The Role Players (32 page)

“And there you have it.” He sat back in his chair, and I could almost watch the tension drain from him.

It was an awfully elaborate story—and it could easily have been just that, a story. He'd gone to elaborate lengths to make it appear like a robbery. But it's what a writer might well do, and looking into his eyes as he talked, I believed him.

Again, we both sat in silence for a moment, until I said, “And the gun?”

Apparently he had been lost in his own thoughts, because he seemed momentarily startled by the question.

“Oh, yes. The gun. I wiped it clean, of course, before returning it to the drawer in the box office. I was even careful not to leave any prints on the bullet I replaced in the spent chamber. And I wiped off the shell box, and the drawer handle.”

“So why did you take it later?” I asked.

He gave a slight shrug. “As a precaution, I suppose,” he said, “after I realized your diligence. I knew if the police examined the gun, they would be able to match the bullet to it. I disposed of it, the box of bullets, and what I'd…what I'd taken from his pockets. I doubt they will ever be found.”

I did not tell him that the gun he'd gotten rid of was not the one he thought it was. If he had wiped the original gun clean of fingerprints, it might be moot anyway. But still…

I'd been trying hard to keep a lid on my mind-voices, all of which were clamoring to be heard. I needed the answer to one question first.

“Why did you tell me all this? You might have gotten away with it.”

“For one thing,” he said, “I had to tell someone, and I do feel, in some strange way, that we are kindred spirits, you and I. And as for ‘getting away with it,' there's a chance that I might, in fact, do just that as far as the law is concerned. But do not think that for one minute for the rest of my life that I will ever be able to get away from myself. Could the law do more?”

I thought about what he'd said and realized he could be right. It would be my word against his (and, if there were a trial, would involve my testifying). And my “word” was, in effect, largely speculation. Sure, the police would most likely be able to trace the bullet to the gun. They
might
be able to make a case against Gene, assuming that they'd be able to find any prints on the gun. They
might
be able to track down the cab drivers who picked up a bearded man somewhere in the vicinity of the Whitman Theater and dropped him at The Hole, or the one who picked up a bearded man somewhere in the vicinity of The Hole and dropped him off a block from Gene Morrison's apartment, or the unknown young man who was with Rod that night and was unlikely ever to go near there again. They might even track down some airline employee who remembered a bearded man getting on or off a specific airplane…but would they be able to remember the guy's name?

Circumstantial. All circumstantial. And I had no doubt that Gene had the wherewithal to hire the best criminal lawyers available. So there was a very good chance he was right.

But most importantly, I believed him when he said he didn't mean to kill Rod—which, sadly, did not make Rod any the less dead. And I believed living with the memory of what he had done would be a worse and longer punishment than the law could provide.

“You realize I will have to go to the police,” I said.

He smiled a gentle smile. “Of course you do. I couldn't possibly expect you not to. You are a man of principle, after all. And I shall take my chances. Rod's death will not go unavenged in any case. Rod's face, and the knowledge of what I have lost and what I have taken away will be with me every day of the rest of my life. And who knows? In prison or out I can still write. And with luck I might produce something that will be of value to the world.”

He got up out of his chair and I followed as he walked me to the door.

“I might ask that you do me one favor,” he said as he reached for the knob.

“If I can,” I said.

“I expect you will tell Tait, of course, since he hired you, and I somehow expect he will understand. But I'd very much appreciate it if you didn't tell the others. They'll find out in due time, if I'm arrested.”

“I can't promise I'll not tell Jonathan when we return home,” I said, and Gene nodded.

He extended his hand and I took it. And, as I had done at the end of another case a long time ago, I walked down the hallway toward the elevator.

*

So that's it. The rest is anticlimactic—my calling Tait, going to the police with the gun and my story, and my promise to be available to them should they need me, our last short but quiet evening with Chris and Max, our good-byes with the certainty of seeing each other soon, our trip to the airport in Tait's limousine, and our boarding the plane for our flight home.

*

Jonathan sat looking out the window at the clouds, his camera in his lap. After a while, he turned to me and took my hand—the aisle seat next to me was empty but it wouldn't have mattered if it weren't—and said, “I had a good time.”

I squeezed his hand and smiled. “I'm sorry it wasn't a lot better. I…”

“That's okay,” he said. “We were together most of the time. That's what matters.”

“Have I ever mentioned that I love you?” I asked.

“As a matter of fact, you have,” he said, smiling. “But there's just one thing…”

“Yes?”

“The very first thing we do when we get home is you telling me
everything
, right?”

I squeezed his hand. “Is it okay if it's the
second
thing we do when we get home?”

His smile immediately switched to a naughty-little-boy grin, and he said, “Oh, yes, Master.”