morning, Keller got up early and drove straight to Grondahl’s house in Carmel. He parked across the street and sat
behind the wheel of his rented Ford, a newspaper propped on the steering wheel. He read the national and international news,
then the sports. The Pacers, he noted, had won last
night, in double overtime. The local sportswriter described the game as thrilling and said the shot from half-court that fell
in just as the second overtime period ran out demonstrated “the moral integrity and indomitable spirit of our guys.” Keller
wished he’d taken it a small step further, claiming the ball’s unerring flight to the basket as proof of the Almighty’s clear
preference for the local heroes.

Reading, he kept an eye on Grondahl’s front door, waiting for Greenie to appear. He still hadn’t done so by the time Keller
was done with the sports pages. Well, it was early, he told himself, and turned to the business section. The Dow had been
up, he learned, in heavy volume.

He knew what this meant—he wasn’t an idiot—but it was something he never followed because it didn’t concern him or hold interest
for him. Keller earned good money when he worked, and he didn’t live high, and for years he had saved a substantial portion
of the money that came into his hands. But he’d never bought stocks or mutual funds with it. He tucked some of it into a safe-deposit
box and the rest into savings accounts. The money grew slowly if it grew at all, but it didn’t shrink, and there was something
to be said for that.

Eventually he reached a point where retirement was an option, and realized that he’d need a hobby to fill the golden years.
He took up stamp collecting again, but in a far more serious fashion this time around. He started spending serious money on
stamps, and his retirement savings waned as his collection grew.

So he’d never managed to get interested in the world of stocks and bonds. This morning, for some reason, he found the business
section interesting, not least because of an article on Central Indiana Finance. CIFI, which opened the day at
$43.27 a share, had fluctuated wildly, up five points at its high for the day, down as much as seven, and finishing the day
at $40.35. On the one hand, he learned, the shorts were scrambling to cover before the ex-dividend date, when they would be
liable for the company’s substantial dividend. On the other, players were continuing to short the stock and drive the price
down, encouraged by the pending class-action lawsuit.

He was thinking about the article when the door opened and Meredith Grondahl emerged.

Grondahl was dressed for the office, wearing a dark gray suit and a white shirt and a striped tie and carrying a briefcase.
That was to be expected, it being a Thursday, but Keller realized he’d unconsciously been waiting for the man to show himself
in shorts and a singlet, dribbling a basketball.

In the driveway, Grondahl paid no attention to the basketball backboard but triggered a button to raise the garage door. There
was, Keller noted, only one car in the garage, and a slew of objects (he made out a barbecue grill and some lawn furniture)
took up the space where a second car might otherwise have been parked.

Grondahl, given his position in the corporate world, could clearly have afforded a second car for his wife. Which suggested
to Keller that he didn’t have a wife. The fine suburban house, on the other hand, suggested that he’d had one once upon a
time, and Keller suspected she’d chosen to go away and had taken her car with her.

Poor bastard.

Keller, comfortable behind the wheel, stayed where he was while Grondahl backed his Grand Cherokee out of the driveway and
drove off somewhere. He thought about following the man, but why? For that matter, why had he come here to watch him leave
the house?

Of course, there were more basic questions than that. Why wasn’t he getting down to business and fulfilling his contract?
Why was he watching Meredith Grondahl instead of punching the man’s ticket?

And a question that was, strictly speaking, none of his business, but no less compelling for it: Why did somebody want Meredith
Grondahl dead?

Thinking, he reminded himself, was one thing. Acting was another. His mind could go where it wanted, as long as his body did
what it was supposed to.

Drive back to the motel, he told himself, and find a way to use up the day. And tonight, when Meredith Grondahl comes home,
be here waiting for him. Then return this car to Hertz, pick up a fresh one from somebody else, and go home.

He nodded, affirming the wisdom of that course of action. Then he started the engine, backed up a few yards, and swung the
car into the Grondahl driveway. He got out, found the button Grondahl had used to raise the garage door, pressed it, got back
in the car, and pulled into the spot recently vacated by the Grand Cherokee.

There was a small boulder the size of a bowling ball standing just to the right of Grondahl’s front door. It might have been
residue from a local avalanche, but Keller thought that unlikely. It looked to him like something to hide a spare house key
under, and he was right about that. He picked up the key, opened the door, and let himself in.

There was a chance, of course, that there was still a Mrs. Grondahl and that she was home. Maybe she didn’t drive, maybe she
was an agoraphobe who never left the house. Keller thought this was unlikely, and it didn’t take him long to rule it
out. The house was antiseptically clean, but that didn’t necessarily signal a woman’s presence; Grondahl might be neat by
nature, or he might have someone who cleaned for him once or twice a week.

There were no women’s clothes in the closets or dressers, and that was a tip-off. And there were two dressers, a highboy and
a low triple dresser with a vanity mirror, and the low dresser’s drawers were empty, except for one which Grondahl had begun
to use for suspenders and cuff links and such. So there had indeed been a Mrs. Grondahl, and now there wasn’t.

Keller, having established this much, wandered around the two-story house trying to see what else he could learn. Except he
wasn’t trying very hard, because he wasn’t really looking for anything, or if he was, he didn’t know what it might be. It
was more as if he was trying to get the feel of the man, and that didn’t make any sense, but then what sense was there in
letting yourself into the house of the man you were planning to kill?

Maybe the best course of action was to settle in and wait. Sooner or later Grondahl would return to the house, and he’d probably
be alone when he did, since he was beginning to strike Keller as your typical lonely guy.

Your typical lonely guy
. The phrase resonated oddly for Keller, because he couldn’t help identifying with it. He was, face it, a lonely guy himself,
although he didn’t suppose you could call him typical. Did this resonance get in the way of what he was supposed to do? He
thought it over and decided it did and it didn’t. It made him sympathize with Meredith Grondahl, and thus disinclined to kill
him; on the other hand, wouldn’t he be doing the poor bastard a favor?

He frowned, found a chair to sit in. When Grondahl came home, he’d be alone. And he’d be relieved to return to the safe
harbor of his empty house. So he’d be unguarded, and getting taken from behind by a man with a club or a knife or a garrote—Keller
hadn’t decided yet—was the last thing he’d worry about.

It’d be the last thing, all right.

The problem, of course, was to figure out what to do with the day. If he just holed up here, it looked to be a minimum of
eight hours before Grondahl returned, and the wait might well stretch to twelve or more. He could read, if he could find something
he felt like reading, or watch TV with the sound off, or—

Hell. His car was parked in Grondahl’s garage. That assured that the neighbors wouldn’t see it and grow suspicious, but what
happened when Grondahl came home and found his parking spot taken?

No good at all. Keller would have to move the car, and the sooner the better, because for all he knew, Grondahl might feel
the need to come home for lunch. So what should he do? Drive it around the block, leave it in front of some stranger’s house?
And then he’d have to return on foot, hoping no one noticed him, because nobody walked anywhere in the suburbs and a pedestrian
was suspicious by definition.

Maybe waiting for Grondahl was a bad idea altogether. Maybe he should just get the hell out and go back to his motel.

He was on his way to the door when he heard a key in the lock.

Funny how decisions had a way of making themselves. Grondahl, who had returned for something he’d forgotten, was insisting
on being put out of his misery. Keller backed out
of the entrance hall and waited around the corner in the dining room.

The door opened, and Keller heard steps, a lot of them. And a voice called out, “Hello? Anybody home?”

Keller’s first thought was that it was an odd thing for Grondahl to do. Then another voice, pitched lower, said, “You better
hope you don’t get an answer to that one.”

Had Grondahl brought a friend? No, of course not, he realized. It wasn’t Grondahl, who was almost certainly doing something
corporate at his office. It was someone else, a pair of somebody elses, and they’d let themselves in with a key and wanted
the house to be empty.

If they came into the dining room, he’d have to do something about it. If they took a different tack, he’d have to slip out
of the door as soon as the opportunity presented itself. And hide in the garage, waiting for them to emerge from the house
and drive away, so that
he
could drive away, too.

“I think the den,” one voice said. “House like this, guy living alone, he’s gotta have a den, don’t you think?”

“Or a home office,” the other voice offered.

“A den, a home office, what the hell’s the difference?”

“One’s deductible.”

“But it’s the same room, isn’t it? No matter what you call it?”

“I suppose, but for tax purposes—”

“Jesus,” the first voice said. It was, Keller noted, vaguely familiar, but maybe that was just because the speaker had a Hoosier
accent. “I’m not planning to audit his fucking tax returns,” the man said. “I just want to plant an envelope in his desk.”

Out the door, Keller told himself. Let them plant whatever they wanted in whatever they decided to call the room with the
desk in it. He’d be gone, and they’d never know he’d been there in the first place.

But when he left the dining room, something led him not to the door but away from it. He tagged along after the two men and
caught a glimpse of them as he rounded a corner into the living room. He saw them from the back, and only for a moment, but
that was time enough to note that they were both of average height and medium build and that one was bald as an egg. The other
might or might not have hair; you couldn’t tell at a glance, because he was wearing a cap.

A green cap with gold piping, and when had Keller seen a cap like that? Oh, right. Same place he’d heard that voice. It was
a John Deere cap, and the man wearing it had met him at the airport and given him tickets to that goddamn basketball game.
Depressed the hell out of him, ruined his first evening in Indianapolis, and thanks a lot for that, you son of a bitch.