Читать книгу The Man Next Door - Ellen James - Страница 7

MICHAEL SAT in his Jeep across from the public library. He took a sip from his Coke, but the ice in the cup had melted a long time ago. It was a hot, oppressive afternoon, nothing unusual for a Tucson summer. Idly he glanced at his watch again. Kim Bennett had been in the library for an hour and twenty—two minutes.

Michael considered what he knew about her so far: Kimberly Marie Lambert Bennett, born in Pinetop, Arizona. Her parents had owned a small restaurant, but her mother had died under questionable circumstances when Kim was twenty. Kim had moved to Tucson immediately afterward, taken a secretarial job at Bennett Investing, Inc., and married the boss three months later. Now, at twenty—nine, she was the very wealthy widow of Stanley Evan Bennett.

Those were only the dry, straightforward facts, of course. Michael had always been interested in the less tangible aspects of a case—the thoughts and emotions of a suspect. Those were hidden; you wouldn’t find them on a computer data base or in a file on someone’s desk. You had to speculate, use your imagination, ponder a little. And Michael had definitely been pondering Kim Bennett.

This morning he hadn’t met her exactly the way he’d intended; your son’s pitching a ball through the neigh bor’s window was one of those unforeseen events of parenthood. He’d had no alternative but to follow Andy across the yard and introduce himself. Right away he’d been able to tell that something was bothering the widow Bennett. She’d handled that shovel as if she’d wanted to bury something, not merely dig up a bush. There’d been a haunted look in her eyes. He didn’t need to be a detective to have seen that much.

But the questions still remained unanswered. What was it that made Kim Bennett look tormented? Sorrow, grief over a dead husband? Or was it guilt? Had she killed him, after all?

Michael shifted position, taking another sip of Coke. Wealthy widow…murderer…maybe both. Not to mention loyal patron of the local library. She’d been in there almost an hour and a half now.

Michael pictured her: sun—streaked hair, vivid blue eyes, dusting of freckles across her pretty nose. An attractive woman, Kim Bennett. Very attractive. Maybe even beautiful.

He reminded himself that she was just a case he was working on. He didn’t need to get carried away. Maybe he really could do with more of a social life. Since the divorce, he hadn’t dated a lot. Okay, make that no dating. He was out of practice with women, and maybe that was why Kim Bennett looked so good to him. He sure as hell hoped that was the only reason.

Just then his partner’s van pulled up; she was right on schedule. After a moment Donna climbed out, moving slowly. Her blouse billowed over the bulge of her stomach, and she walked with that telltale waddle of a pregnant woman—as if her back ached and her feet were made of stone. Opening the passenger door of the Jeep, she slid in beside him. She didn’t say anyting, just sat there for a second or two, her hands resting on the swell of her stomach. Then, with a grimace, she reached under her blouse, pulled out a small weighted pillow, alias baby, and tossed it into the back seat. Michael observed her gravely.

“So,” he said, “still haven’t told her, have you?”

Donna gave him a withering glance. “Does it look like I’ve told her?”

He didn’t say anything. Donna let out an explosive sigh.

“What kind of idiot am I, anyway?” she muttered.

Again, silence was the only diplomatic answer. Donna gave another sigh, a heavy one.

“Think about it,” she said. “Is this the act of a rational woman? Pretending to be pregnant for my blasted mother-in-law?”

Michael settled back in his seat. He’d been through this before.

“And for that matter,” Donna said, “what kind of man did I marry? What kind of man, just out of the blue, tells his mother that his wife is expecting when she isn’t?”

Michael almost felt sorry for Brad. The guy was going to pay for this one, big time.

“Okay, so she wants a grandkid. Is that any reason to invent one? Heck, why not just tell her I’m having triplets!”

Michael swirled the Coke in his cup. He sure could’ve used some more ice.

Donna groaned. “For crying out loud, I don’t even know how pregnant I’m supposed to be. Four months? Five months? Three?”

Michael thought it over. “I’d say that pillow is a good five months along.”

Donna scowled at him. “Oh, I could throttle Brad! ‘Mom, guess what, we’re pregnant.’ Hah. What’s this ‘e’ stuff? I don’t see Brad carrying a pillow around in his pants, do you?”

“No,” Michael said solemnly, “I don’t.”

She rubbed her hands through her hair. “Just tell me. What kind of idiot am I to go along with this for even a minute? I’d really like to know.”

Michael finished his Coke. Perhaps it was time for a real answer. “I’d say you were just trying to be nice—in the beginning, at least. Trying to spare the feelings of an aging woman who dreams about grandchildren. As for now, though…I’d say you have a husband who doesn’t know how to stand up to his mother. And I’d say you’re starting to get into this pregnancy thing, too. You already have the walk down—that’s a good touch.”

She stared at him. “You can’t possibly think I’m enjoying myself.”

Michael wished he could stretch out his legs more. Such were the hazards of a stakeout—sore butt and muscle cramps. “Maybe you’re just trying it on for size,” he told Donna. “Trying to figure out what it really would be like to have a kid.”

She looked peeved. “That’s ridiculous. Brad and I don’t want children. Not for a very long time, anyway.” Suddenly she didn’t seem to want to talk about it anymore. She snatched up Michael’s log sheet and scanned it.

“Exciting day, I see. Ms. Bennett went to the grocery store…the bagel shop. the drycleaners. My, sure signs of criminal activity. And now she’s at the library of all places. Scary, indeed. Should we call for backup?”

This was the Donna he knew best: sassy, sarcastic, outspoken. He settled more comfortably in his seat.

“You forget,” he said, “we no longer have backup. It’s just you and me.”

Donna plopped her feet on the dashboard. “I do forget sometimes,” she admitted. “You can’t be a cop for ten years and not have it ingrained. Sometimes I actually miss the uniform.”

Donna always had liked the uniform. Even after she’d made detective, she’d grumbled about having to give up her cap and her billy club.

Michael gazed across at the library. Maybe Kim Bennett liked to read. Or maybe she’d just wanted to get out of the heat. Either way, she’d been in there awhile.

“Sometimes it still seems strange,” Donna said. “You and me private investigators. Doesn’t it seem strange to you?”

The back of his shirt was damp, sticking to the upholstery. “It’s a job,” he said.

“We’re self—employed, anyway. And the money’s good. We make a whole lot more than we used to.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he said briefly. People were willing to pay exorbitant sums to have their husbands or business partners or employees tailed.

“You know, Mike, you never talk about the old days,” Donna remarked. “It’s very annoying. Who else am I going to reminisce with?”

“There’s no point in looking back,” he said after a moment.

“You do miss being a cop,” she persisted. “I wish you’d just admit it.”

He moved restlessly. This was Donna, too: always wanting to dredge up memories. But he’d left the police department because it was the only wise choice. Now it was up to him to make his new life work. He’d damn well make it work—and that meant leaving a whole lot behind.

“Okay, so you’re telling me to mind my own business,” Donna said imperturbably. “But someday you’ll have to talk about it. The good parts and the bad, too….”

“Give it a rest,” he said.

“And people think I’m touchy.” She swung her feet down from the dashboard and grabbed her pillow from the back seat. Clutching it to her, she glared at Michael. “Don’t say anything. Just don’t.”

He lifted his hands. “Not a word.”

Still glaring at him suspiciously, she opened the door of the Jeep. “It’s time for me to clock in. I’ll take over and do a wonderful job of following Ms. Bennett. Too bad she never goes anywhere exciting.”

“Maybe she’ll surprise us,” Michael said. He had a feeling the lovely widow Bennett might be full of surprises.

Donna started to climb out, but then stopped. “Mike,” she said, “do you really think she did it? Do you think she killed her husband?”

Again a picture of Kim Bennett materialized in his mind—her blue eyes the color of shadow over sea, the reckless tumble of her hair about her shoulders. but, most of all, the haunted expression on her face.

“I don’t know,” he said at last, reluctantly. “I sure as hell don’t know.”

A SHORT TIME LATER Michael pulled up at the community center. It was an older building in downtown Tucson, adobe walls stuccoed a startling shade of lavender. The place wasn’t easy to miss, you could say that much for it. Built onto the side was the new brick gym funded by the Police Athletic League. It seemed an unlikely combination—lavender adobe and redbrick—but Michael had been right in the middle of those fund—raising efforts, and he liked the way the place had turned out: oddball, perhaps, but sturdy. Maybe he wouldn’t admit as much to Donna, but he’d missed being around here this past year.

He got out of his Jeep and walked along the border of palm trees until he reached the gym entrance. He hesitated for just a moment, then pushed the door open and went inside.

He saw Andy right off, sitting on the bleachers, in a huddle with a couple of his friends from the old days. Andy seemed distracted, as if only pretending to listen to the other kids. As usual, he wore a vaguely tense expression. But why should an eleven-year-old look tense? It was a question that had been bothering Michael more and more lately. He wanted his son to be happy. carefree. Wasn’t that what childhood was all about? Perhaps Michael’s own long—ago childhood hadn’t measured up, but that was all the more reason he wanted something good for his son.

When Andy glanced over and saw Michael, his expression changed. It went from tense to guarded—not much of an improvement. He slid away from the bleachers and crossed the gym. He moved at a normal pace, but somehow gave the impression he didn’t want to be walking toward his father. Maybe it was the way he dragged his duffel bag along the floor.

“Hey, Dad,” he said when he reached Michael—not the most enthusiastic greeting a father had ever heard.

“How’d it go this afternoon?” Michael asked.

“It was okay. I guess.” Again, Andy spoke with all the enthusiasm of Daniel to the keeper of the lions. Michael had the urge to reach out his hand and rumple Andy’s hair, the way he’d done when his son was younger. But he knew instinctively to stay the impulse.

“You guys get in some basketball?” he asked, instead.

“I suppose so. if you wanna call getting our butts kicked forty-four-zip playing basketball. The court was tied up, so we had to play against four older kids. It really sucks, being short.”

His son, a cynic at age eleven? “Butts. sucks. Your mother would have my head if she heard you using language like that when I’m in charge.”

Andy looked embarrassed. “It’s not, like, a problem or anything. I was just. you know, talking. Besides, you talk a lot worse than I do.”

“So maybe we’ll make a deal,” Michael said reasonably. “I clean up my language, you do the same with yours.”

Andy didn’t seem particularly thrilled with the prospect, and he said nothing in reply. Still dragging his bag, he shuffled out the door of the gym.

Michael followed his son to the Jeep and watched him climb into the passenger seat. Then he went around and got into the driver’s side. Starting the engine, he glanced over at Andy.

“Fasten your seat belt, son.”

“This thing’s got air bags, doesn’t it, Dad?” Andy muttered. A second or two later he snapped the belt into place, but he managed to make it seem a gesture of defiance.

It hadn’t always been like this. There’d been a time, before the divorce, when Michael and Andy had shared a quiet, comfortable camaraderie. So much had changed since then—too much. Michael felt the grim edge of regret. For Andy’s sake, he would go back and do it over if he could. And he wouldn’t make the same damn mistakes.

Michael pulled out into the traffic. Andy leaned toward the dashboard and turned on the radio. He switched from one frequency to another until he came to the “oldies” station. He cranked that one up on high and slumped back in his seat. Andy’s logic was all too apparent: find Dad’s favorite music, blast it through the speakers and hope it’d keep him occupied—anything to avoid the need for conversation.

Michael reached over and turned the music down. “How was it today, being back?”

“Nothing’s different,” Andy mumbled. “Doug’s still a jerk. Eric’s still a whiny ass.”

“We have a deal, remember?” Michael reminded him. “Watch the language. Besides, you always used to like Doug and Eric.”

“No, I didn’t. I just had to hang around with them because their dads were cops, too. But you’re not a cop anymore. So why do I have to go down to that sh—stupid community center?”

They’d reached a stoplight and Michael studied his son. He saw the belligerence in Andy’s expression, but also the uncertainty. Andy was probably wondering if he’d pushed it too far this time.

“I thought maybe you’d have fun,” Michael said.

“I’m not going again,” Andy muttered.

The light turned green and Michael pressed his foot on the gas. He’d hoped that Andy would enjoy seeing some of his old friends, but maybe that was unrealistic. Andy had started a new life when he’d moved across town with Jill. Another school, another neighborhood—those were big adjustments. And Michael knew firsthand how difficult it was to try visiting a life you’d left behind. Whenever he dropped in at the station house, he felt like an outsider, even with guys who’d been his closest friends for years. Michael had taken to dropping in less and less.

“Maybe we’ll join a pool,” he said now. “Get in some swimming together.”

“It’s not like you have to entertain me or anything,” Andy said in a low voice. “I can make do on my own.”

“I’ve been looking forward to spending time with you,” Michael answered. He paused, then went on, “Andy, I know things have been. difficult. But now that you’re spending the summer with me—”

“It’s no big deal,” Andy said quickly. “The only reason I’m staying with you is ‘ause Mom had to go on that lousy trip. It’s not like it’s supposed to be this way.”

Michael wished he knew the right words—ones that would convince Andy exactly how much this summer really did mean.

“Your mom wanted to take you along,” he said at last. “I’m the guy who convinced her you should bunk with me, instead. It’ll be a whole lot better than just seeing you on the weekends.”

“Sure,” Andy said. “I’d much rather stay in this crummy town than be at some castle in England. Who wouldn’t?” Again the defiance mixed with uncertainty. But Andy had to know he’d pushed it too far this time. And where the hell had he learned that sarcasm?

Easy, Michael told himself. He realized his son was testing him. The worst thing he could do right now was show anger. He and Andy would have to take this a little at a time, figuring things out as they went along. The answers just weren’t readily apparent.

Michael grimaced to himself. When he’d been a police detective, he’d faced plenty of unanswered questions. It had taken a mix of imagination and careful procedure to chase down the answers. He supposed he used that same combination in his new work as a private investigator. But when it came to his son these days, Michael’s imagination seemed to fail him, and he didn’t know what procedures to use. He was damn well lost.

It had been almost a year since the divorce, a year of picking Andy up every three out of four Friday afternoons and delivering him back to Jill every three out of four Sunday evenings. An arrangement like that wasn’t exactly conducive to father—son bonding. But then Jill, a graduate student in art history, had received a grant to study in England over the summer. She’d planned to take Andy with her, until Michael had suggested a different idea: Andy could live with him for the three months she’d be gone.

Jill, of course, had taken her time making a decision. But at last, with a great show of reluctance, she’d agreed to leave Andy in his sole care while she went off to England. Michael had taken her to the airport a couple of days ago, listening all the while to a litany of instructions. Jill had conveniently forgotten that during their marriage he’d been a capable enough father. It was only more recently that he seemed to have lost the parenting knack.

But here they were now, he and his son. Their time together had only just begun, and already the discomfort between them had grown. Not to mention that Andy had already made it clear he was going to be a smart ass.

Smart aleck, Michael amended. He’d made a deal with Andy, and he’d damn well—darn well—have to clean up his own language.

After a short while they turned into the secluded neighborhood where they’d be spending their summer. Lush orange trees lined the streets, and the large houses were built in quaint Southwestern style, with thick plastered walls, deep—set windows, bright shutters, here and there a ramada—a rustic wooden porch covered in vines. Inside, however, would be all the modern conveniences. The people who lived around here weren’t the type to do without walk—in closets, Jacuzzis and sunken tubs.

Michael pulled up at the house he and Andy were sharing. It was much too big for the two of them. Too big, too plush, too everything.

“Well, here it is again,” he said, his jocular tone not quite coming off. “Home, temporary home.”

Andy glanced at the place skeptically. “Yeah, right. What’d ya do, Dad, rob the First National?”

Michael knew he had to be careful about what he said next. There was only so much he could tell Andy, but he disliked lying to his son.

“It’s only for the summer,” he said. “You know I don’t live like this all the time.” Involuntarily his gaze went next door. Kim Bennett hadn’t returned yet. Without her Jaguar parked in its usual spot, he had a clear view of her house and could see the cardboard she’d taped up over the broken windowpane. Michael had already checked around, trying to locate someone who could deliver just the right glass. So far no luck.

Andy followed the direction of his gaze. “That lady lives all alone,” he said.

Kim Bennett definitely seemed the solitary type. “Maybe she likes it that way,” Michael said.

Andy didn’t say anything for a long minute. The two of them just sat in the Jeep, sharing the same space but nothing more. The tension between them remained.

“What the hell are we doing here, anyway?” Andy muttered.

“Andy—”

“What the heck are we doing?” He managed to sound surlier than ever.

“I thought I already explained all that,” Michael said. “I’m house—sitting for an acquaintance. Meanwhile, you and I might actually have a good time together once you take off the boxing gloves.”

Andy didn’t look convinced. He just looked suspicious. Michael wondered what Jill would say if she knew he and Andy were living next door to a murder suspect. On second thought, he knew exactly what Jill would say.

But Michael had realized that if he didn’t see Andy for three whole months, the distance between them might become irrevocable. That was a chance he just couldn’t take. If it meant…Andy getting a little too close to his work, that couldn’t be helped. After all, one of the reasons Michael had quit the police department was so he could spend more time with his son.

“Andy,” he said now, “it really can be a good summer. Just give me a break now and then, and I’ll do the same for you. And. be careful, like we discussed.”

“I know the routine,” Andy muttered. “I’m not supposed to tell anybody you used to be a cop or that now you’re a spy.”

“Private investigator,” Michael amended.

“Yeah, well, what does it matter, ‘ause I can’t tell anybody.” Andy made it sound as if he wished his dad had an ordinary job, like an accountant or a salesman.

“Andy, I want you to be careful in other ways, too.”

“Like what?” he asked, looking more skeptical than ever. Michael considered telling him the truth. Don’t get too close to the pretty lady next door, because she may very well be a murderer. But for Andy’s own protection, Michael couldn’t go that far.

“Just stick close to me and do what I tell you without putting up a fight all the time.”

Andy had that expression on his face again: willfulness, perversity and, underneath, an undeniable wariness. Why should any kid be wary around his own dad? That was what got to Michael the most.

“You know,” he said quietly, “you could try at least a little, Andy. I’m not the bad guy here.”

Andy kept his mouth clamped shut. The belligerence didn’t leave him, but he truly was small for his age, and at this moment he looked much too fragileall spindly arms and legs, ears poking out beneath his curly hair, an undersize kid struggling to protect himself with a cheeky attitude he couldn’t quite pull off.

At last Michael could no longer resist. He reached out and placed his hand protectively on Andy’s shoulder.

“I’m on your side, son.”

Andy pulled away. He still didn’t say anything, just stared straight ahead with that stubborn tilt to his chin, but the message came through. At eleven years old, he didn’t want anything to do with his father.