The Last Equation of Isaac Severy(63)

“What are you saying?” he asked.

“All of them are closed cases, some going back six years. The thing they all have in common? They all got off easy: light sentences, acquittals, community service, finger wagging.”

“Uh-huh.”

“The other thing is that they’re all dead.”

“Well, some of these guys are pretty old.”

“Then I guess ‘old’ makes you clumsy. This guy drowned in his bathtub; this woman took an accidental overdose of insulin; this one fell off his roof while doing some home improvement.”

“So, accidents.” He locked up his desk and stepped toward the window. “Could it be that you’re looking for a pattern where there isn’t one? What is coincidence but the concurrence of events?”

“The concurrence of events? You’re really going to give me a lecture on probability? I get it, Greg, you come from math people.”

“So, out with it. What’s your theory?”

She joined him at the window. They were silent for a moment as they looked out toward Parker Center, the old LAPD headquarters. The Glass House, as it had been known, was either destined for historical landmark status or demolition—depending whom you asked—and from time to time, you could find wistful detectives gazing in the direction of their old, possibly doomed home.

“This is serial,” she said at last, turning to face him. “The deaths will continue unless we stop it.”

Her stare was so intense, he had to turn away. “How long have you been looking into this?”

“Since the witness showed up back in September. I wanted to be sure.”

“You report this to anyone?”

“Just you.” She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth the way she sometimes did when she was thinking. “Even if I don’t, someone else will make the same connection. Eventually.”

Gregory ran a hand through his hair. “Listen, my wife is going to have my head if I don’t get home for dinner.”

“Go. And keep this between us?”

He smiled. “Of course.”

“Love to Goldie.”

“Same to Cal.”

Gregory grabbed his jacket and headed to the elevator.

A sign informed him that the elevators were being serviced, so he continued down the hall to the stairwell. As he pushed through the door and rounded the first corner, the image of her came to him, as he knew it would. For the rest of his life, whenever he climbed or descended a set of stairs, he would think of her—it was his punishment, he supposed. Had they stuck to their original plan, to their promise to be together, she wouldn’t have fallen down those steps.

I’m leaving Jack. Just days after having written those words, Sybil changed her mind quite suddenly. She had “consulted God, prayed a lot, you know?” And instead of leaving Jack, they were going to try for another child. “We can’t do this anymore. You have to stop contacting me, Gregory.”

This is what she said as they sat together on that blanket in the moonlight. Sybil had agreed to meet him only because it would be their last time together. If they saw each other again, it would have to be as cousins. At first he didn’t respond, as if he hadn’t heard her properly. But when he finally spoke, his voice frightened her so much that she flinched. She stood up and went to the edge of the yard overlooking Hollywood, shivering in her thin coat. He followed, unfolding the note she had written him, and held it to her face. “Remember what you said? Why say it if you didn’t mean it?” She shook her head, lashes clotted with tears. She had a daughter to worry about, a daughter who could have died because her mother had been distracted. Too preoccupied with her own selfish emotions to notice that her daughter was shoving poisonous flowers into her mouth. “What kind of example is that, Gregory?” When he told Sybil he wasn’t going to give her up just like that, she called him angry and obsessive. She thumped a fist on his chest, and that’s when he realized how tightly he was gripping her. “Just let me go, let me go,” she protested. Instead, he pulled her to him with even more desperation.

But when his sweet Sybil said with uncharacteristic bile, “I’m sick to death of your anger, Gregory, and sick to death of you,” he suddenly let go. He knew the force with which she was pulling away would send her reeling backward, but as he played the scene over in his mind, the difference between letting go and pushing blurred. Had he really meant for her to tumble backward down those steps? Had he really intended for the person he loved so much to die almost instantly? Yes, perhaps in that moment, that was exactly what he had wanted.

As Gregory continued down the stairwell, he felt his stomach lurch at the memory. He slowed and grabbed the banister for fear of falling himself. At the ground floor, he threw open the door and let the cool air hit his face. It was then that he felt tears pooling in his eyes. When he reached the plaza, he blinked back at the building and saw that E. J. hadn’t moved from the window. She didn’t see Gregory pass below. She was still looking in the direction of the Glass House, no doubt planning her next move.

He would have to act soon with Tom. The days when he might have managed situations like this at his leisure were coming to an end. It was all coming to an end, and the end point was out of his control. All he could do was let the universal computer lead him to it.