Лоуренс Блок - Ariel

“And you just knew it?”

“The idea was just right there in my head. I looked at her and it was like hearing this voice inside saying Caleb’s dead.”

“Did you tell her?”

“Try telling Roberta something like that. I don’t remember what I told her the other day. I sort of brushed off the question. I said something about not remembering that morning too clearly. I remember it, all right.”

“So you think he’s a detective.”

She shrugged. “What else could he be?”

“And now he’s looking for evidence to prove you killed your brother.”

“It sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

He studied her, his face thoughtful. She wished he would take off his glasses so she could get an idea what was going through his mind.

“I don’t see how he could be a detective,” he said. “Or what he could do if he was one.”

“Well, who else could he be?”

“Maybe he’s a doctor.”

“There was already a doctor who examined Caleb.”

“Not that kind of doctor. Maybe he’s a psychiatrist.”

“She used to go to a psychiatrist. I wonder if she’s crazy.”

“Maybe the psychiatrist’s for you.”

“Huh?”

“Well, he’s following you around, right? Maybe Roberta figures you killed Caleb because you’re crazy, so she’s got a psychiatrist to observe you.”

She frowned. “I don’t think that’s how it works. I think you have to go to the psychiatrist’s office and lie down on the couch and talk to him. Or he gives you tests to see if you’ve got a screw loose. Ink-blots and pictures to make up stories from.”

“You sound like you went once.”

“No, but I know how it works. From things I’ve read. And there was that program, it was a special about a teenager with mental problems. Didn’t you see it?”

“No. Maybe Roberta found a psychiatrist who makes house calls.”

“Maybe.”

“Or maybe he’s some combination of psychiatrist and detective. Or maybe he’s somebody else altogether. Maybe he’s an interior decorator and she wants new drapes for the living room.”

“Then why would he turn up at the funeral? And why would he be parked and waiting for us today?”

“Maybe he’s a pervert with a thing for twelve-year-old girls.”

“And dead babies.”

“Right. It’s one of your standard perversions.”

“And he’s one of your standard perverts.”

“You got it, Jardell. You know what? I’m not a psychiatrist or a detective—”

“Just a pervert.”

“—but I bet I could be a detective.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I think I’ll find out who he is.”

“How?”

“I have my methods, Watson.”

“C’mon, how?”

He smiled, pleased with himself. “You’ll see,” he said.

Jeff couldn’t sleep.

He kept turning in the bed, trying to find a comfortable position. He had been tired by the time he got into bed and thought sleep would come quickly, but he couldn’t seem to unwind. A mental tape kept replaying the scene that had taken place earlier, when he and Ariel had stared so long, and hard, into each other’s eyes.

She was just a child, he told himself. Awkward, innocent, unformed. And yet, damn it, there was some quality of secret knowledge in her gaze that he could neither pin down nor dismiss out of hand. And now the memory of it wouldn’t let him sleep.

Beside him, Elaine’s breathing was deep and regular. For a moment he considered reaching for her, seeking release in the warm depths of her flesh. She would’t mind that sort of awakening. She always welcomed it, always dropped off to sleep easily afterward.

Perhaps he had a real need for that sort of release. His lovemaking with Bobbie that afternoon had left him frustrated, and maybe that was what was keeping him awake. On the other hand, he was uncertain of his capacity to perform the act. Be a hell of a thing to wake Elaine and then be unable to deliver.

He adjusted the pillow once again, rolled over onto his side, then onto his back once again.

He reached, not for Elaine, but for himself. He stroked himself idly, mechanically, and felt his flesh respond with an urgency that approached pain. He sought to fill his mind with fantasies that had served him in the past, flickering images of anonymous flesh straight from the nether world of pornography.

It was Ariel’s face, pale and shining, that kept intruding. And, when his flesh coughed and spat in orgasm, it was her cool eyes that burned in his mind.

They were in Erskine’s room Monday afternoon before either of them mentioned the man in the Buick. Ariel had thought of the man on the way home from school, looking over her shoulder once or twice to see if they were being followed, but she hadn’t felt like saying anything to Erskine.

Now he said, “Jeffrey D. Channing, 105 Fontenoy Drive, Charleston Heights. Law offices at 229 Meeting Street. Home phone 989-8029. Office phone 673-7038. His wife’s name is Elaine and he has two daughters, Greta and Deborah. What else would you like to know about him?”

“Who is he?”

“The funeral man. Mr. DWE-628, and his Buick’s a year old, by the way. Your detective. I’ll bet I’m a better detective than he is.”

“You found out all that about him since Friday? Tell me again.” She listened carefully this time while he repeated everything. “A lawyer,” she said thoughtfully. “Why would she have a lawyer following me?”

“Maybe she wants to sue you.”

“Fontenoy Drive in Charleston Heights. That’s not far from my old house.”

“And the funeral parlor’s in that neighborhood too, isn’t it?”

“Right.”

“Maybe he popped into the funeral because he happened to be in the neighborhood.”

“How did you find all this out, Erskine?”

“I told you. I have my methods, Jardell.”

“You’re not going to tell me?”

“You’re really impressed, aren’t you?”

“I just don’t see how you did it.”

“A magician never reveals his tricks.”

“Are you serious? You’re not going to tell me?”

“Oh, of course I’ll tell you,” he said, grinning. “If you’ll play the flute for me.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Well, in that case—”

“Erskine—”

“I’ll tell you,” he said gently. “You’ll play the flute for me someday. You can always play my flute, Ariel.”

“Gross pig.”

“Oink. The first thing I did, Saturday morning, was steal a hubcap.”

“From Channing’s car? How did you know where to find it?”

“I didn’t. You want to let me tell this?”

“Sorry.”

“I just took a screwdriver and I went out and stole a hubcap, and not from his car. As a matter of fact it was from a car parked all the way over on Savage Street. That’s how far I had to walk before I found a Buick with nobody around to see me pry the hubcap off.”

“Why a Buick? Oh, because his car’s a Buick.”

“Good thinking. I brought it home and I told my mother it rolled off a car and the driver didn’t notice it but I got the license number. Guess what license number?”

“DWE-something something something.”

“628. I told her the driver would probably like to get his hubcap back, and she was really proud of me for being so public-spirited, but she didn’t know how to find out who he was. I had to suggest it to her.”

“Suggest what?”

“That she should call the Department of Motor Vehicles and tell them what happened. I thought of calling myself, and if I did that I wouldn’t have had to actually steal the hubcap, because they wouldn’t ask to see it over the phone. But I figured they wouldn’t be as likely to cooperate with a kid. I thought of trying to sound grown up. I didn’t think it would work.”