Smoke and Mirrors (42 page)

"There was no reason why he should," Erin agreed. "Or why we should think it odd that Jeff 'happened to let it slip' that his birthday was last week. But that's out of character, Nick; Jeff never talked about his family or his personal life. And then there was the fish. On his key chain," she added impatiently, as Nick stared at her in bewilderment. "I noticed it the first time he drove me out here. It was heavy silver, stylized, very handsome. Then it disappeared. Remember, Joe said something about Jeff losing his key chain, that was why he got him a new one for a birthday present. Jeff never mentioned it; and wouldn't you think he'd question
people, ask whether they had seen it, if he had simply misplaced it? It looked expensive—a gift, maybe. But it was Fran rambling on about horoscopes that put the idea into my head. The fish is the astrological sign for Pisces. Depending on the system you follow, that's late February into March."

She didn't have to go on; she could tell by his stricken face that he remembered those fatal dates as well as she did. "Oh my God," he said hoarsely. "It all spells Merry Christmas, doesn't it? If he planned this from the start—if he came here looking for revenge— sure, he's a smart guy, he'd know the true date of his birthday would be a dead giveaway. It was perfectly safe for him to lie about it on that personnel file, nobody would think of questioning it or even notice it, until the incidents began. He'd be one of the first to be suspected by anyone who knew about the Richmond fire. A falsified record would probably dispel suspicion—it sure as hell dispelled ours. Then just to hammer the point home he mentioned his birthday was coming up. ..."

"It's guesswork, though," Erin said. "No proof."

"No problem about that," Nick said. He dropped his head onto his hands. "One phone call is all we need. "

"To California?"

"Right. The correct birth date is probably on his personnel file at the state offices; he wouldn't have any reason to lie about it at that point."

"We'd better do it, then. Before he comes back."

"Yeah," Nick said, not moving.

"Where is he?"

"Going the rounds with Rosemary and Joe. Coffee with the Friends of Virginia Wildlife, lunch with the DAR, a strategy meeting at headquarters. . . . Geez. I hate this."

"Me too. Let's get it over with. Maybe we're wrong, Nick."

"A happy thought," Nick said gloomily.

They headed down the hall toward the offices. "No, not Kay's," Erin exclaimed. "The policeman is in there."

Nick stopped short. "Damn, I forgot about him. One disaster at a time is about all I can handle. Christ, Erin, he wouldn't be here unless the autopsy—"

"We'll cope with that when we're sure about Jeff. Come on."

She tugged at him, seized with a fierce, sick impatience. It was like going to the dentist; you knew it would hurt, and you knew you had to do it, you just wanted to get it over with as soon as possible.

They went into Rosemary's office. Nick settled behind the desk and switched on the computer. "I hope I can remember. ..." He pressed keys. "Yeah, here it is. Surveys, polls . . . personnel files."

Erin came around the desk and looked over his shoulder. "That's Jeff's?"

"Right. Jefferson Andrew Ross, male, age 31, born Prescott, Arizona, October 13, 1959."

"It looks so convincing, doesn't it?"

"That's the power of the printed word. Doesn't mean a damned thing. Let's see. Present employer, State's Attorney's Office, Sacramento, California, immediate superior . . . There's even a phone number. Okay, here goes."

His air of grim fortitude changed to annoyance as he was put through the conventional bureaucratic shuffle. "Oh, I want personnel? What a surprise. Switch me, will you, this is an out-of-state call. . . . Damn it, you gave me the wrong extension, operator, I want 367. ... I know you can't give out information to unauthorized persons, lady, I'm calling from the office of Rosemary White Marshall, United States Congresswoman; what do you want, a security clearance? I'm not asking for his medical records, I just need a couple of vital statistics. Okay, I'll hold on."

Erin didn't have to hear the answer, she read it on Nick's face. "Thanks," he said slowly, and hung up.

"We were right? " she asked.

"You were right. It would be a pretty wild coincidence, wouldn't it, for two different men to have the same birth date?"

"Damn." After a moment she said reluctantly, "There's a convenient cop right down the hall."

The palely lit screen of the computer glared at them, with its damning evidence of deliberate misrepresentation. Nick slapped his hand down on the keyboard, and the square went dark. "No," he said. "Goddammit, I'm not going to turn the guy in without giving him a chance to defend himself. It could be a setup."

"Not very likely."

"Maybe not. I can see Jeff doing the other things—hell, I can even sympathize with him, if he really thinks Rosemary had a hand in the death of his family. But murder?"

"We're the only sickos who have considered murder," Erin muttered. "The autopsy might show Kay had taken a lethal dose of something, but there's nothing to prove it wasn't self-administered."

"Not yet, there isn't. There will be an investigation, count on it. And if anything funny turns up, and Jeff is known to have set the fires, he'll be in deep trouble."

"Okay, I'm with you. We talk to Jeff first."

"I talk to him. I may be a naive bleeding-heart sucker, but I'm not taking a chance with you."

"You're a naive bleeding heart and a male chauvinist to boot. Don't you dare give me that 'women and children into the boats' crap!"

"For God's sake, don't yell!"

"I'm sorry." Erin clapped her hand to her mouth.

Nick got up. "We'd better get out of here before someone wanders in. They're due back anytime now. We'll have to play it by ear—get Jeff off for a private conversation, find out what the autopsy showed."

By mutual consent they avoided the offices and the commons room. It was impossible to think of working; Erin felt as if she were catching the flu; her face was hot and her stomach was queasy. Nick kept cracking his knuckles. They settled down on the porch steps, where they were immediately swarmed over by cats. Fortunately for their nerves they didn't have to wait long. A hazy swollen sun still hovered over the treetops when the Olds rolled along the drive and stopped in front of the house.

There were only two people in the car, both in the front seat. "Rosemary and . . . who is it?" Erin asked. Jeff. Joe must have stayed in town."

Nick cracked another knuckle. Erin flinched and bit her lip. Not so much a visit to the dentist as pure stage fright. . . . She hoped Nick had some idea of how to introduce the subject, for her mind was a total blank.

Jeff got out of the car, gave them a curious look, and went
around to help Rosemary out. She stood quite still for a few seconds, twisting her shoulders and her head as if her neck were stiff. Then a determinedly bright smile curved her lips and she started toward them.

"Taking a break?" she asked. "It must have been pure hell today."

Nick got to his feet. "The police are here," he blurted.

In the strange dull light, all the faces were shaded and sallow. Jeff's cheeks were a muddy grayish-brown; his color did not change, but his body jerked slightly, as if he had been struck by an invisible missile. Rosemary only nodded and went up the steps, automatically avoiding the cats.

Jeff turned toward the car.

"Where are you going?" Nick asked.

"What's it to you?" The slam of the screen door as it closed behind Rosemary shot Nick forward as if propelled by a spring. Jeff spun around. "Get your hands off me!"

"Give me the car keys." Nick grabbed for them. Jeff caught his wrist; they stood locked in straining struggle, Nick's teeth bared in a snarl, Jeff's lips a tight line.

"Stop it." Erin ran toward them. "Don't, please don't. Jeff, you can't run away, that won't do any good. Nick, let him go."

"I'll let go if he will," Nick gasped.

They fell apart, both panting, not with exertion but with anger and tension.

"We know," Nick said. "Don't you get it? We know who you are. We haven't told anybody. I'm sorry I jumped you, I lost my head, I ... Say something, damn it!'

Jeff leaned back against the fender. Every bone in his body slumped. "In a way, I'm glad," he said quietly. "I'm glad it's over."

Nick switched on
the lights. His small cottage was almost as dark as night, the two narrow windows closely curtained. Jeff turned slowly, studying the room and its furnishings with the cool appraisal of a decorator trying to decide what should be done.

"What a dump," he said.

"A humble spot, but mine own." Nick indicated a shabby
overstuffed chair, one of two that flanked the tiny, boarded-up fireplace. A couple of rickety tables, their tops stained with white rings, and a worn rag rug were the only other furniture. "Sit
down."

"Sure you don't want to do a strip search?" Jeff asked pleasantly.

"Well, now that you mention it . . ." Nick advanced on him.

"Assume the position," Jeff muttered. Turning, he braced his hands on the mantel and spread his legs. Nick felt him over, from underarms to ankles; when he rose, his face was dull red.

"Sorry, I had to."

"Naturally. I'd do the same. Finished?" Jeff sat down and crossed his legs. He was much more at ease than either of his inquisitors, and as he contemplated their embarrassed faces he smiled faintly.

"How'd you find out?"

"That your name is really Raymond Wilson?"

Jeff's smile froze; Erin realized that until that moment he had not abandoned the forlorn hope that they were talking about something else. Then he shrugged. "I guess it doesn't matter now. I'm glad it's over, but I'm not sorry I did it. The only thing I'm ashamed of is what I did to you, Erin. Until you turned up, I had confined my activities to a few anonymous letters. I was afraid to be more direct, because I knew I was the first person she'd suspect if anything happened right there in the house. I had to avoid suspicion at all costs, because I hadn't covered my tracks too well; the first serious investigation would show I had lied about a number of things. Then you appeared, like a sign from heaven—the obvious culprit. They couldn't prove anything, you were innocent—who knew that better than I—but it was a low-down trick all the same, and I regret—"

"Shut up!" Nick shouted. He clutched his head. "Damn it! You sit there chatting idly, like some high-class thief talking down to the dumb cops. . . . Why'd you do it? Why?"

"You know I'm Raymond Wilson and you ask me that?" Jeff said quietly.

"I know. It was horrible. But why Rosemary? She had nothing to do with it. It was an accident, a ghastly, tragic accident—"

"It was no accident," Jeff said.

Nick and Erin exchanged glances. Jeff saw the exchange, saw the sick look on Erin's face. "I'm sorry, Erin. If it's any consolation, I don't believe your father knew ahead of time what was planned. But he sure as hell knew or suspected afterward. That fire was set deliberately, for the insurance. And for another reason. Two birds with one stone. Such a convenient way of getting rid of all the excess baggage in a man's life."

He had them now, and he knew it; the faces that stared back at him were masks of horrified repugnance. His words stung like drops of acid. "I'm only sorry I couldn't do more. What sort of punishment would you inflict on a man who tried to burn his child and its mother alive?"

"No,
there's no way
I could be mistaken. I was ten years old— old enough to understand and ask questions, old enough to worry about what the hell was going to become of us. When you're poor and on the streets, you grow up fast.

"The man I thought was my father had been killed in an accident at work the year before. He was working construction, part-time; there was no pension and no insurance—and no compensation, they said he was drunk on the job. It was a lie. He didn't drink. He couldn't afford to.

"She was pregnant when it happened. She couldn't get a job, even if she had been able to find someone to take care of us. Cheap day care in those days wasn't just bad, it was nonexistent. Welfare? Oh, sure, it's such a munificent sum. All those welfare queens driving around in their Cadillacs. . . . Try to find some place to live that isn't infested with rats and roaches and perverts on what a benevolent society doles out to you.

"We struggled along for a while on the welfare and the little they had saved. I did odd jobs after school when I could get them. Everything came to a head one day in the summer. It had been so damned hot we were all sick with it, the baby was ailing, there'd been some bureaucratic foul-up about the welfare that month, and the landlord said we had to get out. That was the day Mary Sue came in, with her clothes torn, crying, because some man had pulled her into a doorway and tried to ... She was six.

"It was that night she told me. My mother. She was at the end of her rope, there was nothing else she could do but turn to the man who'd gotten her pregnant—with me. She'd never asked him for a cent or a favor before, and all she wanted then was a place to stay where her kids wouldn't be raped or turned to drugs. He was rich, he owned property. Surely he could find some job for her. Maid, cook, scrubwoman, she didn't care, so long as it was honest work and we were safe. She wouldn't have asked for herself, but she'd lower herself for us.

"I tried to talk her out of it. I was sick with shame and rage. But two days later, when we got evicted, there wasn't much I could do; it was hot, and the baby was worse—we had to have someplace to go. We waited till after dark before we went to the place he'd told her about. 'Just till I can find a permanent home for you,' he'd said. Just for a few days.' She accepted his demand for secrecy; she'd never have betrayed him, even if he had refused to help. She pounded that into me—telling the truth could hurt him, and we weren't the kind who did low-down things like that.

"When we got to the place, one of the boards on the window was loose, just like he said it would be, and there was some furniture in an upstairs room. Just a couple of mattresses and a beat-up old table—and a broom and some rags. Wasn't that a cute touch? He wouldn't have the place cleaned up for us, but he knew her well enough to realize that damned broom was a symbol as well as a necessity to her.

"He'd left food, too, and a cooler with water and soft drinks, even some ice. The kids fell on those sandwiches like starving animals, they hadn't eaten all day. Neither had I. I can still taste that bologna sandwich. . . .

"I remember how she looked when she saw it. He's a good man,' she said. 'I told you, Raymond, he's a good man really. We'll be all right now.' "