The Answer Man (8 page)

The words went through Ken like a knife. His father was probably dead. But he didn't ask, choosing instead to get the news in person. He hoped Myth would give him better news.

The traffic thinned out closer to Myth's house, and as he turned down the street, he noticed that her house was dark. The porch light wasn't on, and it appeared no one was home. Ken parked and climbed the winding stairs. He was halfway up, when the door swung open.

Myth appeared and sauntered down the stairs to meet him. She came to rest on the step above his.

“Well?” he asked.

She smiled. “It worked.”

“He passed?”

“Yes!”

Ken sucked in a huge lungful of air, as if he were a pearl diver breaking through the surface. He laughed and grabbed her around the waist. “
Yes!
We did it!”

She laughed too. She leaned forward and kissed him. It started as a sweet, playful kiss, but suddenly went deeper.

He rubbed his hands over her body, pulling her dress taut at the seams.

“Let's go inside,” she whispered.

She made a halfhearted attempt to turn around, but he pulled her down to a half-sitting, half-lying position on the
stairs. Cloaked in darkness, they could barely be seen by each other, much less by any passersby on the street.

“Not here,” she weakly protested.

Ken's breath moistened her neck, and a long shudder went through her. She pulled him close. “What the hell,” she whispered.

He ran wet kisses over her face, behind her ears, and down her neck. Her body relaxed beneath his as he unzipped her dress.

Myth reached for another hors d'oeuvre from the half-dozen platters surrounding her and Ken on her living room floor. They were both naked, wrapped in blankets. “You're supposed to do it in
elevators,
not stairways.”

“You don't have an elevator. I had to improvise.” He surveyed the feast laid out before them. “Aren't you supposed to celebrate with champagne?”

“I don't like champagne. Have another stuffed meatball. Or a turkey roll.”

“I'm still working on the boiled shrimp. Your mother tell you the way to a man's heart is through his stomach?”

“No. Through
here.
”

Under the covers, she grabbed his sensitive lower extremity.

“Okay, okay! Take it easy, it's gonna break off!”

She laughed and let go.

He pulled the blankets tightly around her and dragged her close. “If that's what your mother told you, she's a wise woman.”

“Wait till you hear what my father told me.”

“I don't even want to know.” He tenderly brushed the hair from her face.

“Sabini will pay you tomorrow, in cash,” she said. “What are you going to do with it all?”

“What do people say when they win the lottery? That it's not going to change them? Screw that. It's gonna change me.”

She laughed.

He leaned against a coffee table. “I can relax a little. My brother's sick, and I've been giving him all the cash I can. It's like a black hole. There's never enough. I can't even think about looking for a new line of work while he's in such bad shape. But with this money, I can take care of him. He can stop worrying. I think that's one of the reasons he can't get better. The stress is just tearing him apart.”

“It's been hard on you too.”

“Nothing like it's been for him. But this money will help me make a new start for myself. How many people get that chance?”

She smiled warmly at him. “Not many.”

“Things are going to be different. Better.” He shook his head. “You know, when I said Bill stole Margot away from me, it didn't really happen that way.”

He paused to put his thoughts into words. “I think…I think I pushed her away. It's not that I didn't think I deserved her. It wasn't that. I guess I just wasn't being very good to myself, and I wasn't going to let anybody else be good to me either. Bill just happened to be there when she needed someone.
I
sure wasn't there for her.”

He was surprised at the words tumbling from his mouth. Surprised because he was sharing them with someone, and because they were notions he was forming only at that very moment.

Myth moved closer. “Have you ever wanted her back?”

“I used to. Not anymore. That's all in the past. I'm more interested in the future. I have a birthday coming. It'll be the first one in a while that I'll be able to enjoy. A long while.”

She smiled. “I'll enjoy it with you.”

He was about to kiss her, when the phone rang.

Myth answered it. “Hello? Yes? Christ, Rogers, what makes you think you can—”

She fell silent, and a tense, anxious look crossed her face. She glanced at Ken.

“I'll be right there,” she said.

Less than half an hour later, Myth walked down a grimy side street in the downtown area, five blocks from the Underground shopping and entertainment complex. As safe and well patrolled as the Underground center was, the surrounding area deteriorated rapidly, with each outlying block more seedy than the previous one. This was not a place for anyone—man or woman—to be walking alone in the middle of the night. She knew she shouldn't have parked so far away, but Ken had insisted on riding with her, and she couldn't risk his being seen waiting in her car.

She rounded a corner and saw, two blocks in the distance, the bright work lights and squad cars that indicated a crime scene. She took a deep breath and pushed onward.

It was always so easy to distance herself from the unpleasantness of the criminal world when she practiced law in luxurious offices and impersonal courtrooms. They were a far cry from the grit and depressing reality of criminal life on the streets. She liked the distance, the detachment. It was the only way she could defend her clients.

She wanted to be anyplace but there.

She stepped closer to the yellow police tape, behind which were the silhouetted figures of several men. Blue flashers from the squad cars bathed the area in a bizarre strobe-light effect, giving those on the outskirts of the scene the appearance of jerky movement, as if in an old silent movie. A familiar form walked toward her.

“Can I show a girl a good time, or what?”

It was Rogers. The assistant D.A. smiled and pulled the tape up.

Myth leaned under and joined him on the other side. “What happened here?”

“Cop thought he was a bum sleeping in the doorway. Poked him with a nightstick a couple of times, but he wouldn't wake up.”

She followed him toward the nucleus of all the activity, where the wattage and attention were most concentrated.

He smirked. “I hope you got a big retainer up front.”

She tried to prepare herself for the sight, but her breath still left her when she saw it.

Burton Sabini's corpse.

He was lying in the doorway of an abandoned youth hostel. His eyes were open, and he almost seemed…
alive,
she thought. He was wearing the same expression he wore in countless meetings with her, sitting quietly in his ever-polite, always-patient manner. But now his chest was covered by a large, sopping stain of blood.

“Multiple stab wounds,” Rogers said.

A forensic specialist, leaning over the body, shook her head. “Just one. It was enough.”

Myth couldn't take her eyes off Sabini. “Does anybody know what happened?”

Rogers glanced back at the uniformed cops huddled in front of their cars. “Looks like a robbery. His wallet's missing. They identified him from a tag on his keys.”

A plainclothes police detective walked past. “Rogers, go home. We're working.”

Rogers didn't budge. He was still looking back at the police line, where the first of the scanner geeks had arrived. A young woman's long lens was aimed in Myth's direction.

Rogers nudged Myth and pointed to the scanner geek. “The kid's taken a liking to you. If you're not careful, you might find your photo blown up to poster size in college dorms all over the city. Hmm…I wonder if she'd sell one to
me
?”

Myth wasn't in the mood to humor Rogers. She turned from the body.

Rogers put what was supposed to be a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I think the D.A. might be willing to drop the charges now.” He shrugged. “Just a hunch.”

Hound Dog adjusted the zoom lens on her camera and snapped four quick pictures. Myth Daniels was here. How strange that mere days after being haunted by that face, she
should see it in the flesh, Hound Dog thought. And in these grim circumstances, no less. Only after seeing Myth Daniels did Hound Dog realize that the corpse was the man pictured with her in the newspaper.

Hound Dog lowered her camera. Had she seen Myth Daniels at another crime scene? She didn't think so. But if not, then where?

Ken waited impatiently in the car, parked in the shadows of a dark side street. Myth was finally returning after what seemed like hours. He checked his watch. She had been gone only twenty-five minutes. She opened the door and slid behind the wheel.

“Say it's not true,” he said.

She just looked at him. It was true.

He sat there, stunned, as she started the car and pulled onto the street.

After a couple of minutes of silence, Myth spoke quietly. “This afternoon he was talking about taking his son to Orlando.”

“I can't believe it.” Ken shook his head. It was only yesterday that he last saw Sabini. One final pep talk. With the training complete, they wouldn't have had any reason to see each other again. Ken was surprised when Sabini actually hugged him before leaving the office. The last day of school.

And now the man was dead.

“Ken, I'm afraid you're not getting the rest of your money.”

He was silent for a long while. “I pretty much figured.”

“And I'm afraid we'll have to stop seeing each other. At least for a while. This is a
murder
investigation. Every tiny piece of Sabini's life is going under the microscope. And that includes me. If they link me to you, then they might figure out the rest of our arrangement.”

He nodded. “How was Sabini—?”

“Stabbed.”

“That's how Carlos Valez was murdered.”

“Coincidence.”

Ken suddenly felt suffocated by the whole situation. He cracked open his car window. He was still dazed when Myth pulled alongside his parked car.

“I'm sorry about your money,” she said. “And I'm sorry about us, Ken.”

He still hadn't absorbed any of it. It did not seem real to him; it was almost like waking up from a great dream, only to discover none of it really happened.

She kissed him. “I'll get in touch when I think it's safe.”

He nodded and climbed out of her car. Though he was aware she was watching him, he didn't look back as he slid into his MG, started it up, and drove away.

He went home and immediately collapsed. He tossed and turned as the harsh sunlight attacked him through the window blinds of his bedroom. He slept only intermittently, between haunting fever-dream flashes he could never quite remember upon waking.

Late in the afternoon he pulled himself up and stared at the dust-streaked window for a long while. He knew what he had to do.

He had to find that money.

G
ant's wife squeezed his hand as the recital began. Diane's students were performing their spring concert, and it was now entirely beyond her control. Gant didn't mind these functions as much as some of the other teachers' spouses. It was rare he was able to see his wife in her element, and he enjoyed the respect she commanded from the students, parents, and even fellow instructors.

Since Sprayberry was a performing arts high school, the recitals delivered more than the typical choir-on-risers snooze-fest. This was a multimedia extravaganza, with elaborate costumes, computer graphics on video monitors, and even smoke and lasers. The kids were in the midst of a rendition of the B-52's “Love Shack,” when Gant felt the vibration in his hip pocket. His pager. He tapped his pocket and shrugged apologetically at his wife. She knew what it meant.

He tried to be inconspicuous as he squirmed down the aisle and made his way to the back of the theater. He found a pay phone in the lobby.

“Gant here.”

“Hi, Gant. It's Hoover. Sorry to bug you.”

Hoover was a detective who worked the evening watch at the station. Gant didn't have much history with him, though their paths did cross on a murder investigation a few years before. The case, which resulted in the discovery
of an international counterfeit credit card ring, made the national papers and news weeklies. Unfortunately, the FBI took the lion's share of the credit, and Gant and Hoover, who actually broke the case, barely rated a mention.

“What's up?” Gant asked.

“I'm on a homicide, this Burton Sabini thing.”

“The embezzler?”

“Right. There may be a connection between this and your Valez case. The captain tipped me off to it. Can you come down here?”

“Now?”

“It might be a good idea. I'm sorry, Gant, but if you—”

“No, no, it's all right.”

Gant didn't like to work nights. He thought of the TV cops who seemed to do nothing but work on their cases morning, noon, and night until they had their man. “Horseshit!” he usually yelled at the screen whenever a detective was still on the job for what seemed to be his eighteenth hour in a single day. But occasionally it happened. Occasionally.

“I'll be right down.”

Ken threw open his office door and flew to the desk, looking for the phone bill he had tossed there the day before. Sabini had made several phone calls in their nights together, and if any of the numbers were outside the immediate access area, they would be listed on the statement.

Ken found the BellSouth bill and scanned it. There, listed several times, was a number called during the hours of Sabini's training. Each call was never longer than a minute in duration.

Who had Sabini called between midnight and three
A
.
M
.?

“Of course I'm here. I
live
here,” Bill said as he walked with Ken down the main office corridor of the Tillinger Savings and Trust.

That Bill was still toiling in his office at eight
P
.
M
. had been a safe bet. These days, Ken had an easier time catching Bill at work than at home.

“I need to sneak a peek at the phone directories,” Ken said. “The ones where you can look them up by number.”

“By number, street address, whatever. We have national listings on CD-ROM, but we also get the Georgia listings in books from the phone company. They cost a fortune, but they're more current.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“What do you need them for?”

“Deadbeat client. I'm just looking to get paid.” Ken was glad he didn't have to lie. All he wanted was the five to ten percent finder's fee that companies usually offered in return for finding missing monies.

“We have them for very much the same reason.” Bill spoke in hushed tones, although the place was deserted. “By the way, Margot told me you asked about a loan a couple of weeks ago.”

The battery-acid taste was coming back. “I got everything squared away.”

“Good. But you could have asked
me,
you know.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Of course, the answer would have been the same. We just don't have anything to spare.” Bill frowned. “I'm disappointed you didn't feel comfortable talking to me about it. I know you and Margot have all this history, but, Jesus, you and I have known each other twenty years.”

Bill didn't get it, Ken thought.

It wasn't a subject they ever talked about, but since Ken had lost Margot, there was a barrier, an invisible wall between him and Bill. They still talked, played football, and ate an occasional meal together, but things were never quite the same. He felt bad about it only when Bill tried to pretend things
were
the same.

It had been a humid July night—was it really six years
before?—when Ken first suspected his wife was sleeping with his oldest friend. They were with a large group to watch the Independence Day fireworks at Lenox Square. There was something about Margot's and Bill's body language that night…. Not that they were suddenly too intimate with each other, but just the opposite. They were noticeably awkward and strained. Bill and Margot had always openly joked and engaged in mildly flirtatious behavior, but suddenly that all stopped.

They seemed to be making a conscious effort
not
to hold eye contact for too long. Their verbal exchanges were clipped and stilted. And Bill's manner toward Ken was not unlike a toady sucking up to the boss—ingratiating, overanxious, just a little
too
nice. Since Ken was not in a position to give him a raise or promotion, he suspected Bill was angling for something else.

Forgiveness.

Later the same night, when Ken pulled Margot close to him, there was a certain hesitancy, a resistance. He waited a couple of weeks before confronting her with his suspicions. She listened to him, nodded, and admitted everything. He almost wished she had tried to deny it so he could work up more anger. But she looked so pitiful and emotionally overwrought, he felt angry only at himself.

That was probably why he had been able to remain friends with Margot and Bill. There were some tough times—the first time he saw them hold hands, the first time they kissed in front of him. But he survived. They all survived.

And now, years later, Bill still wanted things to be the way they used to be.

Ken finally replied. “You don't owe me anything, you know.”

“Owe you? Why would I owe you?”

Ken didn't look at his friend. They walked in silence until Bill realized what he was talking about.

“That's not what I'm thinking, Kenny. But maybe that's why you won't let me help
you.
”

“That's not it. I just—I just got something else going right now. Something that might pan out.”

“What?”

“I'll let you know when it happens.”

Bill led Ken to the library, which was actually a converted office lined with tall metal shelves. Bill yanked three thick, soft-covered volumes from a shelf and tossed them onto a table.

“I'll be in my office. Come get me when you're done, okay?”

“You got it.”

Bill left the room and Ken quickly thumbed through the books, looking for the number Sabini had called. Within a minute he discovered that the calls had been placed to Sabini's home telephone number. To his wife or kid, Ken supposed. But in the middle of the night?

“Just so you know, I'm not going by ‘Sabini' anymore. I'm using my maiden name, ‘Randolph.' ”

Ken sat across from Sabini's widow in the kitchen of her Brookhaven home. It was a pleasant one-story house, decorated with flowered wallpaper and pastel color schemes. The midafternoon sun sliced through open curtains.

Ken slid his briefcase to one side on the table. He had been admitted after he told her he was from Vikkers Industries' insurance company, tying up loose ends in the embezzling case. Denise Randolph had only rolled her eyes in response, opening the door wider for Ken to enter. She had obviously been through this countless times.

Denise appeared to be in her mid-forties. She was a plain woman, but she carried herself with a vitality that made her more attractive than at first glance. She didn't appear to be grieving too much over her husband's death.

“You've changed your name from ‘Sabini'?” he asked.

“Yes. My husband's name has been bandied about quite a bit in the last few months. I don't want it anymore, and I don't want my son to have it either.”

Ken felt sorry for Sabini. The man's only stab at immortality was slipping away.

“Okay, thanks for telling me,” Ken said. He jotted the name ‘Randolph' in his notebook. “Honestly, do you think your husband took that money?”

Denise smiled and shook her head. “When this first came out, I would have said there was no way on earth he could have done something like that. No way. It just wasn't him.”

“You weren't living together when all this came out, were you?”

“No, we weren't. He had moved out a few weeks before.”

“Did that make you suspicious?”

“No. I asked him to move out. It had been a long time coming, believe me.” She looked toward the head of the table.

Sabini's place, Ken figured. Even with all the friends and family he had lost over the years, it still amazed him that a person could simply cease to exist. A lifetime of love, knowledge, and experiences erased in an instant.

Poor Sabini.

He deserved better than he got.

Denise looked away. “The only thing he cared about was Jeremy, our son.”

“I'm sure he cared about you.”

“If he did, he forgot how to show it.”

“We know he called you several times in the last couple of weeks of his life. Can you tell me why?”

“He called a couple of times for Jeremy. He never called me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“We know he made several calls to you between midnight and three
A
.
M
.”

“Oh, Lord,” she said with a long sigh. “Someone was
calling and hanging up. I thought it might be him, but I didn't know.”

Calling and hanging up. That explained the short duration of the calls. Sabini had just wanted to hear her voice.

For the first time, Denise was showing genuine sadness for her husband's passing. She cleared her throat.

“Did he have an office here at home?” Ken said, trying to move to a less emotional subject.

She nodded. “I'll show it to you.”

She led him to a converted bedroom that was completely bare except for an empty desk and a set of empty shelves.

“Police took the rest,” she said. “They stripped the place clean.”

Stripped was right, Ken thought. There was no trace of the man who had worked here.

“Did he have a computer?” he asked.

“Sure. One here and one at work. He hated them though.”

“Why?”

“His work computer crashed a few times, and once he almost lost weeks of work. I guess some people aren't cut out for the information age.”

“You said
at first
you thought he couldn't have taken the money. But what about later?”

Denise looked away and slipped her hands into the pockets of her brown corduroy slacks. “I have to admit that the thought of him doing that was…
nice.
It was so out of character. Dangerous. Risky. Do you know what I mean?”

Ken nodded.

“This thing has turned my life upside down. The police came in here and took away half the house. The newspapers, TV, and people like you haven't given us a moment's peace. But it almost would be worth it if he
did
take the money. I liked the thought of that.”

“You liked the thought of the money?”

“The money doesn't matter. What matters is that for
once in his life, Burton Sabini may have actually put himself on the line for something.”

Ken walked toward Bobby's front door. He had come directly from Denise Randolph's house, and she had given him only one thing remotely resembling a lead. It may have been nothing, but he was interested in the fact that Sabini had so much computer trouble. If someone outside the company had access to his data, maybe the security breach was there. He decided to follow up on it the next morning.

Bobby's wife opened the door before he could knock. “Guess what?” She spoke quietly as she ushered him inside. “The cash fairy floated by and put five thousand dollars in the mail slot last week.”

“I wish he'd visit me.”

“I think he did.”

Ken looked toward the closed bedroom door. “Is Bobby sleeping?”

“Yes. I'd rather not wake him right now. He doesn't get much sleep. Please sit down.”

Ken walked to the dinette table and took a seat. He watched Tina as she strode to the freezer and pulled out a small paper bag. She brought it back to the table and sat across from him.

“What's that?” he asked.

She reached into the bag and produced the roll of bills that had come from Sabini. “Where did you get this?” she asked.

“Business has been good.”

“I see.” Her accent grew stronger, as it often did when she was upset. “This is over one hundred lie detector tests. You once told me that you usually get only two or three examinations a day.”

“It's not just the quantity. It's the quality. Some clients pay more than others.”

“I haven't told Bobby about this.”

“Why not?”

“I don't think he would like it. He doesn't like taking your money.”

“That's why I usually give it to you.”

“I don't like taking it either. But I know we don't have any choice. I've been keeping a record of all the money you've given us, and one day we will pay you back.”