Postmortem(93)
“How long did she live?” she dully asked again.
“Minutes,” I repeated.
That’s as far as I intended to go. Abby seemed slightly relieved. She was seeking solace in the hope her sister’s suffering was minimal. Someday, when the case was closed and Abby was stronger, she would know. God help her, she would know about the knife.
“That’s all?” she asked shakily.
“That’s all I can say now,” I told her. “I’m sorry. I’m so terribly sorry about Henna.”
She smoked for a while, taking nervous jerky drags as if she didn’t know what to do with her hands. She was biting her lower lip, trying to keep it from trembling.
When she finally met my eyes, her own were uneasy, suspicious.
She knew I hadn’t asked her here for this. She sensed there was something else.
“It’s really not why you called, is it?”
“Not entirely,” I replied frankly.
Silence.
I could see the resentment, the anger building.
“What?” she demanded. “What is it you want from me?”
“I want to know what you’re going to do.”
Her eyes flashed. “Oh, I get it. You’re worried about your goddam self. Jesus Christ. You’re just like the rest of them!”
“I’m not worried about myself,” I said very calmly. “I’m beyond that, Abby. You have enough to cause me trouble. If you want to run my office and me into the ground, then do it. That’s your decision.”
She looked uncertain, her eyes shifting away.
“I understand your rage.”
“You couldn’t possibly understand it.”
“I understand it better than you might imagine.” Bill flashed in my mind. I could understand Abby’s rage very well.
“You couldn’t. Nobody could!” she exclaimed. “He stole my sister from me. He stole a part of my life. I’m so damn tired of people taking things from me! What kind of world is this,” she choked, “where someone can do something like that? Oh, Jesus! I don’t know what I’m going to do . . .”
I said firmly, “I know you intend to investigate your sister’s death on your own, Abby. Don’t do it.”
“Somebody’s got to!” she cried out. “What? I’m supposed to leave it up to the Keystone Kops?”
“Some matters you must leave to the police. But you can help. You can if you really want to.”
“Don’t patronize me!”
“I’m not.”
“I’ll do it my own way . . .”
“No. You won’t do it your own way, Abby. Do it for your sister.”
She stared blankly at me with red-rimmed eyes. “I asked you here because I’m taking a gamble. I need your help.”
“Right! You need me to help by leaving town and keeping the hell out of it . . .”
I was slowly shaking my head.
She looked surprised.
“Do you know Benton Wesley?”
“The profiler,” she replied hesitantly. “I know who he is.”
I glanced up at the wall clock. “He’ll be here in ten minutes.”
She stared at me for a long time. “What? What is it, exactly, you want me to do?”
“Use your journalistic connections to help us find him.”
“Him?” Her eyes widened.
I got up to see if there was any coffee left.
Wesley was reluctant when I had explained my plan over the telephone, but now that the three of us were in my office it seemed clear to me he’d accepted it.
“Your complete cooperation is nonnegotiable,” he said to Abby emphatically. “I’ve got to have your assurance you’ll do exactly what we agree upon. Any improvisation or creative thinking on your part could blow the investigation right out of the water. Your discretion is imperative.”
She nodded, then pointed out, “If it’s the killer breaking into the computer, why’s he done it only once?”
“Once we’re aware of,” I reminded her. “Still, it hasn’t happened again since you discovered it.”
Wesley suggested, “He’s been running like hell. He’s murdered two women in two weeks and there’s probably been sufficient information in the press to satisfy his curiosity. He could be sitting pretty, feeling smug, because by all news accounts we don’t have anything on him.”
“We’ve got to inflame him,” I added. “We’ve got to do something to make him so paranoid he gets reckless. One way to do this is to make him think my office has found evidence that could be the break we’ve been waiting for.”
“If he’s the one getting into the computer,” Wesley summarized, “this could be sufficient incentive for him to try again to discover what we supposedly know.” He looked at me.