Nine Lives(47)

“I haven’t had butterscotch pudding since I was a kid,” Jack said, then wondered if that sounded like an insult.

“It’s very sweet,” Eric said, pursing his lips.

“It’s delicious,” Jack said.

“Thanks,” Margaret said. Jack thought she looked tired, as though the night had worn her down. He decided that as soon as he finished his dessert, he’d say that it was time for him to leave. Unfortunately, just as he was getting ready to make his announcement, Eric asked him about his book, almost as though he’d been waiting until after the meal.

“I ordered it on Amazon, so I haven’t read it yet, but I read the comments. You’re a guru, man.”

Jack had long ago lost any interest in the world of business, or in his book, but he sat politely with Eric and gave him the big picture philosophy to his approach, going into his consultant mode. He even broke out a couple of amusing stories from the six-month book tour he’d taken after the book had landed on the New York Times bestseller list. Margaret cleared the table, and Eric drank a beer while Jack had a cup of tea. In a more perfect world, Jack imagined Eric clearing the table while Margaret and he talked about anything but business. After finishing his tea, Jack stood up and declared that it was past his bedtime. At the door, Margaret, her face shiny from doing the dishes, thanked him for coming, and Jack told her it was the best meal he’d had in years.

Eric, standing two feet behind Margaret, said, “Then you’ve got to go to Quarto, downtown, man, if you haven’t been. It’s the best restaurant in Hartford. Trust me, a whole lot better than what we ate tonight.” He was swaying slightly, his big fist around the bottle of beer, and Jack imagined for a moment the sheer pleasure he’d get from punching this man in the nose.

It was cold outside, but it had stopped raining, and Jack stood for a moment in front of his own door, taking deep breaths of the fresh air. A car went slowly past, disturbing the puddles on the street. He didn’t feel fearful, even though he did wonder what it would be like to be afraid of dying. He tried to imagine it, but then he was wondering what the conversation was like at his neighbors’ house at this particular moment. Eric would be making her feel bad about something she’d said or done or cooked that evening. Maybe one day she’d leave him, Jack thought, even though he doubted it. He opened the door to his childhood house and stepped into the hallway, confused for a moment, smelling butterscotch pudding in the house, even though that was impossible.





2





FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 10:09 A.M.


He doesn’t want to hurt them,” Aaron Levin said. He was in Ruth Jackson’s office, the door closed. He’d been offered a chair but was still standing.

“He hurt Frank Hopkins, didn’t he?”

“Frank is an outlier. Jessica thought so, as well. He was drowned, so he knew he was going to die. He had the letter, but it wasn’t stamped so someone had delivered it directly to him. He was in his seventies.”

“Jack Radebaugh is seventy.”

“So both of them are outliers.”

“How many outliers are you allowed to have in a list of nine names?” Ruth said. She hadn’t changed her position, leaning back in her ergonomic chair, since Aaron had entered the office.

“How the fuck do I know, Ruth. Jesus.”

She frowned. “I know you’re emotional because of what happened with Jessica, but don’t take it out on me, okay?”

“Sorry. You’re right. I don’t even remember what I came in here to tell you.”

“That he doesn’t want to hurt them.”

“Right. Except for Frank Hopkins, Matthew Beaumont was shot in the back, Arthur Kruse was gassed while he was sleeping, and Jess got shot from behind as well. Like he doesn’t want them to know it’s coming.”

Ruth said, “Donald Bennett knew it was coming, or might have known.”

It took Aaron a moment to recognize the name. Donald Bennett had been the other dead person on the scene, a local man who had probably been brought there by whoever shot Jess. At least it was clear that he hadn’t ridden in Jess’s car. Teri Michaud, bartender at the Lobster Pot, said that Donald Bennett, a regular, had left the bar with a strange man who’d paid in cash, a greasy-looking guy with a mullet. The current theory was that Donald Bennett had been recruited by whoever had shot Jess.

“I’ve thought about him, too,” Aaron said. “If Bennett had agreed to help the shooter out, to somehow get Jess to this isolated place, then Bennett is guilty too. So it doesn’t matter how he dies.” Aaron flicked a piece of lint from his suit pants. “If you’re innocent, he makes sure you die without knowing it’s happening.”

“It’s a theory,” Ruth said.

“Which means that Frank Hopkins was guilty of something. But he died first so we can’t exactly interview him about it.”

“Look,” said Ruth. “Can we table this for now. I have some calls to make.”

“Oh, right. I’m sorry. I really just came in here to find out if there was anything new.”

“It’s been an hour.”

“So.”

“Actually, there is something new,” Ruth said. She smiled, and Aaron, who liked Ruth, suddenly wanted to slap that smile off her face. “They found Jay Coates.”