Текст книги "The Chill of Night"

Автор книги: James Hayman

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

‘What about the following Wednesday? The twenty-eighth?’

‘The office was closed between Christmas and New Year’s. No sessions.’

‘What about this week? Last Wednesday? You said she was a no-show?’

‘Yes. I wondered why.’

‘Did you check?’

‘My receptionist called. She didn’t get an answer.’

‘Has Abby ever missed an appointment before?’

‘Yes. Twice. Both times when she convinced herself she could cut down on her medication.’

‘Why would she want to do that?’

‘Because she thought she was okay. She felt normal. Let me give you a little background. Abby’s on a drug called Zyprexa. It’s a strong antipsychotic. She’s on the highest dose I generally prescribe. It works well. Prevents most of the symptoms. However, it has a number of side effects. The primary one is weight gain. Abby doesn’t like that. Not surprising, of course. Being physically attractive is important to a young woman in her twenties. So when she begins to feel normal, when she isn’t experiencing psychotic symptoms, she’ll say to herself, “Hey, I don’t need this stuff anymore,” and she either cuts down on the drug or, as she did on one occasion, cuts it out completely. She hasn’t been experiencing psychotic episodes lately. Entirely possible she’s gone off again.’

‘What happens when she does?’

‘Depends how long she’s been off, but it seems she’s already hallucinating. The emotional trauma of witnessing a murder could also trigger that. Or exacerbate it. Abby’s tried to kill herself twice already. It could happen again. I think we need to find her quickly.’

‘You’re right. For two reasons.’

‘What’s the other?’

‘We may not be the only ones looking.’

Twenty-One

Andy Barker smiled as he watched the thermometer stuck to the outside of the window rise. After weeks of wretched cold, things were finally moving in the right direction. Thank God. He just hoped it’d last. From early October to late May he kept all the windows closed and locked, all the cracks sealed with weather stripping, all the curtains drawn day and night. The same lined brown velvet curtains his mother had hung there more than forty years ago when Andy was a little boy. Even so, the cold had a way of seeping in.

Maybe if he had more fat on his body Maine winters, even bad ones like this, wouldn’t be so miserable. Whale blubber keeps whales warm. Shouldn’t people blubber do the same? All those bulbous blimps he saw waddling around the mall probably didn’t even feel the cold. At least not the way he did.

Andy had had no personal experience with fat. When he was a kid Mimsy constantly urged him to eat. ‘For your own good,’ she’d say. ‘Help you grow up big and strong.’ No matter how hard Andy tried to force down the food, though, it never seemed to help. He was small and skinny and funny looking, and that was that. An ugly duckling who was never going to turn into a swan.

Aunt Denise, Mimsy’s youngest sister, used to call him delicate. She was only ten years older than Andy, but she always treated him like a little kid. ‘Don’t worry about him so much,’ she’d tell Mimsy when she came to take care of him when Mimsy was going away overnight. ‘Andy’s okay,’ Denise would say. ‘He’s just a little delicate.’

God, how he hated that word. Delicate. Made him sound like some damned fairy. Well, he wasn’t a fairy, and if anyone knew that it ought to be Denise. Hell, he knew she knew it. The way she walked around the apartment flashing her goodies in that see-through nightie when she came to take care of him when Mimsy was away. The way she’d tease him mercilessly when she caught him sneaking peeks. Bitch.

Sometimes Andy’d peek through the keyhole when Denise was in the bathroom taking a bath or shower. He always liked doing that, at least until that last time. There he was, fourteen years old, down on his knees, his eye pressed against the door, and, boom, she whips it open and catches him in the act. Bitch.

‘Was there something you wanted to see, Andy?’ she asked, standing over him without a stitch on with a smirky little smile on her face. Her voice oh so sweet, butter wouldn’t melt.

‘No, no. I was just . . . just here.’

‘Haven’t you ever seen a naked girl before?’

He didn’t answer.

‘You haven’t, have you?’

He couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Just got to his feet and stood there blushing. He was sure she could see the bulge in his pajamas where his erection was pushing out. Sure he was going to explode and start squirting all over himself.

‘Well, go ahead and have a good look, Andy,’ she said, with a mean little smile. ‘Just don’t touch. That wouldn’t be right, now would it?’ Bitch.

He remembered her closing the door, leaving him on the other side. He was sure she’d tell Mimsy what he’d done. She never did, but the threat was always there. After that, when she came to stay over, the bathroom keyhole was always covered. He never saw her naked again.

No, Andy shook his head sadly, he liked girls alright. As much as anyone. It was just that they didn’t like him back. None of them did. Thinking about it, he felt the old sense of despair breaking out. He tried to push it away. He didn’t want to go there. Not now. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm himself.

His mother was gone now, taken by cancer nearly five years ago. He missed her. He really did. Even though, if he was going to be super honest about it, her being dead wasn’t all bad. Apartment 1F was all his. It didn’t stink of dead cigarette butts anymore, and he didn’t have to hide his stash of magazines or videos or worry about her finding them. It also meant he wasn’t always being hassled to go out and find a nice girl.

Somehow Mimsy never got it. Girls didn’t like him, not even ugly girls. Occasionally he worked up the courage to convince some girl he found on Match.com or eHarmony or Craigslist to go out with him. One who was ugly enough or desperate enough to give him a try. But it never worked. There never was a second date, and Andy was tired of being dumped on, stood up, and turned away. Besides, he didn’t really want an ugly girl. He wanted a girl like Lainie. Now even she’d been taken from him. It wasn’t fair. God had really fucked him over.

The hell with it. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. In one sense he still had Lainie and he always would. He double-locked the door to 1F, latched the chain, and brought out his box of DVDs from their hiding place behind the false panel in the closet under the stairs. He set the box down next to his favorite chair, a brown corduroy La-Z-Boy recliner.

It was Lainie moving into 2F three years ago that first gave him the idea to install the spycams. Someone really worth looking at taking the apartment. Someone a whole lot sexier than Denise. He remembered showing Lainie the apartment, remembered following her through each of the empty rooms, showing her how big the closets were and how much light the windows let in, pointing out the new appliances in the kitchen, hoping against hope that she might want the place, absolutely certain that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life. Those incredible eyes. That gorgeous face. That amazing body. Maybe the best part of it all, maybe the best moment in his entire life, was when Lainie turned to him at the end of the tour, smiled, and said, ‘It’s perfect. I’ll take it.’

Christ, it had been all he could do to keep himself from pumping his arms in the air and shouting ‘Yes!’ like some halfback who just scored the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl. Somehow he managed to hold himself in. Managed to just smile back calmly and say, ‘Great. I’ll run downstairs and print up a lease.’

Yes, Goff taking the apartment was what finally gave him the courage to turn his long-imagined fantasies into action. He knew exactly what he had to do, exactly what equipment he needed for the job, exactly how to make it work. Of course, why wouldn’t he? What with him being a former video professional and all.

Andy’s mind went to that cop who caught him in 2F last night. Guy treated him like he was some kind of pervert. Sure he was turned on by Lainie’s underwear, but so what? Who wouldn’t be? Lacy black thongs pressing into her you know what. Andy should have known the bastard was still there, but he was sitting in that chair just out of range of the bedroom spycam, and it’d been so quiet up there so long, he figured the guy was gone. Bastard sure fooled him.

Twenty-Two

‘Look, you’re her shrink,’ said McCabe. ‘You know how her mind works. If anyone knows where Abby would go to hide from a killer it ought to be you, right?’

Wolfe shook his head helplessly. ‘I’ve already told you what I think.’

‘Kelly?’

‘Yes.’

‘He says he doesn’t know where she is.’

‘Have you searched the place?’

‘Are you suggesting Kelly may be lying?’

‘All I’m suggesting is that Kelly’s unpredictable. The minute anyone starts thinking they know who or what John Kelly is, it’s time to think again.’

‘Aren’t you the one who placed Abby at Kelly’s?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why? I thought Sanctuary House was supposed to be for sexually abused runaways. Mostly teenagers. I hadn’t heard Abby was abused, and she’s not a teenager.’

‘She wasn’t, and she’s not. At the time, I wanted her out of Winter Haven. She was doing well. Staying on her meds. The voices were quiet –’

‘The voices?’

‘Yes. Abby hears voices. Auditory hallucinations. Common among schizophrenics. At that point, they were under control. But none of the halfway houses I usually work with had space, so I called Kelly and talked him into letting Abby work at Sanctuary House as a staff assistant, a kind of an unpaid intern/big sister. Convinced him her illness wouldn’t get in the way. I thought taking on that kind of responsibility would be good for Abby. Build confidence. Self-esteem.’

‘Did it work?’

‘Yes. For several months it worked very well. Abby was proud of the trust people were placing in her. Especially Kelly. She worked hard. Did a good job.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘She fell in love with Kelly.’

‘I thought Kelly was gay.’

‘He is. She fell in love with him anyway.’

‘What happened?’

‘It kind of blew up in her face. In our sessions I told her pursuing Kelly wasn’t a good idea. She said she couldn’t help how she felt. So I suggested it was time for her to leave Sanctuary House.’

‘What happened next?’

‘She went to Jack. Told him how she felt. Made explicit sexual advances.’

‘She told you that?’

‘Eventually, but Kelly did first. He was worried about her. Said he told her he thought that she was a terrific young woman but that her feelings were inappropriate. That it was an impossible situation and that it would be best all around if she left Sanctuary House.’

‘Sounds like an appropriate response.’

‘I think it was.’

‘How did she react?’

‘She felt abandoned. Humiliated. He was the first man she’d reached out to since her illness began, and he turned her away.’

‘Did he tell her he was gay?’

‘Yes. I think on some level she already knew it. Subconsciously, she was creating a situation she knew would lead to rejection.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe to demonstrate her own worthlessness.’

McCabe remembered the picture of the healthy young woman standing on the rocks by the sea. Only a couple of years older then than Casey was now. GRRRL POWER! her sweatshirt proclaimed. He felt a profound sadness at the curveballs life had a way of throwing at people. He knew there wasn’t much he could do about it.

He pulled out the photo of Lainie Goff and the others at the party and handed it to Wolfe. ‘Any idea what the occasion was?’

‘Yes. A Sanctuary House fund-raiser. A week or so before Christmas. I was there along with about a hundred other people.’

‘I recognize Ogden and Kelly, and Goff, of course. Do you know who the other two are?’

‘The blonde is a Palmer Milliken attorney. Janet something or other. I only met her that night.’

‘Janet Pritchard?’

‘Sounds right.’

‘How about the tall bald guy?’

‘A money man from Boston,’ said Wolfe. ‘Goff hooked him for a decent chunk of change, and Kelly closed the deal.’

‘How big was the donation?’

‘Ten K.’

‘Do you know the money man’s name?’ McCabe asked.

‘Uhh . . . yes.’ Wolfe paused, trying to remember. ‘Give me a minute. I don’t have your talent for total recall.’ He squinted at the horizon. ‘Tom? Ted? No, Todd. That’s it. Todd Martin? No, that’s a tennis player.’

‘Todd Markham?’

‘Markham, yes, that’s it.’ Wolfe nodded. ‘Todd Markham.’

A buzzer rang. Wolfe looked at his watch. ‘Food’s here,’ he said. ‘Sit tight. I’ll run down and get it.’

Jesus, McCabe thought, this was getting incestuous. He looked again at the photo. Every one of these people was in some way connected to Goff, and any one of them might have had reason to kill her. Kelly for the money. Ogden as her lover. Pritchard as a competitor for a Palmer Milliken partnership and maybe for Ogden’s affections. Markham? All he knew was that Lainie was killed in Markham’s house, in Markham’s bed. Maybe they were lovers as well.

Markham was in Chicago Tuesday night, Maggie had told him. Had dinner with a couple of clients. Stayed at the Hyatt. Didn’t get back to Boston till . . . Till when? He’d interrupted her before she finished the sentence. He’d have to check.

Wolfe returned carrying a brown paper bag filled with food. He set it on the coffee table. ‘I don’t know if I should even bring this up,’ he said, pulling containers out of the bag, ‘but there is one possibility we haven’t discussed.’

‘Which is?’

‘Which is that maybe Abby didn’t just witness Goff’s murder. Maybe she committed it.’ Wolfe opened a drawer in his desk and started pulling out paper plates, napkins, and chopsticks. ‘Shall I split everything up? Half and half?’

‘Sure. That’s fine.’

As Wolfe began doling out equal portions of the food, McCabe walked over to the window and looked down at the water. The barge hadn’t made a whole lot of progress in the time he’d been there. He guessed barges moved slow. He thought about what Wolfe just said. Could Abby have been the killer? He’d never considered that possibility. None of them had. Not Maggie. Not Bowman. Not any of his team. Probably dumb. It was a scenario too obvious to ignore. He knew she was present when the murder took place – she knew details she couldn’t have known otherwise – and she had run away. Disappeared into the night. They’d all assumed she was hiding from the killer. Wasn’t it equally possible she was hiding from them? From the police? Or maybe hiding from what she had done.

Wolfe held up the bottle of Dewar’s. ‘Sure you won’t join me?’

McCabe glanced back. ‘No thanks.’

‘Another water, then?’

‘Sure.’

Wolfe refilled his own glass and put another bottle of Poland Spring by McCabe’s plate.

If Abby was the killer, McCabe wondered, why would she have gone to the police in the first place? Why wake up Bowman in the middle of the night? What about motive? But even as he was asking himself these questions, he knew they were irrelevant. Abby was crazy. Schizophrenic. She suffered from hallucinations and delusions. For someone like Abby, normal concepts of reason and motive didn’t apply. If she killed Lainie Goff, it would have been in the middle of a psychotic episode, probably without even realizing what she had done.

McCabe returned to his chair and took his plate of food. He picked up a spring roll, dipped it in sauce, and took a bite. ‘You say you know Abby better than anyone else. Do you think she’s capable of murder?’

‘Capable of it? Of course she’s capable of it,’ Wolfe said, chewing on a mouthful of spicy duck. ‘Abby’s schizophrenic. She inhabits an alternative reality. If she’s been off her meds for a while – or if they’re starting to lose their effectiveness – she’s capable of damned near anything.’

‘So you’re saying she invented the story of the monster with his face on fire?’

‘No. Probably not,’ Wolfe said. ‘A monster with his face on fire may in fact be exactly what she saw, whether she killed Goff herself or just witnessed the murder. Either way.’

‘You better help me with that, Doctor. I’m a little slow today.’

‘Let me give you some background. Schizophrenia is a brain disorder that’s characterized, more than anything else, by a profound disconnect between perception and reality. Like most schizophrenics Abby suffers from delusions, things that are false but that she believes to be true. She also suffers from hallucinations. False sensory perceptions. She sees and hears things that aren’t there. She really does see them, though, and hear them. They’re as real to her as that coconut shrimp is to you.’

‘So if Abby did kill Goff . . .’

‘She may really, truly have seen a monster do it. Maybe somewhere in her mind she feels it’s something only a monster could do. What she doesn’t recognize, if that’s the case, is that the monster is her.’

McCabe leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He supposed what Wolfe was suggesting was possible, but the more he thought about it, the more certain he became that it just didn’t happen that way. There were too many details that didn’t fit. Details Wolfe wasn’t aware of. Like the dumping of the body on the Fish Pier. Like the note in the mouth. Like the precise and careful way she’d been killed. No, McCabe was sure Abby hadn’t done it. ‘What if she’s not the killer?’ he asked. ‘What if she did in fact see it happen?’

Wolfe shrugged. ‘Then she’s probably seeing the killer as a monster because what she actually saw was too frightening or too painful for her mind to accept. But really, I’m just guessing now.’

McCabe wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, got up, and tossed his empty plate in the trash. ‘Is there any way to bring the real memory back?’

‘Maybe. When nonschizophrenics repress painful memories, hypnotherapy sometimes works.’

‘Hypnosis?’

‘Yes. It isn’t typically used with schizophrenics, but it’s not necessarily contraindicated either. I’ve never tried it with one, but I’ve read about some experimentation. In fact, I’d be interested to see how it works with someone like Abby.’

‘Do you know anybody who’s an expert in, what did you call it? Hypnotherapy?’

‘Yes. Me.’

‘You’d be willing to hypnotize Abby?’

‘Yes. Of course – but we’ll have to find her first.’

McCabe nodded thoughtfully. ‘Thanks, Doc. I’ll let you know when we do.’ He got his coat and put it on. ‘And thanks for dinner.’

Twenty-Three

‘It’s Andy, right? Do you mind if I call you Andy?’ Maggie leaned into the open back window of the black-and-white patrol car, looking down at the small figure hunched on the backseat. He glanced up at the question but didn’t answer. Maggie smiled. Andy Barker blinked back. ‘You don’t mind if I call you Andy, do you?’ She repeated the question. ‘I’ve got a younger brother named Andy. He’s my favorite brother, actually.’ Her brothers’ names were really Trevor and Harlan. ‘Andy’s always been one of my favorite names.’

Her eyes registered the green and black plaid wool pants the guy was wearing, the green suede ankle boots, the fake snakeskin jacket. Little perv even dresses creepy, she thought.

‘Yeah. That’s fine,’ he said, still blinking. ‘I guess that’s fine. Can I call you Margaret?’

Could he call her Margaret? The name printed on the card she’d given him last night. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘You call me Margaret.’

She extended her hand. He looked at it but made no effort to shake it. ‘Nice to meet you, Andy,’ she said. ‘And thanks for agreeing to come in and talk to us.’ She pushed the hand toward him just a bit more.

Finally he took off a glove and shook. His hand felt cold and dry. Like a dead man’s, she thought, letting go. She could see he was shivering. ‘Hey, Castleman,’ she called to the uniform behind the wheel, ‘pump up that heat a little, would you? Man’s cold back here.’

Castleman didn’t do anything right away. Maggie knew the last thing he wanted was to make the guy in the backseat more comfortable. Tough shit. ‘Hey, Castleman, you hear what I said?’ Castleman’s right hand poked at the temp gauge and flipped the fan on to high.

‘Thanks, Castleman,’ Barker said, a little gloat in his voice. Then he looked up. ‘Why do I have to go with him anyway?’ he asked. ‘I’d rather drive with you. In your car.’

‘Yeah. I know, I’d prefer that, too, Andy. Then we could talk privately on the way in. But we’ve gotta follow department protocol. You know what I mean?’ She stood and tapped her left hand twice on the unit’s front door, letting Castleman know it was time to leave. The rear window rolled up. The car pulled out onto Brackett. Maggie could see Barker turn and look back, watching her through the misted glass. She smiled, raised a hand, and gave a small wave. Like a mother sending her kid off to school.

She waited until the unit turned left on Pine Street and disappeared, then stepped over a pile of dirty snow that was starting to melt in the warmer air. She opened the door of her unmarked Crown Vic, pulled off her coat, tossed it on the passenger seat, and headed for 109.

Barker knew something he wasn’t telling them. Maggie was as sure of that as she was of anything. Something that explained why he snuck into Goff’s apartment at four in the morning wearing a tool belt. The trick would be getting it out of him. In spite of what she’d told McCabe, she had to play this one carefully. It wouldn’t be all that easy.

Maggie parked herself in Fortier’s office and watched Barker fidget on the TV set in the corner. He was nervous, looking this way and that. He’d been there ten minutes and was starting to get antsy. Time to get the show on the road. She nodded to Brian Cleary, who was standing next to her. Ten seconds later she watched the door to the interview room open. Cleary walked in.

‘Hey, Mr Barker, how are you? Detective Cleary here.’ Cleary disappeared from view as he sat down in the interviewer’s chair. The camera stayed focused on Barker’s face.

‘Where’s Margaret?’

‘Who?’

‘Margaret.’

‘Oh. Detective Savage, you mean.’

‘She asked me to call her Margaret.’

‘Yeah. Well. She’s my boss, so I gotta call her Detective Savage. Anyway, she’s stuck in a meeting for a few minutes. Said to tell you she’ll be with you as soon as she can. Shouldn’t be very long. Asked me to cover a few of the preliminaries so we don’t take any more of your time than we have to. Hey. Would you like me to get you a cup of coffee? Or water or anything?’

‘I’ll have a glass of water.’

‘Okay. Sure thing.’ Cleary’s shoulder came into frame as he got up. A minute later Maggie could see his hand place a full glass of water in front of Barker. If he drank any he’d leave a DNA sample on the rim.

She could see Cleary’s hands on the table opening a manila file folder. ‘Okay,’ he asked. ‘Now, your full name is what?’

‘Andrew Barker.’

‘Any middle name or anything?’

‘John.’

‘Good. And you live in Apartment 1F at 342 Brackett Street here in Portland, right?’

‘I own the building.’

‘Oh yeah? Good for you. How long have you lived there?’

‘All my life. I was born there.’

‘Really? Right there in the apartment?’

‘No,’ Barker said, irritation beginning to creep into his voice. ‘I was born at Cumberland Medical Center. My parents lived in the apartment at the time.’

‘Your folks still live there?’

‘Is Margaret coming soon?’

‘Yeah. Just a few minutes. She said she’s anxious to talk to you, so I’m sure she’ll be here as soon as she can. Your folks still live there? In the apartment, I mean?’

‘No. My parents divorced when I was little. Mimsy died about five years ago.’

‘Mimsy?’

‘My mother.’

‘Mimsy was her name?’

‘No. Her name was Gloria. Mimsy’s what I called her.’

‘Oh yeah? Sort of like Mom or Mommy or something like that?’

Barker squinted at Cleary. ‘It wasn’t like that. Mimsy’s what everybody called her.’ He started looking around the room. Everywhere but at Cleary. ‘Where’s Margaret? I thought she wanted to talk to me. I can’t wait here all night, y’know.’ The tone was petulant. Maggie figured it was time to make an entrance. Wait any longer and Barker’s irritation would turn into anger and they’d probably lose him altogether.

‘Mr Barker,’ she said, walking into the interview room, ‘I’m sorry we had to keep you waiting.’ Then, to Cleary, ‘Brian, I can take over from here.’ When Cleary didn’t move she added, ‘Would you mind?’

‘Hey, I’ll be happy to stay, Marg . . . uh, Detective Savage,’ said Cleary.

‘Not necessary,’ Maggie said. Walking behind Barker’s chair, she stood behind him, facing Cleary. ‘I’d rather speak to Mr Barker privately.’

Cleary held up his two hands, palms out, a signal of surrender. ‘Okay, you’re the boss,’ he said. ‘Call me if you need me.’

Maggie continued around the table in time to see a nearly imperceptible smile flicker across Barker’s face as he watched Cleary collect his notes and walk out of the room. The carefully orchestrated dance was over.

‘Asshole,’ Barker muttered.

‘Oh, don’t mind him,’ said Maggie. ‘He’s just trying to do his job. We all are.’

‘You’re different.’

‘Thank you, Andy. I appreciate that.’ She sat in the chair Cleary had just vacated.

He looked at her.

‘I’d like to start by asking you some questions about your building and about Elaine Goff. And also about your other tenants. Would that be alright?’

‘Okay. Yes. Sure. That would be fine.’

Maggie opened a small notebook and for about ten minutes took him through a series of general questions about the building, about his job as landlord. After that they went back and forth for a few more minutes about the other tenants in the building. Who they were. Where they worked. How long they’d lived at 342.

As they spoke Maggie could see Barker’s eyes darting back and forth, going from her face when she was looking at him to her breasts when he thought she wasn’t. Every time she looked down to write something in her notebook, boom, down they’d go. It was almost funny. The little creep would probably start salivating in a minute. Or jerking off. She considered buttoning her jacket and cutting off his view. Then she changed her mind and, instead, hoisted her long legs up on the table and leaned back in the chair and let the jacket fall open. Barker’s lascivious looks weren’t anything she couldn’t handle, and the longer he thought he could sneak a peek, the longer he’d want to stay and answer questions. Maybe more important, the more excited he got, the more likely it was that he’d slip up and tell her something he didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to confess to the crime, Your Honor. I was distracted by the detective’s boobs.

‘How long has Goff lived in the apartment?’ Maggie asked.

‘A little over three years. She signed a lease for a fourth year back in November. She was a good tenant. Quiet. Clean. The place was always picked up. She always paid her rent on the first of the month.’

The place was always picked up? Interesting. How would Barker know that? ‘Was she friendly with any of the other tenants?’

‘Not really. Not that I know of. I saw her talking with the Chus occasionally.’

‘The Chus?’

‘Nancy and Tom Chu. The people on the third floor rear. She was pretty friendly with them, especially Nancy.’

‘Interests in common?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Barker. Maggie’s pen went back to her pad; Barker’s eyes went back to her breasts. ‘Nancy’s into photography. They talked about that a lot.’ Maggie looked up. So did Barker. He gave her his best smile.

‘Would you excuse me, Andy?’

He looked up questioningly.

‘Just be a second,’ she said. ‘I have to go to the little girls’ room,’ she added in a conspiratorial whisper.

She left the room and found Cleary and Tasco. ‘Did you guys talk to the Chus last night? Apartment 3R?’

‘No. They didn’t answer the door.’

‘Okay. Find Nancy Chu. Bring her in. Tell her it’s important.’

She went back to the interview room. ‘There, that’s better.’ She smiled. ‘So, tell me about Goff,’ she said. ‘What kind of woman was Lainie?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What did you think of her?’

‘I liked her.’

‘Yeah, but what’d you think of her? I mean, did you ever talk to her?’

‘Yeah, sometimes I talked to her.’

‘What about?’

Barker shrugged. ‘Stuff.’

‘Stuff in her apartment?’

‘I didn’t go into her apartment.’

‘Well, you must have gone in there occasionally to fix things. Y’know? That kind of stuff?’

‘Yes. Occasionally.’

‘Did you go in there a lot?’

‘I said occasionally.’

‘Was Goff there when you went in?’

‘If something needed fixing, she usually told me to take care of it while she was at work. She always knew about it, though.’

‘But you did go in there?’

‘Yes. I already told you that.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’d you think of the pictures? The photographs. On the bedroom wall.’

‘They were . . .’ Barker paused as if he were searching for the right word to use. ‘They were . . . beautiful.’

‘Yeah, they were, weren’t they? Really beautiful. I thought so, too.’ Maggie smiled warmly at him.

Barker seemed to relax.

‘Did you ever talk to Lainie about the pictures?’

‘No.’ Now he looked puzzled.

‘Never discussed them with her at all?’

‘No. That would have been . . .’ Again Barker searched for the right word. ‘Rude. That’s what it would have been. Rude. Them being pictures of her and all.’

‘Really? Those were pictures of Goff? You’re sure? I mean, you can’t see her face or anything.’

Barker smiled. ‘I’m sure.’

‘Did Goff tell you she posed for the pictures?’

‘Let’s just say I’m sure.’

‘That is so cool.’ Maggie paused as if she were debating something. ‘You know, Andy, I’ll let you in on a little secret.’

‘What?’

She leaned forward and spoke in a near whisper. ‘I sometimes think . . . now, you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone.’

‘What?’

‘Nah, I probably shouldn’t be telling you personal stuff like this.’

‘No, c’mon, what?’

‘Well.’ Maggie looked left and right as if she were checking that there was no one else in the room. ‘I sometimes think I’d like to get some pictures shot of me like that. Don’t you think that’d be cool?’

Barker stared at her.

‘Too bad you never asked Lainie who the photographer was.’

‘I . . . I . . . know who it was.’

‘Really? Who?’ she asked.

‘Nancy Chu.’

‘Nancy Chu from 3R?’

‘Yup.’

‘Gee, she’s good. Do you think she’d do me?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ Barker said, leaning in even closer. ‘In fact, I could probably arrange it.’ The little creep was positively radiating sexual tension.