A Noise Downstairs(53)

“Do you remember any of them?”

She shook her head. “They were forgettable, and at some point I threw them all away. I remember one, about how beautifully shaped women are, one of nature’s most glorious achievements.” She laughed. “It was embarrassing. I look back and wonder what possible clues there were that I did not pick up, that would have offered a hint to what he was capable of.”

The same poem he’d tried out on Charlotte, Paul recalled. Maybe Kenneth had only had one poem in him.

“Let me tell you a story. After our . . . is dalliance too precious a word? Although, at the time I may have taken it more seriously than that. Anyway, it was over, and had been for some time, and he and I happened to be in the faculty lounge. Not talking, not interacting at all, and I was aware he was there. It was awkward; I tried to avoid him. I was about to leave when I got a call on my cell that my son, Armand, had been injured. He was eight at the time, and a car had clipped him at a crosswalk by the school. He’d been taken to the hospital. It turned out, thank God, not to be life threatening, but it was serious. I nearly collapsed. My husband was out of the country on business. Kenneth asked what had happened. He took me to the hospital—I was in no condition to drive—and he stayed with me there the entire night. I told him to go home, but he wouldn’t leave. God knows what he told Gabriella about where he was, but he kept me company, went and found a doctor when I hadn’t had an update in hours. He looked after me. And there was never a hint that he wanted anything in return. He saw I needed help, and he helped me.”

She paused. “And that’s the man who slit those women’s throats.”

_________________

PAUL DECIDED TO TAKE ANOTHER SHOT AT HAROLD FOSTER.

He recalled a book he’d once read by a legendary Miami police reporter. Often, when she’d call the family of a murder victim, hoping to add some personal details to her story, she’d get a slammed phone in her ear. So she’d wait a few minutes and try again, saying she’d somehow been cut off. Often, in the interim, another family member would argue in favor of talking to the press, that the world needed to know that, no matter what the cops might say, their dead relative was a decent human being, not some lowlife who had it coming.

Harold’s situation was not quite the same, but he might have had a similar change of heart.

After his visit with Angelique, he took a route that went past Milford Savings & Loan. As he neared the bank, there was Foster, coming out the front door, heading for the adjacent parking lot. Paul quickly pulled over to the curb, turned off the car, and got out. The banker was nearly to his car when he saw Paul approaching. He stopped.

“Harold,” Paul said, trying to sound agreeable.

Foster was speechless.

“I’m hoping, since we last spoke, you might be willing to reconsider answering a few more questions.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? Leave me alone.”

“Listen, I’m sorry about this, I really am, but if you don’t want to help me now, then I’ll be back tomorrow. And if you won’t help me then, I’ll be back the day after that.”

“Mr. Davis, I understand that what happened to you was traumatic. Guess what? What happened to me was traumatic. Why can’t you get that through your thick, damaged skull?”

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Foster sighed with exasperation. “Fine. What the hell do you want?”

Now that Foster appeared to have surrendered, Paul had to work up his courage to ask his question.

Paul nodded sheepishly. He felt his face flush.

“The truth is, I really have just one question for you, and you’re going to think it’s a strange one. Or, I don’t know, maybe you won’t.”

Foster stiffened.

“Have you ever, since your wife passed away . . . have you ever felt—this is the strange part but bear with me—that she was trying to connect with you in some way?”

“Excuse me?”

“What I’m wondering is, have you ever felt as though she was talking to you? You know how, when you lose a loved one, in some way they’re still with you?”

“A loved one,” Harold Foster said flatly.

“Yes.”

“You’re quite serious.”

“I am.”

“And you’re asking this why?”

Paul hesitated. “I’d be grateful if you indulged me without my having to explain.”

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll answer your goddamn question.” A sly grin crossed his face. “Sometimes I can imagine Jill speaking to me. I hear her voice in the back of my head.”

“You do?” Paul felt his heart do a small flip of encouragement.

“I do.”

“What do you hear her saying?”

“She’s saying, ‘You lucky bastard. Kenneth Hoffman did you a real favor, didn’t he?’”

Paul’s mouth opened. He was struck not just by the comment, but also by Harold Foster now being willing to utter his wife’s killer’s name.

“And you know what I say back to her?” Foster continued. “I say, ‘You’re damn right.’ That’s what I say. Hoffman rid me of a two-timing, conniving bitch.” He shook his head. “Since she died, if you want to know the absolute fucking truth, I’ve never felt better. It’s like I’ve been cured of cancer. I feel that I can start my life over.”