Last to Know: A Novel(49)

“In the morning, my friend,” he said. “You’ve gotta sleep it off first. Besides, you have to call Mal, tell her you’ll be on the afternoon flight.”

“Oh, God.” Harry’s face fell. He thought for a minute, then, “I’ll call her tomorrow,” he said. “Squeeze and I need a walk.”

Rossetti accompanied his friend and the dog twice around the block, saw him back into his red chair, put away the Jim Beam and the glass, put his friend’s feet up on the ottoman and a cushion behind his head; found the dog food in the kitchen cupboard and fed the grateful Squeeze, gave his friend a long final look, and he and the dog took their leave.

Tomorrow was another day. Hadn’t somebody famous said that? Scarlett O’Hara maybe? All Rossetti knew was that whoever it was, was right. For him, and for Harry, and for Mallory Malone in Paris, and for Bea Havnel, and Rose Osborne and her family, tomorrow would indeed be another day.





37


After he left Harry, Rossetti went directly to the precinct, with the dog on the leash drawing comments from the usual bunch of overworked uniforms and detectives, in that hive of activity, with men hunched over computers or on the phone and where crime never stopped.

He requested to speak to the captain, told him Harry’s story, about his state of mind, that overwork and no time off and stress had finally gotten to him.

“Everybody knows this dog,” Rossetti said, smoothing a hand over Squeeze’s soft head. The dog laid back his ears and gazed adoringly at him.

The captain said, “So, now you’ve got to take on Harry’s work—meaning the Jemima Forester/Wally Osborne/Bea Havnel case. As well as his dog.”

He was a big man in a blue shirt, sleeves rolled, twiddling a pen between his fingers, a frown plastered permanently on his wide brow where his hair had receded years ago into a kind of Donald Trump rusty fringe. “What’s his real problem, anyway?”

Rossetti thought about it for a second, then he said, “His future. Here, as a cop. And elsewhere with a woman.”

“Malone?” The captain knew about her, everybody did. Personally he thought Jordan was a lucky guy to have her in his camp, whatever that might mean. “He marryin’ her, then?”

Rossetti shrugged. “I couldn’t say, but I surely hope so.”

“Put us all out of our misery,” the captain said, stopping his twiddling. “A man can’t do his job right when he has woman trouble on his mind.”

“You bet,” Rossetti agreed. “Anyhow, Harry’s worked his butt off without stopping for the past year. Now he’s exhausted, as well as troubled about Mallory Malone. He needs time to himself.”

The captain leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his big chest, and sighed. “Just when we could use his expertise,” he said. “But then nothing ever seems to happen at a convenient time. He’s friggin’ earned it, though,” he added, suddenly coming round to Rossetti’s point of view. “No man works harder than Jordan, or does a better job. He’s got a mind like a steel trap, it’ll fasten onto the smallest detail and lead him into pastures new.”

“Pastures new?” Rossetti said.

“By that, I mean Harry sees stuff from a different point of view from the rest of us, sometimes several points of view at the same time, and he follows them all up until he sorts out the one that means something.”

Rossetti was remembering what Harry had said the previous night about Wally being too tall to be Jemima’s attacker, about Bea Havnel being the right height, about Lacey and maybe Bea not being who they said they were. And his worries about Roman. “I think I’d better fill you in on Harry’s thoughts, then, sir,” he said, and proceeded to do just that.

The captain listened, nodding occasionally in agreement, then he said, “Forget Roman. But we can’t hold Wally Osborne any longer. We’ll let him go immediately. But it still doesn’t take him out of the equation. The man was caught standing over Jemima’s body with blood all around. And Bea Havnel was caught running through the woods.”

“Maybe she was running for her life—from Wally?” Rossetti suggested, because suddenly it seemed logical.

“Anyhow, there’s no way we can hold her either.” The captain leaned over his desk, looking into Rossetti’s eyes. “She’s got the best lawyers in town, she’ll get more if she has to. This young woman has money to burn and she’s prepared to burn it.”

“Just like she burned the house,” Rossetti said, as though to himself. “The mother dies in the fire, the mother has money, the girl inherits the money.”

“The house was expensive, and it was insured,” the captain said.

“Jesus.” Rossetti looked back at him.

“But…” The captain leaned back in his chair again and recommenced twiddling his pen. “But can we prove anything? All we have is theory. And that’s why we need Harry, because he’s the one that finds the links in these cases. Harry’s a bit of a genius like that.”

“Not in this case.” Rossetti got to his feet and so did the dog, whining, ears down, missing his master and friend. “Harry thinks the sun shines out of that girl. Innocence in a blond package, that’s what he believes, Captain.” Rossetti made for the door. He turned and looked at his superior officer. “And you know what? He could still be right.”