2 Pane of Death (18 page)

Cam nodded.

I went on. “Maybe she didn’t think it through, or maybe she didn’t expect me to find anything relevant to the murder. Or maybe she
is
just trying to grab all the glory—she’s the newest member of this FBI special team, and she wants to make her mark.”

I sighed. Sticky situation all around. “How much of this did you share with her last night?” I asked after a moment.

“Sister of mine, I do have some decent instincts now and then. She asked about what was on there about his art collection, and I told her. I didn’t mention most of the other stuff. I figured Matt should have a crack at it first.”

“Good boy!” I beamed at him. “So what are we going to do about it?”

“No clue,” he replied. “You’re the one with the relationship with Matt. I’ll let you figure that one out.”

“Gee, thanks. Matt and I aren’t talking, apparently, until this murder is cleared up.” I didn’t bother to mention I had sort of hung up on him last night. “Kind of a Catch-22, isn’t it? I have evidence that might help solve this murder, but he won’t let me share it with him until he solves the murder.”

“Em, from what you’ve said, I think you have to tell him.”

He was right, and I was happy that he recognized the necessity. I sighed. “I know. I just don’t know how to do it. What’s your schedule?”

“You mean, am I going to be around to help you explain to your boyfriend that you and I are running circles around him in the investigation he wants you to stay out of?”

“Yeah, that.”

“Sorry, but I have a project at work this week that I can’t blow off, so I’ve got to go back tonight.”

“And this afternoon?”

“Allison and I have plans.”

I really did want his support when I talked to Matt, particularly in explaining the technical side of things, but I knew that Cam needed to spend some quality time with Allison, if he was to depart for home on good terms with her. I would just have to bite the bullet and deal with Matt on my own. But I wasn’t looking forward to it.

“Okay, baby brother, you go off and frolic with your lady love, and I’ll try and patch up relations with the local constabulary. Where did you and Nat leave things?”

“She said something about getting together again today, once she’d had a chance to digest what I told her. I plan to be conveniently somewhere else, and my cell phone is about to die mysteriously.”

“Then you’d better hit the road, pal. Are those printouts for me?” I pointed to the pile of papers on the table.

“Yes. I’ve annotated the list, so you know which ones are important.”

“And where are we keeping this precious computer?”

“Nat gave it to me, and that makes it my responsibility. But I can’t go wandering around Tucson with the thing in my trunk. You hang on to it for now, and I can take it with me when I leave. Or not, if you need a bargaining chip. I’ve got what I need from it, anyway.”

I assumed he meant he’d copied the files to his own computer or stashed them somewhere in cyberspace. “Boy, we’ve really landed right in the thick of it, haven’t we? Nat’s going to be pissed if we turn the computer over to Matt; Matt’s going to be pissed that we didn’t tell him about the contents ASAP. A real lose-lose situation, eh?”

“That it is. But I have infinite faith in your ability to arrive at the best possible decision. Oops, gotta go!” He stood up and disappeared into the guest room, leaving me alone at the table with my quandary.

I’ll admit up front that I’m a chicken, and I particularly hate personal confrontations. I persuaded myself that I really should take care of some business before devoting any more time and energy to solving Peter’s murder. That meant heading for the studio and working with some glass, which always calmed me.

It took me until three o’clock in the afternoon to work up the nerve to call Matt. I made excuses to myself: The shop was busy, and I needed to make some basic trade pieces to restock my own inventory (and working in the shop where sidewalk strollers could watch was always a good draw). But I knew I couldn’t put it off much longer, and finally I marched upstairs and punched in Matt’s work number. I was surprised to find that he wasn’t in his office. I left an innocuous message, along the lines of “we have to talk” and heaved a sigh of relief. The ball was back in his court.

I tried Cam on his cell phone, to let him know that I had done my duty, but true to his word, it wasn’t on. I didn’t leave a message. It was approaching six when I left the shop and made my way upstairs. Cam had left a note saying that he had fed and walked Fred and Gloria, and he had left the “object of interest” in my underwear drawer. Men. I wasn’t sure whose property it was at this point, officially. The FBI’s? Or could Matt confiscate it as evidence? I really didn’t want to find myself in the middle of that argument, but I was afraid I wouldn’t have a choice. In the end I stuffed it in the linen closet under my towels.

I found myself bored—and hungry. I checked my fridge, but nothing looked appealing. Heck, most of it didn’t even look edible. I decided I should treat myself to a decent meal, and Sunday nights were pretty quiet in this neighborhood, so I wouldn’t have to fight for a table. I gave the pups a quick turn around the block, and after I brought them back I meandered through the neighborhood, not so much reading menus as sniffing the good smells wafting from the various small restaurants that were open. Finally I stopped in front of one that smelled particularly yummy, then plunged into the dark interior, where the smells only got better. I found a table against the wall and settled in with a beer and a platter of nachos, drooling in anticipation of more food to come. So focused was I on eating that it was a couple of minutes before I sat back and checked out the room to see if I knew anyone. I wouldn’t mind having someone to talk to while I ate.

There were no familiar faces, but I wasn’t surprised—it was getting late, and tomorrow was a workday. My eyes lit on a guy slouched against the bar. I could see his face from the side, but he was concentrating hard on the drink in front of him. Not his first, by the looks of it.

And then I looked again. He didn’t much resemble the fuzzy newspaper picture Cam had showed me—that guy had been buttoned down in a suit, his hair neatly combed. The man at the bar was a wreck—and getting more wrecked, judging from the line of glasses in front of him on the bar. Still, to my tired eyes, he looked a heck of a lot like Andrew Foster.

One way to find out. My bottle was still half full, but I stood up and made my way to the bar, signaling the bartender. “Hi, Jorge. Can I have another?”

Jorge smiled and reached for a fresh bottle. I sneaked a glance at the guy next to me, and damned if he didn’t still look a lot like Andrew Foster, up close. Now what? Absurd and outdated pickup lines rambled through my head. Come here often? What’s your sign? Where have you been all my life? Well, there was always the direct approach. “Aren’t you Andrew Foster?”

The man responded slowly, as if he was having difficulty processing my sentence. His head turned toward me, and his eyes focused, more or less. “Yuh. Why?”

Wow
. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world . . . “I was a friend of Peter Ferguson’s,” I said quietly.

To my dismay, Andrew’s eyes filled with tears. “Peter’s dead.”

“I know. Listen, why don’t we go sit down at my table, maybe eat something, and we can talk?”

Another long pause while he processed that request. While I waited, I noticed Jorge watching us, and I nodded to him—I could handle this. Jorge shrugged and went to fill another order. Andrew managed to haul himself upright, and I took one arm and guided him to my table, where he fell heavily in the chair, sighing. I almost reeled from the blast of alcohol fumes.

“Have you had anything to eat lately?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Dunno.”

“Then you need to eat something. Here.” I pushed the half-finished platter of nachos toward him and watched while he stared at it for a long while before picking up a chip. Miracle of miracles, he managed to find his mouth.

When he had almost finished chewing, he mumbled, “I need a drink.”

“No you don’t, Andrew. You’ve had plenty. What are you doing here?”

He peered through the dim light, trying to find my place. “Where’s here?”

I pondered how to answer that. “A bar in Tucson.”

He nodded as though that meant something. “Good, that’s what I thought.” He took another chip and ate it. After a long pause, he said, “You knew Peter?”

I nodded, trying to gauge his tone. Was the fact that I knew Peter good or bad, in his fuzzy mind?

“Damn, he’s dead. I didn’t even know. I mean, I just saw him.” The tears welled again.

My radar went on high alert. He had seen Peter? Of course, the real question was, when? Followed closely by, had Peter been alive at that point? “Were you close?”

“Yes. No. Yes.” Andrew looked confused. “Used to be, then I did something stupid and we weren’t, but then we were again. Or coulda been, maybe.”

I sat back in my chair, studying the sodden lump of a man across the table. A quirk of fate had handed me the person I most wanted to talk to at this moment—but he was almost incoherent. I contemplated my choices. A, I could take him back to wherever he was staying and let him sleep off his drunk. B, I could call Matt and tell him I had found Andrew Foster and would he please come collect him. C, I could try to wheedle Andrew’s secrets out of him here in this bar, assuming he stayed conscious. D, I could take him back to my place, pour a lot of coffee down his throat, and hope he sobered up enough to be coherent, and then talk to him. Personally I liked Option D, and then I could call Matt from my place. I carefully ignored the fact that I might be inviting a killer into my home. Still, in his current state I figured I could outrun him.

“Hey, Andrew, why don’t we go someplace quieter so we can talk?”

Andrew peered owlishly at me. “Talk?”

“About Peter.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Where?”

“I live just a couple of blocks from here. We can walk. Okay?”

“Sure.” I waved at the waitress, then told her to give me my food to go—not without a pang of regret, since I didn’t know when I’d get to eat it.

Boy, Andrew sure was malleable. If ever he had been a titan of the computer industry, you wouldn’t know it now. I had to wonder: Had he really cared that much for Peter? Was he that broken up by his death? Or was he responsible for it? Only one way to find out: Sober him up and see what he had to say.

When the waitress arrived with my dinner, carefully packaged in a paper bag, I settled up with her and then hauled Andrew out of his seat. He felt like a large wad of dough, heavy and boneless. “Up we go.”

Once he found his feet again, he came along amiably enough. We made it out of the bar and halfway down the block before he started heaving. I guided him toward the curb and waited patiently while he emptied his stomach. It took a while, but when he finally straightened up he seemed more in control.

He looked at me as though he hadn’t seen me before. “Where we going?”

“My home. Not far now.”

We made the rest of the trip without incident, although I thought I’d lost him when he saw the stairs to my place. But he managed, and stood on the landing, swaying only slightly, as I fumbled my key into the lock. Fred and Gloria rushed to greet me, then stopped dead at the sight of Andrew. Fred emitted a low growl. Andrew stared at them and said, intelligently, “Dogs.”

“Yes, dogs.” I pulled him inside, shutting the door behind us. “It’s okay, guys. He’s with me,” I said to the pups. They backed off a couple of feet but kept an eye on my visitor.

I dragged Andrew by the arm over to my table and all but shoved him into a chair. “Sit. I’m going to make some coffee.” At least I could keep an eye on him while I did that. The dogs came closer and sat flanking him, watching his every move.

By the time the coffee was ready, Andrew looked markedly better. At least his eyes were focusing now. When I put a mug of coffee in front of him, he looked up at me and said, “Who are you?”

I sat down with my own mug. “I’m Emmeline Dowell. I’m a glassmaker, and my shop and studio are downstairs. I was doing some work for Peter Ferguson.”

Andrew’s processing time was significantly shorter now. “Okay. Why’d you bring me here?”

“Because somebody killed Peter and I want to know who. I’m the one who found his body.”

Andrew stared at me, his expression clouded. If he was the killer, what would he do now? Leap across the table and strangle me? If he wasn’t, I really wanted to hear when he’d last seen Peter, although in his current state I wasn’t sure he could remember his own name, much less something that had happened a few days ago. When he didn’t say anything at all, I prompted him. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“What’s today?”

“Sunday.”