Bound by Suggestion (20 page)

I looked down the darkened road. The streetlights did little to illuminate the gloom. No mailboxes lined the curb, that meant house-to-house delivery, no numbers on boxes as references points. And it wasn’t likely I’d be able to find house numbers anyway.

Cutting the headlights, I pressed the accelerator lightly and crept forward, my internal Geiger counter clicking all the faster.

Three-quarters of the way down the street I saw wheelchair ramps. The house was big—two levels. Did they have ambulatory patients . . . clients . . . residents? What did they call the people who lived there?

The Medivan driver was right. It wasn’t fancy digs; just a big, gray-shingled, ugly old house. It had escaped being subdivided into apartments by virtue of its transformation into some kind of halfway house for the physically disabled. Learn to function on a higher level and maybe you’d be sprung. At least, that had been Grace’s hope. But even the promise of independence had soured for her.

Shut up
, I told myself.
Concentrate on something else
.

Unlike most of its neighbors, this house was well-lit outside, with six-inch luminous numbers clearly visible under a mercury vapor lamp: 699 Rembrandt Avenue.

Okay. So I knew where Grace lived. Now what?

Go home
.

Then what?

Come back tomorrow? Talk to her? Compare notes? Experience every rotten emotion she feels? Slip deeper into her personal pit of despair?

Go home
, I told myself again.
And don’t come back!

My gaze traveled to a darkened downstairs window. Grace was in there—awake. Maybe lying in her narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling . . . . Oh, man, the bitter intensity of what she was feeling. It seemed like I always knew what she was feeling. That life was shit. That she was shit. That I was shit. That nothing ever would be right again. And she was right. It wouldn’t. How could it?

Ripping my gaze from the unlit panes, I clenched the steering wheel and hit the gas, the tires spinning, the engine’s roar breaking the fragile stillness.

I ran the stop sign at the end of the road, plunged onto Hertel Avenue, the incessant thrumming inside me fading with every block. But it didn’t go away. By the time I got home it was still with me. A low hum, like an old electrical motor on the verge of seizing up.

“Go away,” I muttered, as I hit the garage door button. The door opened and I parked my car. Richard’s slot was empty. Odd for them to be out on a week night. Probably another fund-raiser. I hit the button to close the garage and got out of my car.

Slamming the driver’s door with unnecessary force, I watched the door go down, but stayed rooted. The garage was lit by the bulb on the opener. A three minute reprieve from darkness to sort your keys, pick up the groceries, or laundry, or . . . .

“Get out of my head, Grace,” I grated, still feeling that niggling quiver through every cell in my body. But she wouldn’t leave me. She was always with me, clinging to my heart and soul like a leech.

I had a full bottle of Makers Mark on the sideboard. Except for a visit to the tux shop, I didn’t have to be anywhere until Saturday. I could drink myself into oblivion. Drink and drink until I puked, until I couldn’t feel, until . . . .

I’d have a hangover, but I wouldn’t have to function. I could lie in my darkened bedroom and maybe my own misery would drown out the incessant tentacles winding tighter through my mind.

I had to dump that girl—get her out of my life, my thoughts. She was pulling me down, dragging me deeper into . . . into . . . .

The timer clicked and the light went off, dousing me in dank darkness. I stumbled past Brenda’s car, headed for the door to the stairs to my home over the garage, and then took them two at a time. I didn’t bother to switch on the lights, but went straight for the sideboard to drown myself in a glass of liquid gold.

The silver
Lincoln glided down the near-empty Main Street toward home. It had taken hours for Richard to explain to the cops what he’d experienced in less than a minute after finding Wally Moses’ body. They’d taken him through it again and again, first at the scene and then later at the police station.

Storefronts and restaurants flashed past the passenger side window. Brenda had insisted on driving. Women needed to be caregivers. It was easier to let her fuss than refuse. Not that the sight of a dead body bothered him. It was the information Wally had taken with him in death that bothered Richard more.

“We’re back to square one, you know.”

Brenda tore her gaze from the road. “
We
aren’t back to anything.”

“You know what I mean.”

Brenda braked for a red light. “Yes, and quite frankly, I’m scared.”

“Why?”

She gave him that familiar glare. “Because you won’t let this drop. You’ll sink your teeth in like a terrier and not give up until you find the answers to whatever it is you’re looking for.”

“You know what I’m looking for—whoever’s messing with Jeff’s records.”

“It’s up to hospital security, not you, to find out.”

The light turned green and Brenda hit the accelerator.

“You did tell them, didn’t you?” she asked, after a moment of silence.

“Tell them what?”

“Don’t play innocent,” Brenda said, unable to keep exasperation from her voice. “Why you were meeting Wally.”

Richard maintained his silence.

“Richard.” Anger seeped into her tone.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it isn’t relevant.”

“Of course it’s relevant! My God, the man was killed.”

“I don’t know that he was killed because he was going to speak to me. He might have had gambling debts. He might have been blackmailing someone. He might have tried to blackmail me.”

“For what?”

“How do I know? Maybe he intended to sell me the information on who was tampering with hospital records.”

Brenda slowed before turning down LeBrun Road.

“You’re as bad as your brother, poking your nose into things that aren’t your business. Getting in trouble.”

“I’m not in trouble. I’m a material witness.”

“Witnesses who know too much can be killed.”

Richard shook his head. “You’ve been watching too much TV.”

Scowling, Brenda turned into the driveway. She pressed the garage door opener and the door went up. She parked, and they got out of the car.

Jeff’s car was already in its slot. An early night, Richard realized. He hadn’t noticed if the lights were on upstairs when they drove up.

Brenda was already picking out the house key when they heard a muffled thud overhead. She flashed Richard a worried glance. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“We’d better check on him,” Richard said, and hit the garage door button. It slid down and they sidled past the cars for the door to the narrow stairway. Richard flipped the light switch and they went up the stairs.

Jeff’s door wasn’t locked. Richard opened it to find the apartment dark. He reached in and hit the switch. The lamps on the end tables flashed on, revealing a pair of legs and sneakered feet lying motionless on the floor.

“Jeffy?” Brenda called, and hurried to his side, helping him into a sitting position. “What happened?”

The strong, sweet scent of alcohol permeated the air. “He’s drunk,” Richard groused.

Jeff touched his temple and winced. “I am not.”

“What are you doing on the floor?” Brenda asked.

“I didn’t turn on the light when I came in. I’d just poured myself a drink when I heard you pull in. I went to turn on the lamp and tripped over the cat.”

Richard looked around. Sure enough, the dark, whiskered head peered nervously around the bedroom door. It saw him, and disappeared.

He grabbed Jeff’s arm, pulling him to his feet. “What’re you doing drinking alone in the dark?”

Jeff yanked his arm back. “I drink alone because I live that way.” He headed into the kitchen, unwound several sheets of paper towel from the roll, and came back into the dining area to mop up the mess. He avoided their gazes. “What were you doing out so late on a Thursday? You’re not dressed for the opera.”

Neither of them answered.

Jeff tossed the balled-up towel into the wastebasket at the side of his desk, and then picked up the fallen glass. He looked up sharply at Brenda, his eyes widening, his face blanching. “Someone died?”

She scowled and looked at Richard. “Are you finally going to tell him?”

Richard wasn’t ready for this conversation and looked over the sideboard. “Have you got anything besides bourbon?”

“Help yourself.”

Brenda brushed past her husband. “Is there ginger ale in the fridge?”

“It’s flat.”

That’s just the way I like it.”

She took a couple of glasses from the cupboard, handed one to Richard and got her own drink. The three of them bumped into each other in the galley kitchen as they traded ice trays and served themselves.

Jeff hit the couch first, leaning his ice-filled glass against the welt on his forehead.

“Does it hurt?” Brenda asked.

“Yeah. I whacked it good.” He lowered the glass. “Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?”

Richard took the wing chair. That left Brenda to share the couch with Jeff. Her pointed gaze could’ve pinned Richard to the upholstery.

“Somebody did die tonight,” Richard said. “But the story started last week.”

“So tell it already,” Jeff said.

Richard explained about Timberly’s comment at the cocktail party the week before, his conversation with Wally at the hospital; how the records clerk had called him earlier in the evening, and the man’s subsequent murder.

Jeff sipped his bourbon, his gaze fixed somewhere behind Richard. He held the glass in his right hand, clenching and unclenching his left.

“What do you think?” Richard asked.

“I don’t like it, but what can I do about it? Do I even need to do anything about it?”

“State privacy laws have been violated. It’s in your best interests to look into it.”

“Yeah, but how? Do I bring up your name? The name of the dead guy? They, whoever they are—hospital security, I presume—is going to ask me why I want to check on it.”

“Just tell them what I told you. Or I can.”

Jeff drained his glass, swirled the ice in it, his left hand still working.

“Something wrong?” Richard asked.

Jeff looked up, his dark eyes haunted.

“You seem jumpy.”

Jeff got up, put his glass on the cocktail table and circled around to the back of the couch. “I’m just wired.”

“Tough night at the bar?” Brenda suggested.

He looked at her as though not comprehending. Then, “Oh, yeah.”

Richard watched the two of them, sipped his scotch.

The tension in the room seemed to escalate.

Brenda patted the cushion beside her. “Sit down. I’ll rub your neck and shoulders. That always relaxes Richard.”

Jeff looked to Richard for approval—found none—and then looked down at the floor.

“Come on,” Brenda urged.

Jeff hesitated, then complied, perching on the edge of the cushion at an angle away from her.

Brenda grasped his shoulders and started kneading. “Good Lord, your muscles are all knotted.”

Eyes squeezed shut, Jeff hung his head, his breathing shallow.

“Did you rent a tux for Saturday?” Richard asked, his tone neutral.

“I pick it up tomorrow.”

Brenda continued to rub Jeff’s shoulders. “Ordinarily I wouldn’t recommend imbibing, but I think you could use another shot of bourbon. Are you up to it?”

“Always.”

Brenda looked at Richard, then nodded at Jeff’s empty glass.

Richard stayed put.

She waited for him to get the bourbon.

Richard didn’t move.

Oblivious to the stare-off going on right next to him, Jeff sat with eyes closed, his breathing deepening as Brenda’s ministrations worked magic. Already he looked more relaxed.

Brenda stopped her massage and pulled on Jeff’s shoulders, pressing him against the back of the couch. “I’ll get you that drink,” she said. Her voiced sounded sunny, but her glare at Richard scorched.

Brenda plunked fresh ice into the glass, carefully measured one shot, and filled the old fashioned glass with soda. She handed it to him.

Jeff sipped, then grimaced. He cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

“Bourbon lite,” Brenda explained, and this time she sat at the far end of the couch.

Jeff forced a smile and put the glass on the coffee table.

“You want to tell us what’s got you so wound up?” Richard asked, keeping his tone level.

The tension mounted.

“I’m handling it.”