Filled his pills full of arsenic, Marla thought. She’d heard that this morning on the radio as she was coming in to work. She’d heard it on NPR, as a matter of fact. She did listen to their own stations most of the time, but in the car she wanted news, and for that she wanted NPR. The one thing they did badly on this network was news.
The problem was, she could go to jail for getting rid of this folder, too. There were laws against destroying evidence. She could always tuck it into her tote bag and bring it home, but then she’d have to find a way to get rid of it there, and she didn’t keep a shredder in her spare bedroom. Besides, shredders weren’t foolproof. She’d seen movies where the police reconstructed shredded documents. Getting rid of a big, fat file folder full of documents was as hard as getting rid of a body, and she didn’t have the first idea of how to get rid of a body. She’d always counted on the fact that the police would be no more interested in bringing this evidence forward than she would be herself, but that was because she hadn’t expected Drew to be arrested by two cops who weren’t in on the deal and weren’t interested in being in on it, or prosecuted by a new district attorney who knew nothing about the kind of arrangements that had been put in place by the old one. If she shredded the folder here, somebody would see her shredding it. Even if she waited until after hours, there was always the chance that somebody would be around late, or that a cleaning woman would see. Besides, this was radio, people were around late all the time. If she didn’t shred it and just took it out and threw it somewhere, in a garbage can, in the water, somebody would find it and fish it out and sell it to the highest bidder. Marla Hildebrande had watched enough true crime to know that murderers were fools to think they could hide what they didn’t want anybody to see.
The problem was, the folder wasn’t going to go away by itself, and she didn’t think the police were going to take more than a day or two to get around to searching the place.
2
There were times when Ray Dean Ballard needed to stop being Ray Dean Ballard and become Aldous Ballard again, himself. He used the Ray Dean the way an actor used a costume. It was necessary in his line of work, but he never mistook it for reality. That made his life difficult sometimes. It seemed to him that he shouldn’t have to worry about it so much, or for so long. He’d been working with homeless people now for over a decade. He’d been living on the salary they paid him, in the kind of apartment a salary like that could afford, in the clothes a salary like that could afford. He should have proved his sincerity by now. Sometimes he thought there was never any way to prove your sincerity in a situation like this. He was one of them until he became suspect, and he didn’t want to become suspect.
This morning, he also didn’t want to play Ray Dean Ballard. He didn’t think that had anything to do with Drew Harrigan’s death per se. After all, he barely knew the man, and what he knew he didn’t like. Still, the news was all over television and the radio. Morning Edition had it. The newspapers piled in stacks in front of newsstands had it. Everybody had it. If he’d owned a television, he could have done nothing for the next several hours but listen to reports about when Drew Harrigan died, how and where his body was found, who and what was going to be in trouble now. He didn’t have a television, and didn’t want one, and when he passed one in the window of an electronics store he paused only for a minute before moving on down the street. He did not look like the Ray Dean Ballard they were used to at the office, now. He was wearing a better coat, for one thing. The real difference was that his demeanor was almost completely changed. He was fed up, and restless, and he wanted to do something with the morning.
The first thing he did was to stop at a pay phone and tell them he wouldn’t be in until later. He’d left his cell phone at home, because he didn’t want to be interrupted, and he didn’t bother to tell them why he wouldn’t be in or where he’d be instead. That was one of the perks of being the boss. You didn’t owe anybody any explanations. The second thing he did was to stop at an ATM machine and get some money. Usually, he was careful not to carry too much around with him in cash. Nothing got people’s attention as much as a big wad of bills in a wallet. He checked the limits he was allowed and opted for five hundred dollars. It came out at him in tens and twenties, as if he had just committed a bank heist.
Out on the street again, he looked around at what was really a very prosperous neighborhood. The stores were good, selling things people needed at prices far above what people needed to pay. In another part of town, you could get a watch. In this part of town, you could get a Swiss Army watch, or a Rolex. He had never really understood Rolexes. If he wanted to spend $17,000 on something, he’d buy himself a car. Except that he didn’t understand cars, either.