tell with a picture that's this blurred."
The detective was starting into the hallway. "It's a copy made off the videotape from one of the mall security cameras. All the police departments in the county got copies of it and were asked if they could identify the woman," he explained. "I couldn't at first, but then I remembered seeing that picture of your wife."
"Ex-wife." He started after the policeman.
"That might change, though."
"You can loan somebody your car and not necessarily be thinking of remarrying her."
"Know the man in the picture?"
"Which one, the guy who's all bloody?"
"Yeah, that one."
"Nope."
"Him they identified. Name was Rick Dell."
"A third-string comic. I've heard of him, but didn't know him personally."
"So learning he's dead didn't move you to tears?"
"Not especially, no."
Ryerson went into H.J.'s bedroom. "When your wifeâex-wifeâ borrowed your car, Ben, she didn't happen to mention that a friend of hers had recently died in the Eastport mall?"
"No, she didn't." The closet door was open and he could see that the large, sky-blue suitcase he'd seen there the other night was now gone.
"The reason Rick Dell died was that somebody stuck a knife in him."
"That's right, I read about it in the paper."
Genuflecting, Ryerson checked under the bed. "You're right about her housekeeping. Flock of dustballs under here, along with some lingerie, Kleenex and a copy of . . . what is it? . . . Passion in Manhattan ."
"She painted the cover."
"Did she?" The detective pulled out the paperback, stood up and studied the bright cover. "Woman in the nightgown here looks sort of like her."
"She sometimes uses herself as a model."
"Very nice painting, very attractive lady." He set the paperback book carefully atop the rumpled bedspread and stepped back into the hail.
"Are the police looking for the woman in the photo?"
"The Eastport police would like to talk to her."
"Was Rick Dell killed at the mall?"
"No, elsewhere. He only came to the mall to die." The detective stepped into the kitchen. "They went through this room, too."
The cupboards had been searched again, cans and cartons were strewn about the floor.
"Did she keep much jewelry or cash around the house?"
"I don't think so. H.J. isn't much for jewels. Money she likes, but that would be in her bank."
Nodding, the policeman moved along to the small, bright room that H.J. used as a studio. "Another self-portrait," he observed, crossing over to the study the unfinished painting on the easel.
This room had been left pretty much alone, though someone had tossed a tube of vermillion paint on the floor and tromped on it. It had made an explosion of red across the straw rug.
"Did she mention to you if she'd had any earlier problems with burglars?"
"Not to me, no," answered Ben. "If she had had a problem, I'm sure she would have called the police."
"Any idea when she's due back home?"
"No, you never know with H.J."
"Everybody calls her H.J.?"
"Most of her friends."
"Did Rick Dell owe her money?"
"I'm not sure she even knew him."
"Since he died at her feet, it's a safe assumption she did."
Ben shrugged one shoulder and said nothing.
"One of the witnesses mentioned that H.J.âif it's her in the pictureâthat she asked Dell about money. 'Where's my $50,000?' is how it was reported to me."
"A tidy sum, even these days."
"As I say, that's what my colleagues on the Eastport police passed along to me," Ryerson said. "You wouldn't know if Dell or anybody else owed her that amount?"
"I'm not as convinced as you are that H.J. is the one in the picture. So it's just as likely that Dell owed money to an entirely different woman."
Reaching out, Ryerson retrieved the picture. He folded it and returned it to his book. "If you see herâwhen do you expect to be seeing her?"
"Later today probably."
"Mention that I'd like to talk to her. This isn't my case, but I like to help my colleagues out."
"I'll tell her."
"Also tell her to
The detective was starting into the hallway. "It's a copy made off the videotape from one of the mall security cameras. All the police departments in the county got copies of it and were asked if they could identify the woman," he explained. "I couldn't at first, but then I remembered seeing that picture of your wife."
"Ex-wife." He started after the policeman.
"That might change, though."
"You can loan somebody your car and not necessarily be thinking of remarrying her."
"Know the man in the picture?"
"Which one, the guy who's all bloody?"
"Yeah, that one."
"Nope."
"Him they identified. Name was Rick Dell."
"A third-string comic. I've heard of him, but didn't know him personally."
"So learning he's dead didn't move you to tears?"
"Not especially, no."
Ryerson went into H.J.'s bedroom. "When your wifeâex-wifeâ borrowed your car, Ben, she didn't happen to mention that a friend of hers had recently died in the Eastport mall?"
"No, she didn't." The closet door was open and he could see that the large, sky-blue suitcase he'd seen there the other night was now gone.
"The reason Rick Dell died was that somebody stuck a knife in him."
"That's right, I read about it in the paper."
Genuflecting, Ryerson checked under the bed. "You're right about her housekeeping. Flock of dustballs under here, along with some lingerie, Kleenex and a copy of . . . what is it? . . . Passion in Manhattan ."
"She painted the cover."
"Did she?" The detective pulled out the paperback, stood up and studied the bright cover. "Woman in the nightgown here looks sort of like her."
"She sometimes uses herself as a model."
"Very nice painting, very attractive lady." He set the paperback book carefully atop the rumpled bedspread and stepped back into the hail.
"Are the police looking for the woman in the photo?"
"The Eastport police would like to talk to her."
"Was Rick Dell killed at the mall?"
"No, elsewhere. He only came to the mall to die." The detective stepped into the kitchen. "They went through this room, too."
The cupboards had been searched again, cans and cartons were strewn about the floor.
"Did she keep much jewelry or cash around the house?"
"I don't think so. H.J. isn't much for jewels. Money she likes, but that would be in her bank."
Nodding, the policeman moved along to the small, bright room that H.J. used as a studio. "Another self-portrait," he observed, crossing over to the study the unfinished painting on the easel.
This room had been left pretty much alone, though someone had tossed a tube of vermillion paint on the floor and tromped on it. It had made an explosion of red across the straw rug.
"Did she mention to you if she'd had any earlier problems with burglars?"
"Not to me, no," answered Ben. "If she had had a problem, I'm sure she would have called the police."
"Any idea when she's due back home?"
"No, you never know with H.J."
"Everybody calls her H.J.?"
"Most of her friends."
"Did Rick Dell owe her money?"
"I'm not sure she even knew him."
"Since he died at her feet, it's a safe assumption she did."
Ben shrugged one shoulder and said nothing.
"One of the witnesses mentioned that H.J.âif it's her in the pictureâthat she asked Dell about money. 'Where's my $50,000?' is how it was reported to me."
"A tidy sum, even these days."
"As I say, that's what my colleagues on the Eastport police passed along to me," Ryerson said. "You wouldn't know if Dell or anybody else owed her that amount?"
"I'm not as convinced as you are that H.J. is the one in the picture. So it's just as likely that Dell owed money to an entirely different woman."
Reaching out, Ryerson retrieved the picture. He folded it and returned it to his book. "If you see herâwhen do you expect to be seeing her?"
"Later today probably."
"Mention that I'd like to talk to her. This isn't my case, but I like to help my colleagues out."
"I'll tell her."
"Also tell her to
Similar Books
