8

Hemade himself wait until the next morning before going home. He made himself spend the night at the apartment he had leased for Cini, and for most of the night he sat near the floor-to-ceiling living-room window, in darkness, looking out at the dim shape of trees across the lawn. Sit down and think it out. That was the idea. Think about what to do and think about a girl he had-what?-gone with, fooled around with, had an affair with, laughed with, made love to, loved, maybe loved, for three months and who now was dead. He knew she was dead, but he couldn't accept it in his mind. Because when he thought of her he thought of her alive. But he told himself she was dead. She was dead because of him. He didn't drink that night in the apartment. He didn't want to feel sorry for himself or make excuses. He wanted to think it out as it was. But all he could think of was that she was dead and there was nothing he could do to change it.

When it was light he thought of calling Jim O'Boyle-because he had to begin doing something now and because he had called him before, from this room, six days ago. But he didn't reach for the phone this time; he hesitated and thought about it. He would hear O'Boyle saying they would have to go to the police. Maybe not right away but eventually. A girl was dead. Murdered. It wasn't simple blackmail anymore. But if he went to the police the newspapers would find out about it. Story and picture on page one-could he face that? He told himself, Yes, the girl was dead because of him. He wasn't going to run and hide; he'd have to face it.

But wait a minute. She wasn't dead because of Barbara. She wasn't dead because of his daughter or his son. He had to think about them also. How it would affect them. He had a business to run and responsibilities and, Christ, pretty soon a union contract to negotiate. He had more to consider than himself, his own feelings. Conscience said go to the police. Reason said wait, what are the consequences? What are your alternatives? The roof was coming down on him and he could yell for help or try to put it back himself.

How?

He didn't know how. Sitting in the girl's apartment, in the early-morning light, he didn't have the slightest idea what he was going to do. Though he was sure now he wasn't going to call O'Boyle or go to the police. At least not right away.

Take it a step at a time. Walk, don't run. Never panic in an emergency. Find out who they are first. If he could do that, if it was possible- He was beginning to get the good feeling of confidence again, the feeling of being keyed up but able to remain calm. There it is, he said to himself. Simple. Find out who they are. And then kick ass.

Barbara was in a housecoat. She opened the front door and stood looking at him for several moments before stepping aside.

"It's your house too," she said. "You don't have to ring the bell."

"I didn't want to walk in the back. You don't know who it is, you might be frightened."

"I think I know your sound," Barbara said.

"You're doing something, go ahead. I just want to pick up a few things."

He walked past her to the main stairway and started up. Barbara watched him. She hesitated, making up her mind, then followed him upstairs. He was at the dresser when she entered the bedroom, going through the top drawer, pushing aside his socks and handkerchiefs.

"I thought you were coming last night," she said. "I waited until Johnny Carson was over."

"I went to a movie," Mitchell said.

"You went to a movie. That was nice. With your girlfriend?"

Mitchell turned from the dresser. He looked at her and seemed about to speak, but said nothing and walked over to his closet.

Barbara watched him. "You know what I almost did? I almost threw all your clothes out the goddamn window. I get urges too, buddy, but I restrain myself. Usually."

"I'm sorry," Mitchell said, turning from the closet.

"For what? I don't know, Mitch. You can talk quietly and sound very sincere-but that doesn't change the fact you're a bastard. I'm the one who's hurt, for God's sake, not you."

"Barbara, who's been in the house in the last few days? I mean besides you."

"Who's been in the house?" The abrupt change in the conversation stopped her. "What do you mean, who's been in the house?"

"Has anyone come in that you don't know?" Mitchell asked quietly. "Or that you do know. A plumber or a painter, somebody like that."

"The only thing that needs fixing," Barbara said, "is the disposal. You said you were going to take care of it."

"All right, then have you noticed anything out of place? Like someone might have walked in or broken in while you were out?"

She shook her head slowly. "The milkman comes in…"

"Or door-to-door salesmen."

"No-"

She shook her head again. "No, there was somebody. A man from an accounting service. In fact he was in here when I got home from tennis."

"When?"

"A few days ago. Sitting in the living room. Can you believe it? Sitting there waiting for me."

"What company's he with?"

"No company. I looked it up, Silver Something Accounting Service, he said, but there's no such company."

"What did he look like?"

Barbara thought about it. "Kind of hippie looking, and the way he talked, very cheeky. He was wearing a dark suit and carried an attache case."

"He had a car?"

"A car picked him up. A white one. I didn't notice the make or year."

"Did he talk… slowly?"

Barbara nodded thoughtfully. "Like it was an effort."

"You're sure you've never seen him before?"

"Fairly sure. Mitch, what is it? Did he take anything?"

"A few things," Mitchell said, answering her but seeing the movie screen, his gun in the vise aimed at the girl and the old sport coat on the table. He saw the soundless gun fired and saw the gouges appear in the plywood as the girl's head snapped back and heard the lazy sound of the skinny guy, who had been in this house, this room, saying bang, bang… bang, bang, bang. Five times. Five shots. Making sure, when one would have been enough to murder her.

Barbara, with a tense, concerned look now, was asking him, "What? Mitch, what did he take?"

His wife looked good. She looked clean. He liked the navy-blue housecoat and her hair and, this morning, the trace of dark circles beneath her eyes. He knew that if he held her he would feel the familiar feel of her body and she would smell good. She had seen the man and maybe she could identify him. She could be a part of this. Right now, not knowing anything about it, she could become involved-another woman involved because of him-and he didn't want her to be, if he could help it.

He said, "The guy took my gun."

"You're sure?"

"It's not here. He took the gun, my old sport coat and maybe a few other things." She would look after he was gone and find this out herself.

"But why?"

"Some people who steal need guns. The sport coat I don't know, maybe he just liked it."

She was staring at him, listening to his sound, analyzing it. She said quietly, "Mitch, that's not the reason he took it."

"I don't know why. I'm only saying it's gone."

"I think you do know," Barbara said.

Mitchell hesitated, but in the same moment said to himself, No. "I've got to get to the plant," he said, and started out of the room.

Barbara's voice followed him to the hall. "Mitch, tell me what's going on. Please."

But he reached the stairway and went down without answering.

O'Boyle said, "Mitch, this is Joe Paonessa. From the prosecutor's office." He saw the flicker of surprise on Mitchell's face, gave them enough time to exchange nods and a glad-to-meet-you, and then offered a brief explanation. "Joe was able to come at the last minute, Mitch. He's been kind enough to give us some of his time, talk to you personally and give his views on your situation."