Conspiracy Theory(141)

She checked the address again. She had to drive nearly blind to do it, with the magnifying class in one hand and The Harridan Report plastered against the steering wheel. She threw the magnifying glass and the newsletter down on the seat next to her and kept driving. She didn’t have to check the address again. She knew the address. She knew the voice that was on the other end of that phone number too. She’d called more than twice in the last twenty-four hours. She’d called and hung up as soon as the woman began speaking, which was not polite, and had probably made the poor woman paranoid as hell, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. She didn’t know where to start. She didn’t even know what she wanted to say.

She found an open space at the curb and pulled into it. It was almost certainly not a legal parking space, and she would get another ticket while her back was turned or she was safely out of sight in the house with this woman who might or might not have the answers she was looking for. She got out of the car and locked it, carefully. There was nothing in it to steal, and it was older than most cars that would interest car thieves, but you could never know. She put her keys in her pocket and walked back a little to the walk of the house at number 244. She went up the walk and stared at the front door with its black paint and shiny brass knocker. David was in New York. She knew that without question. She had called him at his office and on his office number and talked to him. It was a good thing that this was not a triple-decker house. She didn’t know what she’d do if she had to put up with nosy neighbors.

She pressed the buzzer button and waited. She heard someone opening locks on the other side of the door, three or four of them, their bolts and tumbrils thudding open one after the other. All she needed was the answer to a single question, and she was sure, when she had it, that she would feel like a fool. This was not the sort of thing sensible people did. This was not the sort of thing they thought.

The door swung open, and Annie blinked. She didn’t think she had ever seen anyone quite like this woman before in her life. She was a middle-aged woman, with all the sag and bag that entailed for someone who did not spend hours a day taking care of herself—but Annie was a middle-aged woman too. That wouldn’t have bothered her. What bothered her was the hair, bright blond, almost lemon, and piled high on her head and falling down to her shoulders in giggling cascades of curls, teased up and splayed out, beyond Big Hair, almost something with a life of its own. What bothered her was the makeup too, which was much too vivid and much too thick. The red of the lipstick was the red of the nose on Bozo the Clown. The blue of the eye shadow was the blue of a computer screen right after a systems crash. It was like looking at a bad painting. Annie felt she had to be staring.

“I’m looking for Miss Mittendorf,” she said, hesitating. “Or Mrs. Mitten-dorf, possibly. I’m sorry. I got your address—”

“I’m Kathi Mittendorf,” Kathi Mittendorf said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Then, just as Annie was about to say that there had to be some mistake, she hadn’t said she was coming, nobody could be waiting for her, Kathi Mittendorf raised the gun. It was a gun-gun, not a rifle, and it was huge. Annie didn’t think she’d ever seen a hand weapon that large, not even in the hands of the men who sometimes came to Adelphos House to get their hookers back.

“Come inside,” Kathi Mittendorf said.

She’s going to kill me, Annie thought.

And then, stepping through the front door as Kathi Mittendorf pulled it shut behind her, she saw that Kathi had apparently killed somebody else.

At least, there was the dead body of a woman on the sofa.





FIVE



1


All the way across town from Henry Barden’s place, John Jackman kept reminding Gregor Demarkian that this was no longer his job.

“The whole point of ending up behind a desk,” he would say, paused at a stoplight that was green, but of no interest to the driver immediately ahead of him, “was not to be shot at anymore, and I have a distinct feeling that by the end of this mess, I’m going to end up getting shot at. And where? Are we going out to Bryn Mawr?”

“No,” Gregor said. “Do I sound like I’m giving you directions to Bryn Mawr?”

“How would you know if you weren’t? You’ve got the sense of direction of belly-button lint. Let me try to rephrase this. Do you know who killed Steve Bridge?”

“Yes. So do you.”

“Not that I can tell,” Jackman said. “But Steve Bridge happens to be the only dead body we’ve got—or the only one connected to you—within the city limits at the moment. If we’re going off to confront the murderer of Tony and Charlotte Ross, then I shouldn’t be here, because it’s none of my business. I remember when I was working as a detective, Gregor. I did not appreciate having outsiders come in and muck up my case, and your Detective Margiotti won’t appreciate it either.”