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Down in the garage, a trembling bundle of terrified humanity crawled out from underneath the shiny new van and listened for the cars to drive away.
The bar in the Manufacturer’s Life building was almost deserted. Tuesday’s sparse after-work crowd had given up and gone home. Paul Wilcox stood at the door looking about, until a subdued wave from across the room brought him over.
“Hello, Grant. How are things?”
“Hi, Paul. Thanks for coming.” He ordered two Scotches from the lazy-looking waitress who padded over. “Things don’t look very good right now.”
“Really,” said Wilcox. “What do you mean?”
“Those goddamn cops were back at my door this afternoon, asking me the same stuff about Jane. Wanting to know exactly where I’ve been. Telling me everyone knows I had a fight with her the night before she was killed. Asking me about some guy I never even heard of—some cop. And asking me about some guys I’d just as soon not talk about when there are cops around.”
“Who’s that?”
“Never mind. Just some guys, okay?” He smiled automatically at the waitress and swallowed half his drink in one gulp. “Anyway, I can’t afford this, you know. I have possibilities of big contracts turning up in the U.S. I don’t like these guys breathing down my neck. They could screw me up.”
“Look, Keswick, I don’t know what you’re mixed up in—”
“The fuck you don’t. You were at enough of those parties. Stop trying to look so goddamn pure. Just because you’ve decided to have a shot at the Cabinet, and maybe the leadership—I have friends, I hear things, let me tell you—doesn’t mean that you weren’t there along with the rest of us, your tongue hanging out over all the broads, and trying every kind of shit that was going. You forget that? Because if you do, I’m here to remind you of it.” Grant’s anger was palpable. Wilcox pushed his chair back a bit.
“Okay. Don’t get so sore. Look, as far as I know, poor Jane was killed by that rapist—though, if they’re asking you questions, I suppose they’re not taking it for granted. But I can’t horn in on a murder investigation. Now, come on. That’s asking a bit much.” He laughed uneasily, ready to duck if Keswick exploded. He had been known to do that often enough. “But they’re not looking for drugs, you know—just trying to find out who killed her. So if you didn’t kill her, you haven’t got anything to worry about, do you? They don’t have time to mess around with small stuff like that.”
“What in hell do you mean by that? ‘If I didn’t kill her.’ Of course I didn’t kill her. Christ! It was probably that animal from Cobourg. The one who followed her around all the time. I don’t know why they don’t persecute him, instead of me. Or her husband. Being married to that slut would make anyone want to kill her. But I couldn’t have cared less if she lived or died.”
“The one from Cobourg’s dead. Didn’t you hear? So they can’t persecute him. He blew his brains out. Anyway, you don’t have to tell me. It doesn’t matter whether I think you did it or not.”
Keswick stood up, knocking the heavy chair over. “Christ almighty, I’ve had enough of you. And your fucking insinuations. I should paste you across the table, but I’d hate to damage the furniture. Goodbye.”
Wilcox watched him thoughtfully for a moment as he stormed out of the bar, then dropped some bills down on the table and strolled out after him.
Chapter 14
The offices of Van Loon and McHenry were in a pretty red-brick building with a tree and an attempt at a lawn on the tiny patch of dirt between building and sidewalk. A brass plate on the door proclaimed that a film company also did business there, and a dentist. A sign directed them up the stairs to the second floor. A young, vapid and gum-chewing blonde was typing rather inexpertly as they walked in the door. She abandoned her work in relief at the sight of them, and tried on a smile. “Yes?” she squeaked. “Did you have an appointment?”
Sanders nodded briskly. “Yes, we did.” The news seemed to strike her as singularly amusing. She tittered in response. “With Mr. McHenry, I believe.” That convulsed her in another burst of giggles.
The i
“You might be able to give us some information on one of your clients—a Mrs. Jane Conway. We’re investigating her case, and in the course of looking through her apartment, found some file folders marked with your firm’s name. We were hoping that you could shed some light on the background to the correspondence. Or on anything that might help us.”
He gave them the longish look of a man who is balancing conflicting ethical considerations. “I gather she was murdered,” he said finally.
“That’s right,” said Sanders. “There’s no question about that.”
“But wasn’t she killed by the same man who killed those other women? My impression was that she had been.”
Sanders shook his head. “Probably not. Although someone has gone to a certain amount of trouble to try to convince us of that.”
“Well, in that case, I suppose it’s more clearly my duty to seek redress for the crime, in a sense, than to preserve confidentiality.” He smiled and pushed a buzzer on the phone, then picked it up. “Stacey, bring me the Conway file. Jane Conway. Right now, please.” He looked up. “If I don’t say that, she’ll wait until after, lunch,” he said sourly. The door flung open and Stacey dropped a file on the desk.
“All right?” she asked sullenly.
“Thank you, Stacey. You may go now.” Conversation ceased as they watched her parade out. “Here it is. She wanted, in the first instance, to know how she could block divorce action on her husband’s part in spite of the fact that she had left him.” He gri
It was a small white envelope with “Mrs. Jane Conway, February 24, 1984” written on the outside. It contained something small but bulky. Sanders accepted a proffered paper knife and carefully ripped it open. Inside was a black container, cylindrical in shape, with a gray top. Inside the container was a roll of film. Sanders dumped it out on his palm and looked at it.