closer, took her hand. “So tell me.”
“It’s the same old crap,” she said. “Basically, that’s what’s so … so disturbing. The lines never change. It always starts with money. This time it was a bill he got from the orthodontist, for Billy. Then, of course, he gives me a free psychoanalysis, during which he explains why, basically, I’m not qualified to raise Billy and Dan. And then he takes a shot at you and me, about how we’re living off him, off my alimony, that’s what it comes to, the son of a bitch. Sometimes I feel like tearing up his goddamn checks. I really do.”
“If you feel like tearing them up,” he said, “then for God’s sake, tear them up. Mail the pieces back to him. It’d probably do you good.”
She turned toward him, searched his face. Her eyes were cornflower blue; over the years, those eyes had warmed him, comforted him, sometimes challenged him. These were not the eyes of an alimony junkie, the middle-class American divorcée addicted to those monthly checks. These were Ann’s eyes. Ann, who had made him whole—finally, made him whole.
“You mean that, don’t you?” she said. “It’d make you feel better, wouldn’t it?”
“Definitely, it’d make me feel better.”
She rose and gravely held out her hands to him. “Let’s go to bed.”
11:20 PM
“So he talked to you,” he said. “Hastings. The police lieutenant. He talked to you. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes, he talked to me. And he knew. I felt it. I felt that he knew.”
“I’ll have to think about it. Will you be there all night?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He replaced the telephone in its cradle.
11:21 PM
With great care, she replaced the telephone in its cradle attached to the kitchen cabinet.
She’d known the call would come. Today. This very hour. Tonight. This very moment. It had been destined. From the first, it had been destined.
So she must remember.
It was essential that she remember. Now. Beginning now. Beginning when it first began, not so very long ago.
Tragedy, she’d learned, could begin with the ordinary, the inconsequential, the trivial. The devil spoke like everyone else. There was no difference.
She’d been out of wine vinegar for the salad. The time had been about four o’clock in the afternoon; she’d never been sure of the exact hour. She’d gotten the vinegar and lettuce and tomatoes. Then she’d begun walking home.
Somehow she’d felt his presence behind her as she walked. And when she’d heard his voice, she’d known it was him: the one who’d come to liberate her, show her the way, cauterize the open wound.
Him.
Wednesday, September 12
9:20 AM
“I T TURNS OUT,” FRIEDMAN said, “that we might be getting warm on the gun.” Drawing deeply on the first draught of the day’s first cigar and executing three large smoke rings, each one flapped away irritably by Hastings, Friedman gestured to the sheaf of printouts he’d put on Hastings’s desk. “In a nutshell, what we’ve got here is that, as I said yesterday, the Llama was originally owned by a Beverly Hills gun collector. He had fourteen guns stolen out of a collection of about fifty. The stolen guns were all pistols. That was a year ago, approximately.” Squinting against cigar smoke, Friedman leaned forward to consult a sheet of yellow legal paper that accompanied the printouts. “Three of the guns were recovered immediately by the pawnshop detail in L.A., and four more were impounded as evidence in crimes, also in the L.A. area. That was during the first six months. Also during the first six months—” Frowning, Friedman put on a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses. “Also during that time, three more guns were recovered in New York and New Jersey. For a long while, that was it. My guess is that maybe the remaining guns”—he studied his notes—“four of them—were purchased illegally by ordinary citizens, for protection, whatever. That’s to say,
“It’s the same old crap,” she said. “Basically, that’s what’s so … so disturbing. The lines never change. It always starts with money. This time it was a bill he got from the orthodontist, for Billy. Then, of course, he gives me a free psychoanalysis, during which he explains why, basically, I’m not qualified to raise Billy and Dan. And then he takes a shot at you and me, about how we’re living off him, off my alimony, that’s what it comes to, the son of a bitch. Sometimes I feel like tearing up his goddamn checks. I really do.”
“If you feel like tearing them up,” he said, “then for God’s sake, tear them up. Mail the pieces back to him. It’d probably do you good.”
She turned toward him, searched his face. Her eyes were cornflower blue; over the years, those eyes had warmed him, comforted him, sometimes challenged him. These were not the eyes of an alimony junkie, the middle-class American divorcée addicted to those monthly checks. These were Ann’s eyes. Ann, who had made him whole—finally, made him whole.
“You mean that, don’t you?” she said. “It’d make you feel better, wouldn’t it?”
“Definitely, it’d make me feel better.”
She rose and gravely held out her hands to him. “Let’s go to bed.”
11:20 PM
“So he talked to you,” he said. “Hastings. The police lieutenant. He talked to you. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes, he talked to me. And he knew. I felt it. I felt that he knew.”
“I’ll have to think about it. Will you be there all night?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He replaced the telephone in its cradle.
11:21 PM
With great care, she replaced the telephone in its cradle attached to the kitchen cabinet.
She’d known the call would come. Today. This very hour. Tonight. This very moment. It had been destined. From the first, it had been destined.
So she must remember.
It was essential that she remember. Now. Beginning now. Beginning when it first began, not so very long ago.
Tragedy, she’d learned, could begin with the ordinary, the inconsequential, the trivial. The devil spoke like everyone else. There was no difference.
She’d been out of wine vinegar for the salad. The time had been about four o’clock in the afternoon; she’d never been sure of the exact hour. She’d gotten the vinegar and lettuce and tomatoes. Then she’d begun walking home.
Somehow she’d felt his presence behind her as she walked. And when she’d heard his voice, she’d known it was him: the one who’d come to liberate her, show her the way, cauterize the open wound.
Him.
Wednesday, September 12
9:20 AM
“I T TURNS OUT,” FRIEDMAN said, “that we might be getting warm on the gun.” Drawing deeply on the first draught of the day’s first cigar and executing three large smoke rings, each one flapped away irritably by Hastings, Friedman gestured to the sheaf of printouts he’d put on Hastings’s desk. “In a nutshell, what we’ve got here is that, as I said yesterday, the Llama was originally owned by a Beverly Hills gun collector. He had fourteen guns stolen out of a collection of about fifty. The stolen guns were all pistols. That was a year ago, approximately.” Squinting against cigar smoke, Friedman leaned forward to consult a sheet of yellow legal paper that accompanied the printouts. “Three of the guns were recovered immediately by the pawnshop detail in L.A., and four more were impounded as evidence in crimes, also in the L.A. area. That was during the first six months. Also during the first six months—” Frowning, Friedman put on a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses. “Also during that time, three more guns were recovered in New York and New Jersey. For a long while, that was it. My guess is that maybe the remaining guns”—he studied his notes—“four of them—were purchased illegally by ordinary citizens, for protection, whatever. That’s to say,
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