Lisa Scottoline - Running From The Law

After dessert, Tobin walked me back to the canal-side parking lot and put me into my car with a friendly pat on the back. On the short ride home, I thought about what he had said, trying to wrap my mind around it. It seemed possible only if you didn’t know Paul. He’d always been nothing but peaceable, intellectual, and he rarely lost his cool. But then again, I’d never given him cause to be jealous. Until tonight.

When I pulled into the driveway the Cherokee was already waiting.

Paul’s car was parked in front of the garage and its interior was dark. I guessed he was waiting on the front porch, having discovered his key no longer fit the front or back doors. I cut the ignition and got out of the car warily, despite my doubts about Tobin’s scenario.

I headed across the lawn, which felt wet. Paul must have watered it, his mother had taught him to water after dark. I thought of what Tobin had said. Paul was close to Kate; he’d even been teased at school as a momma’s boy. Would Paul have framed Fiske for cheating on her? I kept walking.

The outside and house lights were off. Our house, a stone and shingle colonial with a welcoming front porch, loomed large and dark. The neighborhood was quiet, probably most of my neighbors were out. A humid breeze rustled the trees shading the porch. I looked through the branches as I passed by but didn’t see Paul waiting where I expected he’d be, on one of the white Adirondack chairs he loved. I climbed the stone steps to the porch and looked around. No Paul.

It didn’t make sense. The Cherokee, but no Paul. He couldn’t get in, maybe he went for a walk.

I checked my watch. It was 9:35. If he’d arrived on time, as he always did, he would’ve been waiting for over two hours. Enough time to walk up to Lancaster Avenue and grab dinner. I dug in my purse for my keys and opened the front door. The entrance hall was dark and silent. I closed the door behind me and clicked on the deadbolt.

“Lucy, you got some ’splainin’ to do,” said a voice, mock-Ricky Ricardo. It was Paul, his voice coming out of the darkness in the living room. I would’ve turned on the light, but it was closer to him.

“How did you get in?”

“You changed the locks on me, Lucy. That wasn’t very nice,” he said, slurring his words slightly.

“How did you get in here?”

“We have one fight and you go and change the locks on me. You locked me out of my home.”

“Paul-”

“Talk about hardball. You lawyers are somethin’ else.” I heard the chink of ice in a crystal tumbler. He drank scotch, but never to excess before.

“Tell me how you got in.”

“I know this house better than you. I know which windows are loose and which aren’t. I spend more time here than you. You have to go out and make the proverbial big bucks.”

An old wound I thought we’d gotten over.

“Go ahead… say your line,” he said.

“What line?”

“Whenever I say that, you say, ‘Paul, you were bom with more money than I’ll ever make.’”

I didn’t like the way he imitated my voice. “I think you should go. Now.”

“Aw, come on, mang,” he said, Cuban again. “You’ll be happy I’m here when I tell you what I found out, Lucy.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“All right, you’re the one who likes Lucy and Ricky anyway. All the time I’m hard at work, solving a murder. Where were you?”

“None of your business.”

The lamp came on, illuminating Paul’s face. He sat slumped in the leather Morris chair against the bookshelves, tumbler in hand, his head slightly to one side. “I know who murdered Patricia Sullivan.”

Christ. “Who?”

“Tell me where you were and I’ll tell you who.”

“Come on, Paul.”

“You’d like to have that answer, wouldn’t you? Because you’ve been wondering. Maybe even about me, who’s practically your fiancé.”

“Who is the killer?”

“But your practical fiancé has no alibi, you’ve been thinking. He says he was doing errands, but what errands? Does he have the receipts? What store clerks will remember him? Like you were asking my mother. How stupid do you think she is?”

“Who is the killer, Paul?”

“Not yet. Tell me who you were with tonight.”

I’d play a minute longer to get the answer. “My father.”

“Lucy, Lucy, Lucy. I called the hospital. They said he was sleeping. I even called your friends the poker players.”

Shit. “I visited my father, then I went to work.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Called there, too.”

“I was in the library.”

“You, not check your voice mail? Liar, liar, pants on fire. Are they, by the way? You’re home early.”

“I’m not going to play games with you, Paul. Tell me what you know or I go to the police.” I reached for the deadbolt and twisted it loud enough for him to hear.

“Guess what I found out? I found out where you were tonight. I just wanted to hear it from your own mouth.”

My throat tightened. I didn’t know whether to believe him. “Who is the killer?”

“You lied to me.”

“You lied to me.”

“Oh, is that it?” he said, his tone angry. “Tit for tat? A retaliatory fuck?”

Don’t get sidetracked. “Who is the killer?”

“Morrone’s on the job, folks. All business. But she wasn’t working tonight, was she?”

“That’s it, I’m leaving.” I turned my back on him and opened the door.

“Aramingo Avenue, in the northeast. Greater Northeast, as they say on the news.”

I turned back. “Who?”

“Drives a blue motorcycle, paints. Plays guitar, of course. He ran a personal ad, that’s how they met. Only he didn’t mention he had a cocaine habit, even convicted of dealing, once. Or that he’s a very, very jealous young man.”

“What’s his name?”

“Tim Price.”

“How’d you get the address? Deductive reasoning?”

“‘Fraid not,” he said, half to himself. “I’m not a very good architect or I’d make more money, right? If you’re so smart, how come you’re not rich? Like Dad?”

I turned the knob. “I have to go.”

“I saw a letter he sent her, with the return address. He was crazy about her, but he was just a toy to her. So were we all. She played games, that woman.”

“Did they live together?”

“Sort of, but he was away a lot, and when the cat’s away, well… you hate clichés, don’t you? When I figured out the game, I broke up with her-when he figured it out, he killed her. Not a good game, was it? Not a safe game, like poker.”

Fuck you. “If he killed her, why did he leave his motorcycle behind?”

“I don’t know the mechanics of it, dear. No pun.”

“Then why do you say he’s the killer?”

“She told me she was afraid of him, that he’d hit her. Beaten her when he was high. Still, she let him come back. He had that bad-boy appeal some women like.” Paul held up his glass, examining its facets in the lamplight. “Long hair, maverick type. That your thing, too, Rita?”

He must know about Tobin. Maybe I’d been spotted by someone we both knew, or maybe he’d followed me to the restaurant. I felt afraid suddenly and fumbled for the doorknob behind me. “Be gone by morning,” I said, twisting the knob and walking out.

Behind me I heard the crash of a crystal tumbler hitting the wall. “Goddamn it! I live here, too! Rita!”

I started running to the car and didn’t stop until I was inside.

I booked a night at the Four Seasons, in a cushy room overlooking the fountain in Logan Square. Not that I enjoyed the view, I spent the time making phone calls. I called a twenty-four-hour lock service to change the locks again and secure all the windows. For an extra fifty bucks, they’d deliver the new keys to the hotel. I flipped through the Yellow Pages for a burglar alarm company, but there was no answer. Then I called Herman and canceled our date to go motorcyle shopping, since I already knew the motorcyclist’s address, and called my father. He sounded fine but wanted to know why Sal was so dressed up. Finally, I called Cam and told him our gig was moved up to tomorrow.