Precious Blood(26)
“Why?”
She looked over her shoulder at him, curious. “Doesn’t it ever bother you? The Cardinal’s trying to pin the whole thing on you—”
“Which he can’t do,” Andy pointed out, “because his theory’s nonsense and I didn’t do anything anyway. I didn’t even talk to her about being ill.”
“What did you talk to her about?”
“Nothing much, really. This and that. High school.”
“Black Rock Park?”
“Of course Black Rock Park,” Andy said. “She didn’t think about that the way we do, you know. She found it a very pleasant memory.”
“That’s because she wasn’t around to see the fuss it caused.” Judy’s voice was sharp. “She just disappeared into thin air.”
“Actually, she disappeared South for a while. And she was much less enamored of Black Rock Park than she was of the year that came after.”
“What happened then?”
“She got married.”
Judy turned full around to face him, looking surprised. “Married? Cheryl Cass?”
“Don’t look so surprised,” Andy said. “She was very pretty in those days.”
“She was tarty,” Judy said. “Lord, she was the tartiest girl I ever saw. I wonder who she found to marry her.”
“Probably nobody you’d be interested in.”
“Probably not. Did she give you a name?”
“Not exactly.”
“I hate it when you’re like this.” She came back to the table and sat down again. “Anyway, it’s not what she did there that worries me. It’s what she did here. Meaning die.”
“Judy, what do you want? There’s been a coroner’s report. There’s been an inquest. There’s been a verdict of suicide—”
“I know what the verdict was, Andy. I also know that kind of verdict can be changed. If the police have new evidence, say.”
“I don’t think the police are looking for new evidence.”
“They would be if they could,” Judy said. “That man who came here, the Lieutenant—”
“John Smith.” Andy laughed. “God, he hated having a name like that. Every time anybody used it he went brick red. I didn’t blame him. If I had a name like that I’d—”
“Oh, shut up,” Judy said. “Dear God, Andy, sometimes you’re worse than Stuart. Can’t you keep your mind on anything?”
“On what, for Christ’s sake?”
Judy leaned across the table. “What do you know about your houseguest across the courtyard? John Cardinal O’Bannion’s personal little invitee?”
“I know he’s not so little. What am I supposed to tell you, Judy? I haven’t even met him. He got in around five-thirty or so and I was tied up in the church. I saw him come across the courtyard while I was sorting choir robes. He’s taller than Kath.”
“He’s also practically famous,” Judy said. “I know you never read the newspapers unless they’ve got a story with your name in it—”
“Don’t do that, Judy. I keep a very close eye on what’s going on in Central America—”
“Oh, Central America. Forget Central America. Like I said, this Gregor Demarkian is practically famous.”
“For what?”
“For investigating murders.”
“You mean he’s some kind of a policeman?”
Judy sighed, stood up again, walked back to the refrigerator, shook her head. Her whole body seemed weighed down with the infinite weariness of contempt. “For God’s sake,” she said. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind?”
“All right, I will. Back around Christmas some time, there was a series of murders in this town in Pennsylvania. It started out to be this rich old man and then, I don’t know, a couple of his children. According to the papers—I went back and looked it all up at the library—anyway, according to the papers, Gregor Demarkian basically solved the entire case for the police. Do you know what the papers also said?”
“What?”
“He used to be in the FBI, in charge of investigating mass murderers. Men like Ted Bundy. That’s what Gregor Demarkian does, Andy. He specializes in murders.”
Andy sat very still, taking all this in. Then he said, very slowly, “The thing is, it doesn’t matter what Gregor Demarkian specializes in. Cheryl Cass wasn’t murdered, and I certainly didn’t murder her.”
“I know you didn’t murder her, Andy, but are you so sure she wasn’t murdered?”