Peter Spiegelman - Red Cat

My mistake had been in not starting at the beginning, with the DVDs in the plastic sleeve labeled “Interview #1.” If I had, I might have made this drive yesterday. As it was, I didn’t watch those disks until seven on Saturday night.

I’d ridden uptown with David after Mike’s call, and he was silent and blank-eyed in the back of the taxi. We met Mike on the sidewalk in front of David’s building.

“They’re up there now,” Mike said. “McCue, Conlon, a lab guy, and a uniform. They’ll be a while.”

The doorman watched through the glass, staring at David’s swollen lip and bruised face and rumpled clothing. We went inside and he nodded nervously. “Mr. March,” he said, and he explained, in low, anxious tones, about having to let the police in. David walked past him and into the elevator with no sign of having heard a word. Mike followed, and I did too, but when I tried to step into the car, David put a hand on my chest.

“Not you,” he said quietly. Mike raised an eyebrow and began to speak, but I shook my head. David pressed the button and the elevator door slid closed. I watched the numbers climb until they reached David’s floor. When I turned around, the doorman was looking at me and scratching his jaw. I’d walked slowly home from there.

It was midafternoon when I got in. The light had begun to wane, and the apartment was empty. The phone was ringing. It was Mike, and he’d sounded tired.

“They just left,” he said. “David’s lying down.”

“How did it go?”

“Slowly. They collected stuff for comparison- fiber samples, hair samples, paint samples- and they swabbed David. Mostly, though, they were looking for a gun. They didn’t find one.”

“How did David take it?”

“Like a mannequin- a mannequin with a fat lip. What happened to his face?”

I ignored the question. “How did it go out in East Hampton?”

“Pretty much the same way. I sent an associate to be with Stephanie, and he told me Vines was running the show out there.”

“And…?”

“And no gun.”

“That’s something.”

“Barely,” Mike said. “In case we had any doubts, the warrants mean Flores is serious- pretty much, as serious as it gets. Worse still, she’s managed to convince a couple of judges that there’s probable cause.”

“Shit,” I said.

“And plenty more where that came from. So if there are unturned stones out there, I’d get to turning them goddamn quick, because I expect a call from Flores Monday morning- a formal call.”

“Shit,” I said again. Mike was quiet, but stayed on the line. “What is it?” I asked.

“I have to go soon, and…you may not want to leave David alone just now.”

“Stephanie isn’t coming back to town?”

“Not tonight, she told me, and I got the impression she meant not tomorrow, either, and maybe not the next day.”

“I’ll call Ned,” I said, and I did.

I explained what I could, as briefly as I could, to my brother, who said he would go right over. I hung up the phone and looked at the black nylon case, still on the table, and at the DVDs- all the unturned stones- still inside. I wondered whether the cops had yet discovered unit 58 at Creek Self-Store, and said “Fuck it” again. I flicked on my laptop and opened another sleeve. It had taken me hours to make my way to the “Interview #1” DVDs, and to the unlabeled disk that was tucked into the sleeve with them.

A tow truck eased by on the shoulder, and ten minutes later, traffic began to dissolve. Ten minutes after that, I was doing seventy. The sun climbed in the empty sky, and my head filled, yet again, with thoughts of family: brothers, sisters, David’s bruised and empty face, his words in the elevator. Not you.

I got to the house before noon. I’d called the night before, and I was expected, but something prickled on my neck when I saw the red door standing wide. Curtains were open, but I saw no movement inside as I pulled up the drive. I climbed out of the car and listened, and heard nothing but icy branches creaking in a small wind. A knot tightened in my stomach.

I looked down at my fingers, and wiggled them in their splints. I peeled the tape off my right hand and pulled the splints off. Underneath, my fingers were bruised and swollen. I reached into the car and took the Glock off the seat, and very slowly wrapped my hand around the grip. It hurt like hell, and I wasn’t at all sure I could hang on through the recoil, but it was better than nothing. I slipped the gun into its holster behind my back and headed up the path. I slipped it out again when I approached the door.

There were footprints in the pristine snow, and handprints, and shapes that a body might make if it ran, fell, and then crawled. Scattered on the trampled patch, in dashes, spidery lines, and fat, ragged dots like rotted berries was blood. I called out, but there was no answer. The blood trail led to the path, up the stone steps, to the front door, and inside. My pulse was racing, and I followed.

The heating system was cycling loudly, but it was no warmer in the entry hall than on the front steps. I wondered how long the door had been open, and I called out again. Again, no answer. There were scuff marks on the polished wood floor, and the Persian rugs were twisted and askew. The rusty droplets led to the left, through the living room, down a hallway, and past the study. Besides the rush of air in the ducts, the rooms were silent.

I followed the trail to a pair of French doors and the conservatory. It was a long glass room with a peaked glass ceiling and a brick floor laid in a herringbone pattern. Warm air wafted through the open doors, along with an odor. It was not a garden smell, and it was not pleasant. I held my gun down along my leg, and stepped across the threshold.

Big container plants- fruit trees and dusty shrubbery in round terra-cotta pots- lined the room, and made an enclosure around an Oriental rug, a long wicker sofa, a glass-and-wicker coffee table, and a wicker chair. Nicole Cade was sitting on the sofa with her legs folded under her. She wore jeans and a purple sweatshirt, and a distracted look on her wind-beaten face. Her sleeves were pushed up over her sinewy arms, and there was a short-barreled Smith amp; Wesson in her hand. Herbert Deering was on the chair. He was leaning heavily to his left, and on the floor beneath him was a pool of blood.

Deering was alive. He moved a paper-white hand when I stepped into the room, and opened cloudy, terrified eyes. His desiccated lips parted, and a groan came out. A sheen of sweat covered his gray face, and his thin hair was plastered to his head. His right arm cradled his gut, and his right hand was pressed to a wet patch on his left side. Blood soaked the left side of his plaid shirt from armpit to waist. His khakis were stained with something else. Deering’s breaths were rapid, shallow, and uneven, and if he hadn’t already crossed into shock, he was right at the edge. I looked at Nicole. She hadn’t moved, except to point the gun at her husband.

“He said you were coming. He told me last night.” Her voice was shaky, and she had trouble with the volume. One of her legs was quivering, and strands of tired red hair fell across her face. There were sooty circles under her eyes, and red patches on her neck and bony cheeks. The gun was black and hammerless, and Nicole ran a nervous thumbnail over the top of the rubber grip.

“That’s what started it- that you were coming. He said you were coming to talk more about Holly, and that you had questions about Redtails, and Dad. I asked him how you knew about Redtails, and…he came apart.”

I nodded, and put on my most earnest face. “Uh-huh. We should call an ambulance now, okay? We should get you some help here.”