Bill Pronzini - With an Extreme Burning

“So it's your contention the alleged murderer drove to Blue Lake and tampered with the heater while they were away in Lake-port.”

“That's right.”

“Knew where to find the heater and what kind it was because he'd been there before, as an invited guest.”

“Yes.”

St. John was silent again. Late-afternoon sunshine slanted through the Venetian blinds on his office window, laid bars of light across the surface of his desk. He rolled the cigarette along one of the bars, slowly, as if he were deriving some kind of sensual pleasure from the act.

Without looking up, he said, “Why?”

“Why? Why what?”

“Why would he do it? A man who called himself a friend of the Harrells—why would he try to blow them up, all four of them?”

“For Christ's sake, if we knew that—”

“It's a fair question, Mr. Mallory. You're convinced that the same man who's been harassing you two is responsible for what happened at Blue Lake. All right, convince me. Show me some evidence that links the two.”

“We don't have any evidence.”

“Then what makes you so sure?”

“You think it's coincidence? My wife's death, the telephone calls, all the rest of it, and now the Harrells' cabin blows up—two more of our friends dead, two in the hospital. You think that's a coincidence ?”

“Coincidences happen. Stranger ones than that.”

“No. It wasn't an accident.”

“Let's look at it this way,” St. John said. “As far as you know, had either Eileen or Ted Harrell received harassing calls recently?”

“No, but—”

“Packages, any kind of implied threat?”

“No.”

“Would you have known if they had?”

“I would have,” Cecca said. “Eileen would've told me. She couldn't keep a thing like that to herself.”

“You see my point, then? Why would the same person harass the two of you, threaten you , and then go after a family he hasn't bothered at all?”

“What if Eileen figured out who he is and made the mistake of contacting him, warning him to leave us alone?”

“Would she do something that foolish?”

“I don't know … she might. She can be unpredictable sometimes.”

“What makes you think she might have identified the man?”

“She called yesterday when I was out, left a message on my answering machine. She said she'd remembered something Katy said to her and that it might be important.”

“Did she say what that something was?”

“No. She doesn't like to talk to machines, so her messages are always brief.”

“Did you call her back?”

“I tried to,” Cecca said. “About four o'clock. There was no answer; they must have already left for Lakeport.”

St. John shook his head. “I don't buy it. It's remotely possible Mrs. Harrell identified the man, tried to warn him off, and he decided to kill her and her entire family to keep them quiet. But do it by driving all the way to Lake County on the chance that they'll be out and then setting a deathtrap that's by no means guaranteed to work? Unh-unh. No. I can credit a deliberate tampering with the heater if he was in no hurry to kill one or all four of the Harrells: One method doesn't work, he tries another one. But a man bent on self-protection takes a hell of a lot more direct action.”

“Even if he happens to be a psychotic?” Dix said.

“Psychotics may not seem to behave rationally, but there's always a cunning internal logic to what they do, no matter how warped it might be. It makes sense to them. They operate in established patterns, with a specific purpose for each act. I don't see any kind of pattern where the Harrells are concerned.”

Cecca said, “Suppose that's just what he wants. For none of us to see a pattern.”

“I'm not sure I follow that.”

“He intended what happened at Blue Lake to look like an accident. That much seems obvious. He doesn't want it to appear connected to what he's been doing to us. Our version sounds paranoid to you, doesn't it? So you're not going to do much about it.”

“I never said I wasn't going to do anything, Ms. Bellini.”

“But not as much as you would if you were convinced a homicidal maniac was running around loose in Los Alegres.”

“My hands are tied, legally, without sufficient proof.”

“That's exactly my point. Your hands are tied, and so Dix and my daughter and I continue to be vulnerable. He can keep right on stalking us with impunity, take his time picking us off.”

“Are you saying he tried to blow up a family of four just to buy himself more time to go after you?”

“No, she's not,” Dix said. “She's saying it's possible the Harrells were targets all along, that he's cunning enough—your word, Lieutenant—to use different methods for different victims. He seduced my wife before he killed her—”

“If he killed her.”

“He killed her, all right. He seduced my wife and he struck against the Harrells without warning and he's getting some kind of sick pleasure or whatever out of tormenting us.”

“That's a pretty elaborate methodology,” St. John said.

“You don't believe it's possible?”

“I believe just about anything is possible these days. But that doesn't change the fact that you have no proof to back up any of these conjectures, nor can you give me a hint of a possible motive even though you both seem convinced the man is someone you know fairly well.”

How could you argue against that? They were like people from different cultures trying to find some common meeting ground: Cecca and him reacting with raw emotion to a menace they knew but couldn't prove was real, St. John desensitized and rigid and secure, adhering to the letter of the law like a Jesuit to the holy scriptures. You couldn't blame him for being what he was, a methodical and cautious man. But it was maddening nonetheless.

St. John was playing with that damn cigarette again, his gaze shifting back and forth between the two of them. A trick of his, Dix decided, to keep you quiet while he was thinking. It was another minute before he said, “Tell me again about this Kanvitz woman. She owns Bright Winds Gallery at the Mill?”

Dix nodded. “She helped cover up the fact that my wife was having an affair. Katy was supposed to be studying with her when she was meeting her lover.”

“You're convinced of that, too?”

“Cecca is. She had words with Louise about it last week.”

“She admitted it to you, Ms. Bellini?”

“No, she denied it. But it was plain she was lying.”

“Why would she lie?”

“Well, not because she was trying to protect Katy's good name. She wasn't Katy's friend. She only pretended to be.”

“Why do you say that?”

“A friend doesn't try to capitalize on personal tragedy. She raised the price on Katy's last two paintings from two hundred to a thousand dollars apiece. At best she's a flagrant exploiter. At worst—”

“At worst,” Dix said, “she's a blackmailer.”

St. John cocked an eyebrow.

Cecca said, “Both those paintings had Sold signs on them when I was there last week. She wouldn't tell me who'd bought them. It isn't likely she could have found a buyer—a legitimate buyer—at such overinflated prices.”

“You think she sold them to Mrs. Mallory's lover?”

“In exchange for her silence, yes.”

“He wouldn't give in to that kind of blackmail to cover up a simple affair,” Dix said. “The only reason he'd pay is if he's guilty of something much worse.”

St. John said, “That's quite a scenario you've worked out.”

“It fits all the facts.”

“Maybe. But again, where's your proof?”

“Louise is the proof. Make her admit it.”

“ Make her admit it? How do you propose we do that?”