He had enough to do without that, between paperwork and investigative procedures. You couldn't make a collar just sitting on your shield and waiting for a squeal to phone in and finger a suspect. You had to develop your own leads, then follow them through, knowing in advance that the results were likely to be disappointing. But that was the job-ten percent investigation, ninety percent frustration.

  Metz manipulated his toothpick, then sailed it into the basket to join the apple core. As he did so, the squawk buzzed, announcing that Lori Holmes was on her way.

  She still didn't strike him as centerfold material when she came in, but she looked a lot better than he remembered from the other night. And for a moment, after she sat down and crossed her legs, he had second thoughts about marriage. Not to a kid like this, of course; maybe someone more mature, someone with enough experience to make a decent pastrami sandwich. Perhaps after he retired-

  But he wasn't retired yet, just tired. Metz blinked, then pawed at the papers on the desktop as he spoke.

  "Thanks for coming in, Miss Holmes." He located what he was looking for and glanced down. "I've been reading the report Sergeant Bronstein made after he interviewed you yesterday. He says you were very cooperative."

  "I tried to be."

  Metz made a quick evaluation without the aid of a computer. Voice sincere, smile phony.

  "Seems to me this statement covers all the bases," he said. "But I was just wondering if you might be able to help give us a better fix on Ben Rupert. Not your client-attorney relationship, but what you know about his background, his personal habits."

  Lori Holmes was already shaking her head. "Nothing. As I told the sergeant, we had only one meeting and all we discussed was settling the estate. He was very businesslike and seemed to know what he was doing."

  "Meaning you trusted him."

  "Yes."

  "Enough to meet him alone in his office at night?"

  The girl's hesitation was almost imperceptible, but Metz caught it. "Look, I'm not saying you were afraid he'd attack you, anything like that. It's just that you apparently had no qualms about a spur-of-the-moment visit at such an hour."

  "Mr. Rupert apologized for calling so late, but he said a problem had come up which required an immediate decision."

  Metz nodded. "That's in your statement, but you didn't give the details. Just what was this problem?"

  "I don't know. All he told me was that discussing it over the phone would be too complicated, and he'd explain everything when I saw him."

  "Did he say anything else, anything that might give you a hint?"

  Lori Holmes shook her head. "Only that it was important." She uncrossed her legs as she spoke, and Metz noted that too.

  "You assumed he was talking about the estate?"

  The girl answered quickly-too quickly. "Yes, that's what I said in my deposition."

  But she didn't, Metz told himself. She's holding out on something.

  He nodded. "I can see where you'd be concerned over any problem involving the estate. But I wonder if you'd have gone to Ben Rupert's office the other night if you knew more about the situation you were dealing with."

  "Do you?"

  Metz shrugged. "We've done some checking on Rupert's background." He lifted another sheet from the pile on his desktop. "Here's Miss Raimondo's statement. She's been his receptionist for the past three years."

  "Did he talk to her about the estate?"

  "According to her, he didn't talk about anything. Most of what we got came from other sources." Metz took a second page from the pile, squinting down at it as he spoke.

  "Rupert was a loner. No known family, outside of a couple cousins back in Wilkes-Barre who claim they haven't seen or heard from him in the past thirty years or more. As far as we can tell he had no close friends. Lived in an apartment on Wilshire near Beverly Glen, but wasn't friendly with the other tenants we interviewed; most of them couldn't even identify him by name.

  "Security guards for the building never got more from him than a fast hello and a ten-dollar bill at Christmas. The maid got twenty-five; she came once a week and they let her in with a passkey. If she did any snooping on her own she didn't tell us. All she says is that he was very neat and seldom had much food in the refrigerator. He ate out,

  mostly, and came in late. He kept up his club membership in Brentwood, but aside from having dinner a few times a year with a couple of other attorneys we questioned, he didn't use the facilities. Empty locker, no golf clubs.

  "No record of any marriage, he doesn't seem to have had any relationships, and Miss Raimondo tells us he never tried to hit on her.

  "She says that up until the first of this year one of his clients was an escort service, and she thinks that whenever he got the urge he took out his fee in trade."

  Lori Holmes frowned. "I don't see what this has to do with what happened the other night. Just because he was a private person-"

  "Too private." Metz scanned the sheet. "According to this he did his own bookkeeping, his own filing, with everything under lock and key. He dictated memos and client letters; Raimondo took care of routine chores like filling out standard legal forms. But her main work was as a receptionist, handling the phone. And lately he wasn't getting that many calls or visitors. Your father was the last of his clients to pay an annual retainer fee.

  "Rupert didn't seem to care about going after new business. Raimondo figured he might be winding down, getting ready to retire."

  Lori Holmes nodded. "That makes sense."

  "We thought so, until we checked with his bank. He had two accounts-a little over eighteen thousand in savings, four thousand and something in checking. Say around twenty-three, total. Even with Social Security, that's scarcely enough to preserve him in alcohol."

  "He drank?"

  Metz shrugged again. "Like you say, he was a private person. No food in the fridge, but plenty of tonic water. The maid told us there was always vodka in the pantry-a case or two, quarts, hundred-proof. And we found an empty bottle in his desk at the office."

  The girl's surprise seemed genuine. "Hard to believe-"

  "It gets harder. Or did, when we started to see what he'd been up to. Rupert may have spent a lot of time sitting around, but on the last day he was a busy man. He closed out both bank accounts. And according to the record, he signed in for a session with his safe-deposit box around two o'clock. Signed out just ten minutes later.

  "We still have no leads on what he did over the next two hours, but by four-thirty he was back in his office, telling Raimondo she could leave early. Looks to us he wanted her out of the way when he took delivery on the shredder, which was around five-fifteen. We contacted the outfit that has a franchise on the line and they gave us the information. He made a deal, one month rental with an option to purchase.

  "But when he went to work it didn't take him a month. You saw the results."

  Lori Holmes's eyes closed involuntarily, and Metz was ready with an apologetic smile when she opened them again. "Sorry, but I wanted to give you the facts as we know them. I was hoping to jog your memory in case there was something else that had slipped your mind."

  "No, there's nothing." She shook her head quickly. "I've told you all I remember." Her voice wavered. "I came in-called-opened the door. He wasn't at his desk. I went over to the shredder, saw it had been used. Then I turned around-"

  "That's enough," Metz said. "No need to repeat the rest."

  "Thank you."

  He glanced down at the sheet before him. "Just one other point. Did you happen to notice what Rupert had on his desk?"

  "Papers. Quite a lot of them, scattered around at random."

  "Did you examine any of them?"

  "Of course not. Why should I? It was only a quick glance."

  "Can you describe what they looked like?"

  Lori Holmes frowned. "Most seemed to be typewritten pages or Xeroxes Of filled-out forms. Some of them were legal-size."

  "What colors were they?"

  "White. All of them were white."

  Metz burrowed into the stack beside him and pulled out a small creased sheet of blue stationery. "Then you never saw anything like this?"

  "Not that I recall. What is it?"

  "See for yourself."

  He held it out, then sat back as her eyes moved hastily along the scribbled lines of handwriting. No need to read over her shoulder; he'd memorized every word.

  ***

  To whom it may concern: I have made a tragic mistake.

  That's what it was-a mistake. I stayed late because there were some old files to clean out. When I heard a noise in the outer office it surprised me since I wasn't expecting visitors. I waited but there was no further disturbance; and when I called out there was no answer. I got up and went over to the door, preparing to open it slowly. As I did so, it burst open and I confronted a shadowy figure in the doorway.

  The outer office was dark and all I could see in the light from behind me was a reflection on the metal barrel of the gun pointing at me. Instinctively I made a grab for the hand holding the weapon, to deflect its aim. It was then that the shot was fired and the accident occurred.

  I repeat, it was an accident. I had no intention of harming her-

  ***

  Lori Holmes looked up, echoing the last word of the note aloud.

  "Her?"

  "That's right," Metz said. "He wrote in advance, knowing who his victim would be."

  "But this doesn't make sense. Why did he hang himself?"

  "It wasn't the way it looks, Miss Holmes. The only reason he didn't kill you is that somebody killed him first."

  EIGHTEEN

  Shock waves are soundless, and Lori's voice was a whisper. "I didn't kill him. It was suicide." Metz stared, his eyes expressionless. "If Rupert made a noose from the window-drape cord and hung himself, he'd have to stand on something, then kick it away in order to drop."

  "I know." Lori nodded. "I saw the chair lying on its side in the closet."

  "But he didn't use it. Lab tests showed no foot marks on the cushion or rug particles to match the ones on the heels and soles of his shoes. He was hoisted up after he died."

  "And you're accusing me?"

  Metz's stare was unwavering. "Death was caused by asphyxiation, but the marks on his throat indicate manual pressure applied from behind. It took a lot of doing, catching him when his back was turned, holding him tight until the job was finished. And the hardest part came afterward, hanging all that dead weight into place so his feet weren't touching the floor. Frankly, Miss Holmes, I don't think you'd have the strength."

  His stare softened. "Of course there's other evidence we considered regarding your involvement."

  "What kind of evidence?"

  "Remember when you went in for questioning that night? They fingerprinted you."

  "That's right, I'd forgotten. It was all so confusing-"

  Metz leaned forward. "We checked the office doorknobs. Your prints were on them. A perfect match."

  "Of course they would be." Lori's voice was strident now. "I didn't open the doors with my teeth."

  Metz gestured quickly. "Let me finish. Rupert's prints were on some of the papers and the drawer handles of his desk. But that's all we got. Nothing on the chair or drape cord, nothing on Rupert's neck, even though the spacing of the bruises indicates they're the result of finger pressure. Which means whoever killed him came prepared. Forensics is working on glove fibers taken from the indentations in Rupert's throat."

  Lori frowned. "Then why put me through the wringer like this? You knew all along I'm not responsible for his death."

  "Not directly." Metz was staring again. "But you could have sent someone else to do the dirty work."

  She matched his stare, anger in her eyes. "Do you really believe that?"

  "If you're asking do we have any proof, the answer is no. But we can't afford to rule out the possibility on your word alone."

  "Then what do you believe?"

  "So far all we've got to go on is circumstantial evidence. Judging from his actions earlier in the day, Rupert was planning to leave town. It must have been a hasty decision because we went through his belongings at the apartment and there doesn't seem to be anything missing. Plenty of clothing in the drawers, half a dozen pairs of shoes, and a closetful of suits. His shaver and toothbrush were still in the bathroom and he left a full set of matched luggage behind too. Probably bought an overnight bag somewhere after leaving the bank and picked up a few items to fill it, just enough to tide him over until he got to Dublin."

  "Dublin?"

  Metz nodded. "We lucked out with the airlines. TWA had him ticketed for their midnight flight, via London. One-way, first-class, paid with an American Express card under his own name. He couldn't avoid that, because his ticket had to match the I.D. on his passport. We checked that too, by the way; he had one valid until next year."

  "It doesn't seem as though he worried about covering his tracks," Lori said. "Didn't he realize how easy it would be to trace him?"

  "Trace him, yes. But once he got there he'd probably change his name, find a place to hide out. And even if we located him, extradition is a hassle when you're dealing with Ireland. There's no treaty."

  "In other words, he thought he could get away with murder." Lori felt the chill as she spoke. "But why would he want to kill me?"

  "We don't know," Metz said. "And the next question is, why would anyone want to kill him?" He squinted at the sheet on the desk before him. "You sure nobody else knew you were going to Rupert's office?"

  "Quite sure. After he called I just got into my car and drove down. It only took me about forty-five minutes."

  "Long enough for someone to kill Rupert, attempt to make it look like a suicide, and make a getaway."

  "Robbery-"

  "Forget it." Metz shook his head. "His wallet wasn't taken. What the killer took are the other items I told you about-his passport, the plane ticket, and the overnight bag, if he had one. The idea was to get rid of anything that would conflict with an apparent suicide, including the gun Rupert mentioned. Staging a death by hanging wouldn't make sense if all Rupert had to do was put a bullet through his head."

  "Why did the killer leave Rupert's note behind?"

  "He didn't leave it behind." Metz nodded. "You didn't see any note when you arrived."

  "Then where did you get it?"

  "From one place the killer never bothered to check out." Metz reached for the creased paper, held it up. "We found this crumpled up in the wastebasket.

  "The way it looks, Rupert wasn't satisfied with his wording, so he tossed this note away and tried again. Maybe he was still working on another when the killer arrived, maybe not. But in either case, this first attempt was overlooked." Metz pushed his chair away from the desk and rose.

  Lori glanced at him as she followed suit. "Then there's nothing else you can tell me?"

  Metz shook his head. "That's it for now. We're working on other leads, and we'll keep in touch. If you think of anything else that might have a bearing on this incident, I'd appreciate a call. Anytime, day or night."

  He walked her to the door. "Remember, if we collar a suspect, you'll be expected to testify at the hearing."

  "I know," Lori said.

  "So does the killer, Miss Holmes. Keep your door locked."

  NINETEEN

  Lori locked the door, but she couldn't lock her mind. Words and phrases wandered its corridors, crippled by misuse, malformed in their meaning. No wonder she'd majored in etymology; ever since childhood the usage of buzzwords had puzzled her-a modern Navy answering orders with an ancient "Aye-aye," a Marine sergeant bawling "Ten-hut!" And today even the media seemed bent on confusion rather than communication.

  Maybe it started with Watergate, when newscasters and columnists decided that "now" meant "at this point in time." Then they started parroting "pejorative" for a season, followed by a switch to "exacerbate." And recently pop authors discovered "ejaculate" as a noun rather than a verb, but this too shall pass.

  Only one word spewed forth by broadcasters and journalists had become a permanent part of daily speech and Lori didn't want to think about it. But she couldn't escape the echo of Lieutenant Metz's voice. "If you think of anything else that might have a bearing on this incident, I'd appreciate a call." Incident.

  That was the word, from the present participle of incidere-"to fall into"-and used for centuries in reference to an unimportant happening or an inconsequential occurrence.

  But now, thanks to the media, everything had become incidental-plane crashes, nuclear power plant explosions, earthquakes.

  Lori wondered why Russ wasn't calling but that was probably incidental too, like fire, death, murder. Just incidents, and damn you to hell, Lieutenant Metz.

  Hell was an old-fashioned word, but it had modern meanings. Hell was opening the cards and notes from classmates which had been forwarded here to her new address. Reading their condolences condemned her to relive what she wanted to forget.

  But memories were all she had now; there was nothing else left. The Oz books of her childhood were ashes, along with The American Language that introduced her to linguistics in high school. The souvenirs, the LPs and cassettes, the photo albums, gone forever. First the quake, then the aftershock.

  Pictures were what she missed the most, pictures of Mom and Dad and herself over the good years, the happy times, vacations, birthday parties, Christmas. But even if they still existed she couldn't see them clearly now through eyes blurring with sudden tears.

 

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