Текст книги "The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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He trailed Nick into the bathroom. Sure enough, the tub was empty – and sparkling clean.

Nick ran his fingers along the rim. “Damp,” he commented. Perry stared at him. The deputies crowding the doorway also stared at him.

Pushing through them Nick headed toward the bedroom, zeroing in on the windowsill.

A shoe stood in plain sight on the ledge. It was black, small – maybe a size 9 – in good shape.

A muscle clenched in Nick’s jaw as he examined the loafer. “This isn’t the shoe.”

“See for yourself, buddy. It’s the only shoe here.”

Nick tossed the shoe to Perry, who caught it and swallowed. “This is my shoe,” he said as though he feared his shoe was guilty of some misdemeanor.

“Yep, that’s what we figured.”

“I thought you didn’t notice any shoes?” Reno retorted.

“We didn’t notice any suspicious shoes.”

“Shut up, Abe,” the older deputy muttered.

Nick started to speak, then bit it back. This was a losing proposition. The cops had made up their minds about twenty minutes earlier; that was plain.

He glanced at the kid, and it was obvious that Foster knew it was all over, although he was gazing at Nick expectantly. Why? What did he imagine Nick could do about this? Even if Nick wanted to do something about it.

He stared back, and the kid looked away, gritting his jaw. His hands were shaking and he shoved them into his pockets.

The deputies took their leave.

“We’ll say good night, folks. Keep safe.” The senior officer, last out the door, tipped the brim of his rain-spattered hat.

Nick caught the door before it closed on their heels. He glanced back at Perry Foster. The kid was focused on the tub framed in the bathroom doorway.

The underbreath comments of the deputies died away with the sound of their boots on the staircase.

Situation defused, Nick thought. Rack time at last. “I guess that’s it,” he said. “I guess I’ll say good night too.”

Foster’s head jerked his way. “You’re going?”

“Yeah.” Nick was elaborately casual in response to the note he didn’t want to hear in Foster’s voice. “It’s all clear here.”

Foster was a frail-looking kid. He lived on his own and presumably held a job, so he couldn’t be fourteen, though that’s how old he looked. His wrists were thin, and bony knees poked out of the holes of his fashionably ripped Levi’s. There were blue veins beneath the pale skin of his hands. Nick thought of the Froot Loops cereal and the asthma chart on the refrigerator.

Hell.

“Thanks,” Foster managed huskily. “I know you probably think I’m psycho too, so I appreciate your helping me.”

“I don’t think you’re psycho.” Actually he had no idea if the kid was psycho or not. “I think you saw something. But whatever it was, it’s gone now. It’s over.”

Nick thought of the shoe with the hole in it; he should have noticed right away it was too big for a pup the size of Foster. Someone had switched that shoe after Nick left. Someone had swabbed down the tub and the floor. Someone had balls of steel. But it was not Nick’s problem. It was not his job to save the world. Not anymore.

“Yeah, well…” The kid managed one unconvincing smile. “Maybe I can get a hotel room in town.” He picked up his suitcase. “I don’t want to stay here tonight.”

Nick’s nod was curt. Great idea. Best idea yet. Except… A gust of wind shook the house. The lights flickered. From across the room, Reno heard Foster give a soft gasp. His eyes looked enormous. Like Bambi after his mom bought it in the woods.

It was a dark and lousy night. Not a night to be out driving if you didn’t have to. The radio crackled with weather advisories. Anyway, what kind of bastard would send an asthmatic kid out in a rainstorm?

“Hell,” he growled. “You can stay with me tonight.”

There was that wash of color in the pointed face. “I don’t want to be any trouble,” Foster said hopefully.

Nick snorted.

Chapter Two

“You were a marine?” Perry tried to make polite conversation while sizing up Nick Reno’s apartment.

The tower apartments were small and secluded and mirrored each other. In both, the main room stepped up into a round dining alcove with two diamond-paned windows. From outside, the rounded rooms looked like small towers. They gave the rambling old house a vaguely gothic look. Otherwise, the place was unremarkable, especially now that most of the internal architecture had been gutted to accommodate apartments. Nick’s place had a long, narrow kitchen facing the woods. Perry’s overlooked the overgrown and mostly dead garden. It didn’t matter because his rooms were just a place to paint. It didn’t look like Nick spent a lot more time in his. He had two bedrooms (the one Perry could see into had been turned into a weight room) and a bathroom. There was little furniture and few personal effects.

Reno slid the deadbolt home and answered shortly, “Navy SEAL.”

“Let the journey begin.”

Nick gave him that hard look that Perry was beginning to recognize, and Perry explained, “On the TV commercials. Let the journey begin. Like, It’s not just a job, it’s an adventure. The marines slogan, you know.”

Apparently Nick did not know. He disappeared into the kitchen.

Feeling rebuffed, Perry turned back to the front room. The walls were bare except for one painting, a giant seascape. It hung over the fireplace. Gray-blue waves beneath lowering skies. Perry liked it. There were no other pictures. None. The walls were institutional white. There was a short blue couch, where he’d be spending the night. A standing light was positioned over the sofa. A small coffee table stood before it. That was it for the furniture. None of it revealed anything of Reno’s personality unless absence of furniture revealed something.

“You want a beer?”

Perry set down his suitcase and followed Nick’s voice to the kitchen. The kitchen was immaculate. An old-fashioned fridge hummed senilely to itself. The gas range looked like an antique. The clock on the wall indicated that it was after midnight, and Perry realized just how tired he was.

Nick stood at the sink chugging down a beer. Coming up for air, he said, “Help yourself.”

Perry opened his mouth to decline, but he saw the glint in Nick’s eyes, the look that said he expected Perry to be a finicky little candy-ass who didn’t drink beer at midnight.

“Thanks,” he said and opened the fridge. He expected it to be empty of anything but alcoholic beverages and health supplements. Wrong. The metal racks were stuffed with food. Milk, eggs, bread, and meat wrapped in white butcher’s paper. Vegetables pressed up against the crisper pans like damp noses.

Perry found a beer – good imported ale – and tried to twist off the top.

Nick inhaled his own beer and spit it out coughing over the sink. He was laughing, not very kindly. Perry rubbed his hand on his jeans.

“You need a bottle opener,” Nick informed him, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

Defensively, Perry muttered, “I wasn’t paying attention.”

Nick passed the bottle opener. “How old are you? You’re over twenty-one, right?”

“I’m twenty-three.”

The dark eyebrows rose skeptically. Nick looked about thirty. He had smooth olive skin and short, dark hair. And those navy blue eyes. He was very good-looking in a stern no trespassing way. About the same height as Perry, but built for action. Key word: muscles.

Perry swallowed a mouthful of beer, the faint skunky taste marking it an import.

He couldn’t decide if he liked Nick Reno, but he felt safe with him. He couldn’t imagine anything happening that Nick Reno couldn’t handle.

Nick left the kitchen and disappeared down the hall. Perry drank some more beer.

Pinpricks of rain against the ink black windows had a mournful sound. He remembered that just a few hours ago he had been in San Francisco. He couldn’t handle that memory now. Not with dead men appearing and disappearing like the middle reel of a slasher movie. He swallowed another musky mouthful of beer.

“How long have you lived here?” Nick’s voice inquired from the other room.

“A year next month.”

“And nothing like this has ever happened before?”

“No, of course not.”

“Anything suspicious?”

Perry thought it over. “No.”

“You don’t sound convinced.” Nick appeared in the doorway with a couple of folded wool blankets.

“It’s an old house,” Perry said reluctantly. “It’s got…atmosphere.”

Nick’s expression indicated he hoped “atmosphere” wasn’t catching. “What, floorboards creaking? Whispering voices?”

“Sometimes I feel like I’m being watched,” Perry said. “Sometimes it seems like my stuff has been moved. Like somebody’s been in my rooms. Sometimes it seems like the house is…listening.”

Nick considered him for a long moment. “I’d say you were nutty as a fruitcake, except someone scrubbed down that tub and switched those shoes. I sure as hell didn’t imagine it. And I sure as hell can’t think of any innocent reason someone would do something like that.”

It was a huge relief to be believed. Perry volunteered, “I was supposed to be gone all this week. I came back early.”

“Who knew that?”

Perry rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I don’t know. It wasn’t a secret. Janie – Ms. Bridger – knew. Mrs. Mac.” It was all beginning to catch up with him. Swallowing hard against the tightness in his throat, he said, “I’d been planning the trip to San Francisco for weeks. I guess anyone could have known.”

Whatever Nick read in his face caused him to say brusquely, “Yeah, well, it would be helpful to narrow it down. Get some sleep, and we’ll talk in the morning.”

Sleep sounded like a good idea. Perry hadn’t eaten anything in almost twenty-four hours, and the beer was hitting him hard. Or maybe it was exhaustion. He hadn’t closed his eyes last night – and the night before that he had been too keyed up to sleep. The drive from the airport had taken everything he had; he had been sputtering along on empty for hours now.

“Thanks.” He dropped down on the sofa. Nick tossed him the folded blankets. He caught them against his chest.

He opened his mouth to thank Nick one more time, but Nick, had already disappeared down the hallway to the room Perry couldn’t see. The door closed with finality.

The closed door was a relief. Perry hadn’t realized how nervous the older man made him. Nervous and self-conscious. Nick Reno, man of action, clearly despised the wuss from across the hall.

Perry opened his suitcase, found flannel pajamas and a clean pair of socks. It was going to be a cold night. Nick’s thermostat was set on sixty, and the window casements leaked.

Hands shaking with sudden exhaustion, Perry changed into the pajamas, pulled on the socks, and rolled himself in the blankets. The couch was about a foot too short. It didn’t matter; a bed of nails would be preferable to sleeping in his own silent rooms.

He vaguely considered brushing his teeth but somehow just couldn’t convince himself to make the effort. Instead, he buried his face in the cool pillowcase and got a shock. The pillow smelled of Nick Reno. It smelled masculine: long-ago aftershave and some kind of herbal soap.

In some indefinable way it reminded him of Marcel, although Marcel had smelled nothing like Nick Reno. Perry’s sense of loneliness and loss returned in force, crashing over him like a wave, dragging him out to sea on an emotional riptide. His eyes prickled, his face flushed. He pressed closer to the pillow that smelled like Nick Reno to muffle the sob that threatened to tear out of his throat.

Truly the last fucking straw if he finished this weekend crying himself to sleep on Nick Reno’s sofa. He pictured Reno coming out to find him sobbing into the upholstery and surprised himself with a watery chuckle. He could imagine the horror on Reno’s face so clearly.

Listening to the rain thundering down, he closed his eyes and let it wash him away.

* * * * *

Thirty minutes, Nick thought, slapping the magazine into the MK23. Thirty minutes tops and the kid would be in dreamland.

He waited, stretched out on the bed, arms folded behind his head, at ease, waiting.

He liked the sound of the rain battering down against the walls and roof; it reminded him of the sea. He missed the sea.

When the clock clicked over the thirtieth minute, he rose soundlessly and went to the door to ease it open.

All quiet in the living room. The light was still on, though, so he waited, listening. He focused hard, tuning out the rain, tuning out the clock, the branches scraping the house. He could hear the kid breathing softly, evenly, asleep.

Opening the door wide, he stole down the hallway. His houseguest was curled up uncomfortably on the sofa. His suitcase was open, his inhaler was propped on the coffee table in grabbing reach. His keys were on the floor. Nick took a second look. Foster wore some kind of striped PJs and a wristwatch.

Nick picked up the keys, pausing when a floorboard creaked. The kid sighed and buried his face deeper in the pillow.

Nick continued toward the door. Unlocking it, he slipped out into the dim hall. He relocked the door.

Cautiously he made his way down the hall. There was a walk-in linen cupboard at one end. Doubtful, but he wanted to check it out.

A steamer trunk beneath one of the grimy windows caught his attention. Talk about your long shots, but Nick had learned a long time ago never to assume anything. He turned his flashlight on.

The trunk was locked, but he picked the old lock without much trouble. Lifting the lid, he was greeted by the scent of mothballs. The interior was stuffed with junk: a couple of battered photo albums, old Life magazines, a black doll missing an arm, draperies that looked like shrouds. He shut the trunk, snapped off his flashlight, and headed for the linen closet.

A relic of more genteel times, the walk-in closet opened with a lugubrious screech of unused hinges. Nick waited for the sounds of alarm, ready to abort.

Nothing. He pulled the chain of the overhead light bulb. Tired light flooded empty, dirty shelves and cobwebs big enough to accommodate a Jules Verne spider. Dust carpeted the floor; Nick didn’t need to get down on hands and knees to verify that no one, dead or alive, had been in this room for years.

Strike two.

The kid – or maybe it had been the Bridger woman – had mentioned a laundry chute. Nick ran the flashlight beam along the wall. He had a vague memory of laundry chutes in hotels. Usually they opened out into the basement. Shoving it down a laundry chute might be a good way to get rid of a corpse, but there didn’t seem to be a chute door on this floor. The two tower rooms mirrored each other, and since there was no laundry chute in Nick’s room, he was pretty sure the kid didn’t have one, either.

That meant someone would have to lug the corpse down to the second level and stuff the body into the laundry chute there. Most of the chutes Nick had seen weren’t that big. It might be a good way to dispose of a child or a midget; an adult-sized corpse was liable to get stuck in place.

He proceeded along to the Foster boy’s apartment, feeling inside the unlit rooms for the light switch.

Briefly, he was distracted by the spread of painted canvases. White church steeples against stormy skies, a lonely, windswept red barn, golden trees: New England autumn. What did Foster do with all this? Did he try to sell it? It was better than a lot of stuff Nick saw for sale.

He studied the meticulously cared-for brushes, the tantalizing tubes of color, the sponges, rulers, razors, knives, rolls of canvas. An expensive hobby, if that’s what it was.

Opening the bedroom window, he stared down at the tall ladder glistening in the light coming from behind him. Here was the most likely explanation. The window had no screen, and it was large enough to push a man through.

But when Nick had checked, the window was locked. How did someone stuff a body out through a window, climb out themselves without dropping the body, close the window, and then lock it from the inside?

For that matter, how did an intruder get in through a locked window?

Okay, say the window hadn’t been locked to start with. Still no easy task to cart a deadweight up a twenty-foot ladder. Going down, the killer could just drop his load, but even that was a risk. Someone might hear the body crashing against the house. It might hang up in the trees. Shoving a corpse out of a window presented a number of logistical problems.

But a man might be desperate enough to try. Mostly it would depend on the size of the body and the size of the man carrying the body.

Wind skulked around the house, rising up to rustle the wet leaves with a ghostly hand.

Nick shook his wet head like a dog and ducked back inside the apartment.

The intruder would have to be a man, he decided. A man in good shape. Nick was in great shape, but he wasn’t sure he could tote a dead body too far, unless the deceased had been the size of someone like Perry Foster. And judging by the size of that missing shoe…

It had to be an inside job. Nothing else made sense. Nick contemplated the other male residents of the Alston Estate. David Center sounded like a wacko, but he was blind, which probably put him out of the running for Psycho of the Year. Rudy Stein on the second floor was a possible. Teagle on the first floor was another screwball: one of those hale and hearty old farts who had a habit of sticking his nose into other people’s business.

But Teagle was away visiting relatives in Barre. It seemed unlikely that he’d drop in just to deposit a body and manage to split with no one the wiser.

Which brought him back to Stein and Center. Stein was an ex-cop according to scuttlebutt. Center was a professional psychic, a fortune-teller. He actually had a shop in Fox Run where he read palms and tarot cards. How the hell a blind man read tarot cards, Nick had no notion.

He really couldn’t picture any of this crew scaling ladders in the dark of the night, with or without dead bodies. The whole thing didn’t make sense. If Nick hadn’t seen the scuff marks and mud-that-might-be-blood for himself, he would have pegged Perry Foster as delusional. But somebody got too clever. Switching the shoes was a mistake. It was arrogant. Practically a challenge.

Nick never refused a challenge.

* * * * *

Perry woke after a deep and dreamless sleep.

It took him a moment to orient himself. He was not in his own bed. And he was not in Marcel’s bed, either. It all came rushing back. Every morning for the past nine months his first waking thought had been of Marcel. But now, instead of the usual bloom of anticipation, a chill depression settled on him like snowfall weighing down a tree branch. He could feel his composure cracking beneath that weight; it didn’t help at all to remind himself that he was grieving for a dream, for something that had never existed except in his imagination. And for someone who had never existed at all.

He wiped the corners of his eyes. It was quiet in the apartment. He listened to the drip, drip, drip of rain from the eaves. Nick Reno was already up; Perry could hear him moving quietly around the kitchen, and he could smell coffee percolating and bacon frying: two of the best aromas in the world.

His stomach growled. He fought his way out of the cocoon of blankets and dragged on his jeans. He had a crick in his neck. He needed a shower and a shave. He needed to brush his teeth.

He needed to go back to his apartment.

The realization filled him with dismay. Even in daylight the thought of going back there, of facing the silence, the emptiness – the memory of the corpse in the bathtub…

He headed for the kitchen, pulling on a T-shirt. Nick sat at the table drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. He glanced up, his eyes dark blue in his bronze face.

“Morning,” he said laconically. “Help yourself to coffee.”

There was an old-fashioned stainless steel coffeepot sitting on the range. Perry moved to the stove. A clean mug sat on the counter, which seemed a friendly gesture. He poured coffee: strong, plain coffee. None of that fancy, flavored java for Nick.

“There’s milk in the fridge,” Nick told him without looking up from the paper.

Pouring a lot of milk and a couple of spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee, Perry sat down across from Nick. He watched Nick swallow black coffee. Nick finished the story he was reading and neatly folded up his paper. Catching Perry’s eye, he nodded curtly.

“Sleep okay?”

“Yes, thanks.”

That seemed to cover the small talk. Nick pushed back his chair, went to the fridge, and took out a carton of eggs. He moved efficiently around the kitchen; he drained the bacon and cracked the eggs.

“Sunny-side up?”

“Huh?”

“Your eggs. Fried okay?”

“Sure,” Perry said. “Thanks.” He was happy all out of proportion to be invited to breakfast, to delay going back to his own rooms. “Thanks for letting me crash here last night,” he said rather shyly.

Nick flipped butter over the eggs, not answering.

He wore Levi’s and a blue plaid flannel shirt. The shirt was unbuttoned, hanging open to reveal a stomach as brown and hard as a ship’s figurehead. His chest muscles rippled as he tilted the heavy iron pan. Perry warned himself not to stare.

Nick possessed a great profile too, maybe not typically handsome, but strong and symmetrical. There was both character and toughness in his face. Perry wanted to sketch him.

He could imagine what Reno would say to that idea.

“How long were you in the SEALs?” he inquired, breaking the silence.

“Ten years. Fourteen years in the navy altogether.”

“That’s a long time.”

Nick shot him a wry look. “More than half your lifetime.”

“Did you like it?”

“Why? Thinking of enlisting?”

The sarcasm caught Perry off guard, and he hid himself in his coffee cup.

Maybe Nick thought that was ruder than called for. He said, “What do you do with all those paintings in your apartment?”

“I try to sell them.”

“To who?”

“To anyone. Why, want to buy one?”

Nick gave him a level look and then grinned. The smile was very white in his olive face and unexpectedly youthful. It transformed him, just like smiles in books were supposed to do.

“Maybe,” he said. “You’re not bad.”

At this unexpected praise, Perry felt himself flushing. Nick seemed like someone whose idea of art would be girly calendars or plastic-framed posters of hot cars. But that wasn’t fair, because there was that moody seascape hanging over his fireplace.

Perry volunteered, “A couple of gift shops carry my work. I’m trying to get one of the galleries to consider me. So far, no luck.” He shrugged.

“Did you go to art school or something?”

Perry’s stared down at the patterns in the grain of the tabletop. “No. I wanted to go to art school, but it…fell through.”

“Yeah?” Nick didn’t sound too interested. He set a plate in front of Perry heaped with fried eggs, bacon, and hash-browned potatoes. A lot of food.

Perry faltered, “I usually don’t eat breakfast.” He was pretty sure Nick would not consider the delicious offerings from Kellogg’s a proper kick-off.

“Big mistake. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” Nick said it deadpan; clearly daily nutritional requirement was not something he took lightly.

Perry tried the eggs. They were good. Why wouldn’t they be, coated in a heart attack’s worth of butter? He picked up a slice of bacon, wondering what Nick’s cholesterol level must be.

Sitting down with his own plate, Nick asked, “Have you been thinking about who might have known you were supposed to be gone this week?”

Back to business. It was nice of him to take an interest, though.

“Janie, like I said. And I think I mentioned it to Mr. Teagle. And Mrs. MacQueen.”

“Anyone else?”

“Here, no. I told them at the library because I was taking my vacation.”

“You work at the library?” The dark eyebrows rose as though Perry had confessed to being an exotic dancer.

“I like books.” Perry added defiantly, “I like people who read.” There were no books in Nick’s apartment, not even a cookbook. No magazines. There was the morning paper, but did that count?

Nick’s mouth twitched a little as though he found Perry’s defensiveness amusing. “Someone decided to use your apartment for cold storage while you were gone, that’s obvious. What doesn’t make sense is all this lugging a corpse around. Why not leave him where he died?”

“Well, because it would have been incriminating.”

“Sure, but because of how he died or where he died? Could you tell how he died? Could you tell if he’d been murdered?”

Perry remembered that green-toned face, the gaping mouth, the hollowed cheeks, and sinister slits of eyes. Nausea rose in his throat. He spoke around it. “I didn’t see blood, but I didn’t look carefully. I didn’t touch him.”

“Could he have been strangled?”

Perry shook his head. “No.” He’d read enough detective novels to know what that would look like.

“I guess he could have been poisoned. What did it smell like?”

Perry stared at Nick. His stomach rolled over once and then paused for station identification. “He smelled…dead.”

Nick looked unimpressed. Perry tried, “Maybe he died of natural causes, but because he wasn’t supposed to be in a particular place, he was moved to my rooms.”

“Why not dump him in the woods or on the main highway?”

“Maybe there wasn’t time? Putting him in my apartment had to be a temporary measure.”

“Maybe. I guess we need to focus on who had opportunity. You could have made up the whole story, except that I did see that smear, and the scuff marks, and the shoe, and you didn’t have opportunity to get rid of those before the cops showed up. The same’s true of the Bridger dame. I figure she was with you the whole time I was upstairs?”

“Well, yeah,” Perry answered, surprised. “And she was never out of our sight once you came back down.”

“Neither MacQueen or Dembecki could lift an unconscious man. I don’t think they could do it together, let alone by themselves. That leaves Stein and Center. What do you know about those two?”

“Mr. Stein used to be a cop,” Perry said. “He’s retired now.”

“Is he married?”

“Divorced, I think. I don’t know anything about Center except that he’s a medium. He holds séances. He can tell fortunes by reading tarot cards.”

“In other words, he’s a quack.”

Perry shrugged. “He did a reading for Jane once. She said it was…uncanny.”

“At fifty bucks a pop, uncanny is the word.” Nick polished off his eggs and studied Perry’s plate. “Eat up, kid.”

Perry shoveled in a mouthful of hash browns and confided, “I usually can’t eat when I’m nervous.”

Nick shook his head. “Eating right is essential.”

“Did you learn that in the SEALs?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

Perry nodded encouragingly. He recognized a fanatic when he saw one, and all fanatics liked a chance to spread the gospel. Sure enough, Nick was on his soapbox faster than you could say glycemic index.

“A proper diet provides the fuel to keep your engine running smoothly. It provides energy and promotes the growth and repair of tissue. And regulates your body processes.”

Perry bit back a grin. This was the furthest Nick Reno had unbent so far – in fact, he was almost friendly in his enthusiasm.

“Carbs, protein, and fat are the three energy nutrients,” Nick concluded. “Best energy source is carbs.” He looked pointedly at Perry’s mound of potatoes, and Perry shoveled in another forkful automatically.

“Could the police be involved?” he questioned thickly and then swallowed. “They could have cleaned up the tub and switched shoes.”

“Why would they?”

“Why would anyone?”

“I don’t see this as an outside operation,” Nick said. “Someone could have used the ladder outside your window, but he would have tracked mud and rain all over the carpet. And he couldn’t have locked the window after himself.”

Perry weighed this, nibbling on a slice of bacon. When was the last time he’d had bacon – good bacon that wasn’t all rind? A long time. Nick ate well, for sure.

“There’s another possibility,” Nick added. “The murderer – assuming it was murder – could have been in your place when you arrived and moved the body after you left.”

Although that thought had occurred to Perry too, he didn’t like it. It freaked him out: the idea of someone watching him, maybe ready to kill him too.

“Move it where?”

“Someplace on the third floor.” Nick added, “Not that I could find any sign of it.”

“What do you mean?” Perry put two and two together fast. “You checked? Last night? You went out alone?”

“I can handle myself.” Nick was amused by Perry’s horror.

Meaning Perry could not?

“Anyway, the situation’s secured, I guess.”

“Secured, sure.” That was clear enough. Perry pushed his plate away. “Thanks for breakfast and everything. I guess I should get back now.”

Nick gnawed his lip. “I’ve been thinking about that. I don’t think you should stay in your apartment till you know how this bogey is getting in and out.”

“I can’t afford a hotel,” Perry said hopelessly. “Last night I was desperate, but…” He offered a quirky, shame-faced smile. “I’m short my rent money now. I spent – I spent too much this month.”

Nick’s face said it all.

“Then have MacQueen give you another apartment.”

“There aren’t any. Except Watson’s, and all his stuff is still there.” Perry shivered.

Nick said grimly, “You do what you want, kid, but I’d get the locks changed on my door ASAP.” After a moment he added reluctantly, “I can loan you money for that.”

“Thanks,” Perry muttered humbly. “Thanks for everything.”

Nick shrugged this off. He was doing the breakfast dishes as Perry retrieved his suitcase and trudged off down the hall.

Unlocking the door to his apartment, he stuck his head in and stared around suspiciously.

Everything seemed quiet and normal. He might have dreamed the events of last night. It all looked like it had before he left, giddy with happiness and excitement, for San Francisco. He remembered locking his rooms with the feeling that he was shutting the door on a chapter of his life.

A wave of depression hit him.

Dropping onto the nearest chair, he put his head in his hands and tried to deal with it. He was glad he’d managed to sleep a little and eat some breakfast, because otherwise he’d be falling apart right now. The homey rattle of the fridge, the tick of the clock; these familiar sounds seemed desolate now. Usually he liked the rain, but it wasn’t helping matters today.