Somebody Else's Music(114)

“Your problem is with the word ‘connected,’” Gregor said. “Your thinking is too limited. Everybody who was in the park that night is connected to the death of Michael Houseman and the death of Chris Inglerod and the attack on Emma Kenyon Bligh and, of course, the death of Mrs. Toliver’s dog. ‘Connected’ doesn’t mean anything. God is ‘connected’ to all those things.”

Kyle sat still for a long time, blinking. “To hell with it,” he said. “I have no idea what you’re up to, but I’m going to get the hospital to keep Peggy in a bed for at least a week.”

“Her HMO probably won’t have it.”

Kyle got out of the car and looked around. “What is it about the dog?” he asked to the air. “I keep forgetting about the dog. I hate what happened to the dog.”

Gregor got out, too, and they walked up the narrow concrete walk together. The walk was cracked.

Kyle rang the front bell, and waited. He rang it again. And again.

“Probably passed out cold,” he told Gregor. “Or he’s not and he’s just not going to open up. What are you going to do about that? We don’t have a search warrant.”

Gregor tried the front doorknob. It was locked. “Lean on the bell some more,” he said.

Kyle let out a raspberry, but he leaned on the bell. Gregor could hear the grating buzz from where he stood. Kyle let go of the button and pounded on the door once or twice. “Stu,” he shouted. “Stu, for God’s sake, open up. I’ve got to talk to you.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” somebody said from the other side of the door. It was an odd voice, Gregor thought, high and petulant and childish.

Kyle sighed. “Listen, Stu, open up. I mean it. I’ve got to talk to you.”

“No fucking cop is getting into this house without a search warrant,” the voice said.

“I don’t need a search warrant,” Kyle said. “I’m not searching for anything. I don’t care if you have a goddamned mountain of cocaine sitting in the middle of your living-room floor. Snort the whole damned thing for all I care. It’s not what I’m looking for. Open up or I’ll find some excuse to arrest you and put you in jail. Then you’ll have to listen to me.”

“Who is it you’ve got with you?”

“Oh, that’s Gregor Demarkian. He’s—”

“I know who he is.”

Gregor heard the bolt lock turn in the door, the same snap and slide that bolt locks made everywhere. The door swung open and he got his first look at Stu Kennedy. The first thing that struck him was how small the man was, not only thin—all coke heads are thin—but short, shorter than Kyle, almost as short as Jimmy Card. The next thing that struck him was that the man smelled. He’d been in the clothes he was wearing for days, and he hadn’t been in the shower anytime lately. His hair hung in greasy clumped strands around his face. It was too long, and it looked as if it had been cut by an amateur the last few times. His face had a streak of dirt running down one jaw. His hands had dirt caked under the fingernails.

“Jesus Christ,” Kyle said. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing the fuck’s wrong with me,” Stu said. “Who do you think you are, coming here in the middle of the afternoon knocking on the door and throwing bullshit at me about how you got to tell me something? You don’t have to tell me anything. You’re just a piece of motherfucking slime—”

“This is Mr. Demarkian,” Kyle said dryly. “He’s a famous detective from Philadelphia. He used to be head of some hotshot division at the FBI—”

“I know who the fuck he is. Just because you want to lick his boots don’t mean I do. Christ, Kyle, you’re such a wet wuss bag.”

Stu Kennedy stepped back a little, and Kyle edged past him, sucking his stomach in so that he didn’t have to touch Stu’s clothes. Gregor slid past him, too, but with less fastidiousness. He got into the living room and looked around. The room was both clean and tidy, but everything in it was worn, and it was very dark. Part of that was due to the fact that the drapes were closed, but part of it was due to the fact that all the furniture was dark, too, black or navy-blue, just like the carpet. The walls were white, but they looked as if they hadn’t been painted in a long time. Beyond the living room was a smaller room that looked to be the dining room. It was dark, too.

“See?” Stu said. “No mountain of cocaine on the living-room floor. What the fuck kind of idiot do you think I am?”

“What is it with you, anyway?” Kyle said. “You got out of school, you can’t watch your language anymore? I can’t believe Peggy puts up with this.”