Richard Hawke - Cold Day in Hell

“That’s a joke.”

Margo asked, “Do you really think it’s some kind of a cult? Four different killers? The idea makes my skin crawl.”

“It’s merely a theory, dear.”

I said, “I can tell you the police wouldn’t be too happy with your theory.”

She gave her tiny smile again. “People do not kill in order to make the police happy.”

The morning after the Wicca talk, Margo and I had another tussle. It started while I was shaving, though the seeds had been planted ten minutes earlier, right as Margo was stepping into the shower, when I had told her that I was planning to go to Robin Burrell’s memorial service that morning. I’d fudged somewhat. I was actually planning to attend Robin’s weekly Quaker meeting, not precisely her memorial service. A phone call to one of the Quaker elders in charge of the meeting had informed me that Robin’s death would be the unofficial agenda that Sunday morning. Margo had taken the information in deafening silence, pulling the shower curtain closed with a little extra something.

I was running a razor down my cheek when Margo, in her robe and with a twisted towel piled high on her head, passed behind me on her way out of the bathroom.

“Got to look good for your big date?”

She moved into the apartment, tightening the sash on her robe. The bathroom was warm from her shower, but her exit left behind a chill nonetheless. I took a deep breath and squared off with my reflection. “Let it go.”

Margo barked from the next room, “I heard that.”

I should have counted to ten. Instead I barked back, “If you did, then you were eavesdropping. I wasn’t talking to you.”

The face in the mirror shook its head sadly. Not good. Margo gave a response that I didn’t hear. But I caught its drift. She went on to the kitchen. I quickly finished up the shaving, rinsed off my face and followed her. She was running water into the kettle, staring a hole deep into the sink.

“This isn’t like you,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

She cranked off the water. “Let me check. You are talking to me this time?”

I made certain of an even tone. “I’m talking to you.”

“Nice.” She set the kettle on the stove and kicked up the flame. It’s one of those stoves that makes a click-click-click when you’re activating the pilot light. Maybe it was just me, but I thought she let it click a few seconds longer than necessary. “This isn’t like you, either,” she said.

“What isn’t? Attending funerals and memorial services for the victim is straight out of the handbook. You know that. If you don’t believe me, ask your old man.”

“I’m aware of that.” She turned to face me. “But a victim is not necessarily a client. Do they say anything about that in the handbook? Or is your pretty little client writing you checks from beyond the grave?”

I didn’t say anything. Margo knows a cheap shot when she hears one. She pulled the towel from her head and coiled it tightly in her arms. She might have been counting to ten.

“Okay, let’s back up a second,” she said. “I know you feel bad about what happened to that woman. Of course you do. So do I. For Christ’s sake, so does anyone in America who is paying attention, which, as best I can tell, seems to be pretty much the whole damn country. But I’m sorry, Fritz, whether you spoke with her a few times or not, it’s none of your business . I’m sure you have this fantasy that you could have protected the beautiful maiden across the street, but that’s not how it played out. Some crazy psychopath got in there and slit her throat. But we have a police force in this city, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. They’re looking into it. That’s their job. Robin Burrell is their client. She’s their responsibility.”

She unwrapped her arms and set the towel down on the counter. One of the edges was too near the stove flame, but I didn’t say anything.

“What is it exactly that you don’t like about this?” I asked. “It’s not as if this is the first time I’ve taken up a case on my own. You know that.”

“I do know that. Daddy used to do it, too, and it drove Mom nuts.”

“I’m not your daddy. And you’re not-”

I stopped myself. One of our relationship’s more tender spots was Margo’s fear that in being with me, she was on track to replicate her mother’s life. On its face, the concern was absurd. But it was an argument we had agreed not to enter into. Many times.

I went on, “You know what I’m saying. There’s someone running around this city slicing people’s throats. And too damn close to home to suit my tastes. I know the police are investigating. They’re doing their thing. And Joe Gallo’s a good cop. He’ll probably nail the guy. But another set of eyes never hurt. For Christ’s sake, Margo, this is what I do. What do you want, for me to take up bridge?”

The kettle began to whimper. Margo shut off the flame and picked it up. “I don’t like being jealous,” she said flatly. “It’s one of the most pathetic emotions.”

“There’s nothing to be jealous of. What do you-”

The kettle went down with a rattle. Her eyes were hard black pebbles. “You were quiet about her! You didn’t tell me that you went over there more than once. You tried to hide that from me.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh, bullshit, Fritz. It is true, and you know it. You never really said to me what it was you two talked about.”

“Not true. She showed me her letters and the e-mails she’d gotten. I told you that.”

“That takes two visits? You brought that stuff up here after the first time you saw her.”

“Perhaps you can remind me of the last time you came home from one of your interviews and recited everything back to me word for word.”

“This is different.”

“Why is it different?”

“Because she lived right across the street. Because she was a beautiful woman.”

“This city is lousy with beautiful women. Present company very much included.”

Margo fingered the ends of her wet hair. “Right. My name is Medusa, it’s nice to meet you.” She fetched her favorite teacup from the drying rack and set it on the counter. “Listen, Fritz, I’m not going to let you charm your way free of this. I’ve already said I’m jealous, and that’s embarrassing enough. We both know I’m not normally the jealous type. So I’m asking myself, what is it? Maybe it’s just that she was on TV all those weeks and she was all that people were talking about. The woman had an affair with Marshall Fox , for Christ’s sake. A very vivid affair, I might add. Thanks to that stupid trial, I practically know more about that woman’s sex life than I know about my own.”

“I’m here to remind you whenever-”

“Shut up. All I’m saying is that every horny hound in America must’ve had that woman in their dreams, and the next thing I know, you’re dropping by to lend her a shoulder to cry on and being just a bit too blasé about it.”

“What was I supposed to do, run up here and-”

“Let me finish.” She very nearly stomped her foot. It had been a long time since I’d seen her this upset. She took a sharp breath. “I watched you sitting at that window the other night. What can I tell you, Fritz, girls don’t like that. I can’t know what you’re feeling when you go to that place. You go very far away. No Margos allowed. Nobody allowed, as best I can tell. I hate it. And now it’s Sunday morning, and you’re going off to the dead girl’s funeral or whatever you want to call it. And I know you. You’re going to get into her head. That’s how you do what you do. I know you. You’re going to get into her head and you’re going to get into her life and you’re going to get into her ugly, stupid death. And I just wish this one time that you wouldn’t.”