about the shootings, I knew as soon as she started talking about this Wolf character that she was involved with him. I could see it in her eyes. The storm clouds lifted. The sun came out. She looked happy, at least as happy as a woman like Sarah can ever be.
The alley incident wasn’t the only thing I wanted to talk to Sarah about that day. She knew that I was looking into some murders that I thought might be connected—young women with nothing in common except that they died violently. There weren’t many, but more than a precinct our size generally racks up in the space of a year or two. We also had several women listed as missing, most of them not the type to just walk away from their lives. They had good jobs, husbands or lovers, solid reputations. It didn’t make sense.
I showed up at Sarah’s kitchen door late one night, blubbering about all the dead women littering the city. It was the drunkest I’d been in weeks. She let me in, made me some coffee, and listened to me go over what I knew about each case. She hated that shit. But that night she listened, and when I got to the Maxine Harris case, she recognized thevictim’s name. She said Harris had been in the store and had even sold some of her used books to Harry, Sarah’s sleazebag boss. Just a few days before she died, Sarah had discovered one of them among her own collection—a book of poems that she had brought home from the store. Maxine Harris’s name was right there on the bookplate. Sarah said that some of the lines in one of the poems were highlighted in yellow.
I wanted to see that book. On Saturday, the day before she died, I stopped by her place to get it. She wasn’t there, so I parked a short distance from the house and watched—for what, I’m not sure. Maybe I thought Wolf would show up. I’d been wanting to get a look at him, to see if my hunch was right. I would have bet a year’s wages that he’d be a dead ringer for Alan Carver.
Sarah came home alone. I pulled into the driveway behind her and helped her carry some packages into the house. She acted pleased to see me, but there was something about her manner that bothered me. She seemed agitated or excited, like someone who is expecting something to happen. Someone waiting for something special.
That’s how she was toward the end, waiting for Liza to be born. Spacey. Kind of drifting around in her head—loopy, even. When I saw that same look in her eyes again, I knew that it was somehow tied up with Wolf and how she felt about him. It worried me because I knew the guy was a liar. Maybe worse.
When I told her that I had come for the book, she went straight to her coffee table to get it, but it wasn’t there. I could see that upset her. She said it had been there just a few hours earlier, and she hadn’t moved it. I could tell that she was concerned, that she really believed that someone must have taken it, but I chalked it up to her frame of mind. When we were married I had seen her do a lot of crazy things, like putting the ice cream away in the cupboard or pouring milk on her pancakes. I thought she’d probably find the book about two minutes after I walked out the door.
That’s why I went back over to her place last night. Iwanted to see if she had located it yet. When I arrived, Sarah’s car was in the driveway, but the house was dark. “Probably out somewhere with her undersecretary,” I told myself.
I went back to my apartment, had a few beers, watched the tube, and took a nap. There was no use calling her. She always let that damn answering machine pick up her calls, even when she was at home. So, a little before midnight, I drove back over to her place to see if she was there. The house was still dark. Either she was asleep or she was out somewhere.
I kept checking back throughout the night, but the story was always the same. Then, on my fifth swing past the house, I glanced up at the porch and saw that the front door was standing wide open.
No lights on in
The alley incident wasn’t the only thing I wanted to talk to Sarah about that day. She knew that I was looking into some murders that I thought might be connected—young women with nothing in common except that they died violently. There weren’t many, but more than a precinct our size generally racks up in the space of a year or two. We also had several women listed as missing, most of them not the type to just walk away from their lives. They had good jobs, husbands or lovers, solid reputations. It didn’t make sense.
I showed up at Sarah’s kitchen door late one night, blubbering about all the dead women littering the city. It was the drunkest I’d been in weeks. She let me in, made me some coffee, and listened to me go over what I knew about each case. She hated that shit. But that night she listened, and when I got to the Maxine Harris case, she recognized thevictim’s name. She said Harris had been in the store and had even sold some of her used books to Harry, Sarah’s sleazebag boss. Just a few days before she died, Sarah had discovered one of them among her own collection—a book of poems that she had brought home from the store. Maxine Harris’s name was right there on the bookplate. Sarah said that some of the lines in one of the poems were highlighted in yellow.
I wanted to see that book. On Saturday, the day before she died, I stopped by her place to get it. She wasn’t there, so I parked a short distance from the house and watched—for what, I’m not sure. Maybe I thought Wolf would show up. I’d been wanting to get a look at him, to see if my hunch was right. I would have bet a year’s wages that he’d be a dead ringer for Alan Carver.
Sarah came home alone. I pulled into the driveway behind her and helped her carry some packages into the house. She acted pleased to see me, but there was something about her manner that bothered me. She seemed agitated or excited, like someone who is expecting something to happen. Someone waiting for something special.
That’s how she was toward the end, waiting for Liza to be born. Spacey. Kind of drifting around in her head—loopy, even. When I saw that same look in her eyes again, I knew that it was somehow tied up with Wolf and how she felt about him. It worried me because I knew the guy was a liar. Maybe worse.
When I told her that I had come for the book, she went straight to her coffee table to get it, but it wasn’t there. I could see that upset her. She said it had been there just a few hours earlier, and she hadn’t moved it. I could tell that she was concerned, that she really believed that someone must have taken it, but I chalked it up to her frame of mind. When we were married I had seen her do a lot of crazy things, like putting the ice cream away in the cupboard or pouring milk on her pancakes. I thought she’d probably find the book about two minutes after I walked out the door.
That’s why I went back over to her place last night. Iwanted to see if she had located it yet. When I arrived, Sarah’s car was in the driveway, but the house was dark. “Probably out somewhere with her undersecretary,” I told myself.
I went back to my apartment, had a few beers, watched the tube, and took a nap. There was no use calling her. She always let that damn answering machine pick up her calls, even when she was at home. So, a little before midnight, I drove back over to her place to see if she was there. The house was still dark. Either she was asleep or she was out somewhere.
I kept checking back throughout the night, but the story was always the same. Then, on my fifth swing past the house, I glanced up at the porch and saw that the front door was standing wide open.
No lights on in
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