Stephen White - Warning Signs

"That was it?"

"He wasn't happy about it but I don't think he was surprised. It wasn't like we argued about it or anything. He was… rather gracious… and he said I didn't have to worry about Susan, that when he moved out he'd make arrangements for her, that he had some long-term-care insurance she didn't know about, and that he'd been looking into assisted-living facilities. He told me that he'd already talked to their kids and none of them was in a position to live with Susan. And that was it.

"I was relieved I wasn't going to have to take care of her. I felt guilty about that, but I was more feeling sad that the thing with Royal was over. We said good-bye and I left."

"Royal was still alive?"

She squeezed my hand. I read no offense in her voice as she murmured, "Of course he was." She squeezed harder. "You know what Royal said right at the end, as I was leaving that last time?"

I shook my head.

"He said, 'I wondered which one of us would come to our senses first. I'm glad it was you.' At the time, I didn't know what he meant."

"And now?"

"Right now? I think he knew what Susan and I were doing. How we were hurting each other."

I added, "But he was willing to participate anyway."

"That's sick, too, isn't it?" she asked.

I didn't have to answer.

She stood up and took a step away from me.

I opened my mouth to ask another question, then closed it. She said, "Go ahead, ask me."

"No, I was going to change the subject."

"Ask."

"Your fingerprints were on the pottery, Lucy. The piece that was used to bash Royal in the head."

She nodded. "The pottery was a new acquisition of Royal's. He was proud of it; it was by some artist he really liked from New York City. He'd found it on eBay and was thrilled that he had won the auction. He showed it to me when I first got there that night."

"That's it?" I asked. "You touched it when he showed it to you?"

She shrugged. "What was it Freud said about cigars?" she asked.

I managed a weak grin for her benefit, but was thinking that Lucy was in no position to make a decision whether or not this cigar was really just a cigar. I also knew that she hadn't shared all her secrets.

"W as Ramp there that night, Lucy? Did Royaldiscover him placing the bomb? Is that what happened?"

She shook her head. "I asked Ramp about it. He said that he and Marin placed the bomb in the Peterson home at least a week before Royal was murdered. He said they were real careful to make sure no one was home. They were in and out of the house in ten minutes and didn't see anyone."

"You believed him?"

"Of course. And I still do. What possible reason would he have had to lie?"

She seemed surprisingly sanguine.

Not really sure why I was asking, I said, "You know who killed Royal, don't you?"

"Any cop will tell you that knowing who did it is sometimes the easy part. Proving who did it, that's the hard part. This town learned that lesson the hardest possible way."

I figured she was alluding to JonBenét Ramsey's murder. The old homicide was a stray dog that followed Boulder cops everywhere they went. No way was I going to comment on that mutt.

She hadn't answered my question. I said, "But you know, don't you?"

"Sure I do. So do you."

She actually smiled.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

She shook her head.

"Sorry," she said. "The hostility has to end somewhere."

S usan Peterson killed herself the next morning.

Sam and I were sitting downstairs at her kitchen table while she did it. I still think that I was more surprised than Sam was, which gives you some idea about how much to rely on a psychologist's ability to predict suicide.

S ince Sam wasn'tan active part of the investigation of Royal Peterson's murder and had no official reason to visit Susan again, he'd asked if he could accompany me on my next visit to see her.

After my conversation the day before with Lucy about Susan, I wasn't at all certain I would ever choose to see Susan again. When I told Sam that I had absolutely no plans to make another visit to the Peterson home, he looked at me with mocking condescension and asked me if I was getting thicker with age.

I replied by wondering aloud if there was any alternative. He said no, that it was important.

I made the necessary calls and we drove to Jay Street together around eight-thirty the next morning. Susan's health aide, Crystal, answered the door and ambushed me by greeting Sam as though they were old friends, even giving him a little peck on the cheek. She stepped out onto the porch wearing a cable-knit sweater. She was carrying a macramé bag over her shoulder that I guessed functioned as her purse.

To Sam, she said, "An hour, you think?"

He replied, "That should be plenty of time. It's enough for you?"

"If there's not too bad a line over there, it should be great for me. You're an angel, Detective, an angel." She glanced back over her shoulder. "I imagine she'll be waking up soon enough. Her food's in the fridge all ready to go."

As Crystal meandered down the walk toward the street, Sam explained, "She needs to get her driver's license renewed. I told her we'd keep an eye on things here for an hour or so."

"You two are tight?"

"We had a beer last night. She likes hockey, actually knows what she's talking about. I told her if this works out I might be able to get her some Avs tickets. She's from Wisconsin, but Crystal's okay."

I'd never understood the nature of the relationship between the residents of Wisconsin and Minnesota, but decided not to pursue an explanation at that moment. "If what works out? What did she tell you?"

I thought he almost grinned as he said, "You'll see."

I followed Sam inside the Peterson home and watched as he squatted down and opened the housing on the underside of the electric lift that Susan used to get up and down the stairs. I was instantly suspicious-if Susan was upstairs sleeping, as Crystal had just implied, the chair should have been at the top of the stairs, not the bottom. Sam flicked a red switch before he shut the cover back tight onto the housing.

A large oval piece of pottery sat smack in the middle of the third step on the staircase. Sam touched it to make sure it wasn't balanced too precariously. He whispered, "Recognize it? This is from Royal's collection downstairs. With that hole in it, though, I don't know what you'd actually use it for, but it's kind of nice to look at."

I assumed he wasn't planning on telling me what he was up to, so, sotto voce, I asked, "You turned the lift off?"

He nodded. "Crystal promised to leave some coffee and things for us. Come on."

We walked into the kitchen. Sam poured us each a mug of coffee and dragged a plate of muffins across the table so that it was smack in front of him. I smelled apples and spice. Morning light drenched the kitchen and from our perch on the sloping foothills of the Front Range the budding leaves on the trees in the Boulder Valley gave the beautiful view a lime-green aura.

I could have pressed him to divulge his strategy, but it would have been futile. Sam was directing this play and act two would come after act one. That was the natural order of things. Sam liked natural order.

After ten minutes or so talking about our kids and hockey, Sam said, without segue, "Lucy says that Royal told her that he was going to leave Susan. Was thinking about putting her in a nursing home. Did you know that? He had some insurance or something that would help pay."

"Lucy told me the same thing, Sam. Just yesterday." I didn't tell Sam what else Lucy had told me the day before.