Palindrome (12 page)

"Sure," she said, "and once was enough; too much sand." She looked up at him. Was she going to tumble into the sack with him, just like that?

He looked at her carefully. "Am I pushing you?" She thought about that for a moment, just for a moment.

What did she really want? She took a deep breath. "A bed is better than a beach. How about your place?"

"It better be yours," he said.

They had made love for an hour that morning before Liz went into the kitchen and found the note from Germaine.

CHAPTER 17

When she turned around he was gone. She had crossed the room to pick up a book; he had been staring out the window. She was becoming accustomed to this trait of his, and she thought she even liked it. If he could come and go as he pleased, so could she. She thought of him running, half-naked, through the woods, to some warren, some hideaway where he curled up and slept until he was hungry. He was a wild animal, and she liked him that way; he seemed disinclined to make any civilized demands upon her—fidelity, fixed abode, fashion. Baker, on the other hand, had demanded all those things, even when their marriage was at its worst.

Keir seemed to have no expectations of her at all, except to make love when he wanted her, and, so far, she was willing to meet that one. She remembered Germaine's note: "I need to talk to you." By "need" did she mean 'I want"? Did "talk to you" mean she wanted to pour out her heart about some problem? No, Liz thought, finally, it was a southern sentence; it meant: I have important information to impart. God, she was getting analytical, and just when she felt most free from the need to analyze. She had money, time, and work to do. She was safe, there was breakfast in her belly, and she had been fucked to a pleasant soreness, to put it crudely, and she felt crude, elemental. Everything in her life had been reduced to the essential; there was no worry, no plan outside purposeful work and the satisfaction of appetites. She glowed with the simplicity of it all. In this context, Germaine's information could not be important. Still, her curiosity got the better of her. She dressed and drove to the inn. She passed through the front gate, and as she approached the house there was a clatter from above, and a helicopter sat down on the wide front lawn. As the rotors slowed, Germaine and Ron appeared on the front porch and watched. Three men spilled from the machine, which was marked as belonging to the National Park Service. One of the men was dressed in the summer uniform of a ranger; the others wore suits; one carried a briefcase. Liz parked the Jeep and met Germaine at the bottom of the inn's front steps as the chopper's turbine wound down. "It's Grandpapa's lawyer," she said, anticipating Liz's question. "Ward Cheatham. Cheatham's his name, cheat 'em's his game," she muttered. "The other guy's our congressman; I can't remember his name. I don't know who the Smoky is." She grabbed Liz's arm. "You stay right here; I've got to talk to you." Germaine walked out to meet the men, shook their hands, exchanged a few words, then said something to Ron. The boy led the others to the inn's van, and they drove away. Germaine returned and led Liz up the steps to the broad front porch and one of the large swings. "What was that all about?" Liz asked, as they sat down. "Who knows? Grandpapa asked me to call Cheatham for him; my guess is, he wants to make a will. I don't know why the hell he brought the feds along. Ron's driving them to Dungeness." Germaine settled herself and looked Liz in the eye. "Bad news, buddy," she said. She reached over to the table alongside the swing and picked up a newspaper. "I'll tell you flat out, then you can read the details, and you'll know as much as I do." She cleared her throat, as if looking for an excuse not to talk. "Ray and Eleanor Ferguson are both dead—night before last, I think."

Liz felt as if she had been struck hard in the chest. Without speaking she reached for the newspaper. ATLANTA PUBLISHER AND WIFE IN APPARENT MURDER/SUICIDE The bodies of Raymond E. Ferguson, head of his own publishing house, Buckhead Press, and his wife, Eleanor, were found in their home by a cleaning lady early yesterday. Mrs. Ferguson had been shot, and her husband hanged. A federal form found in Mr. Ferguson's desk indicated that he had purchased a shotgun in 1982, and the weapon was found near Mrs. Ferguson's body. A source in the Atlanta Police Department theorized that the Fergusons had quarreled, and that, in a rage, Mr. Ferguson had turned the shotgun on his wife. He then, apparently, went next door and took a rope from a child's swing and hanged himself from a beam in his study. Neighbors said the couple had lived quietly in the Brookwood Hills house for more than twenty years and were well-liked. "No one can believe that this has happened," said their next-door neighbor, Mrs. James Thready. "They were tremendously kind people, and it is impossible for me to believe that they weren't kind to each other as well." Homicide Detective Sergeant Lee Williams, in charge of the case, said that there would be no official statement until a thorough investigation had been conducted. Liz began to cry.

Germaine gathered her to her breast and stroked her head. "You go right ahead, sugar; you're entitled." Liz wept for Ray and for the circumstances. She wept out of anger, and, as she did, a cold fear came to her, and she suddenly stopped crying.

"What?" Germaine asked.

"I have to use your telephone," Liz said, sniffling.

"Of course, Liz, go right ahead." Liz took the newspaper and walked downstairs to Germaine's office. When Al Schaefer had died she had put it down I to an accident, but now the only other person she had been close to since she had been released from the hospital was dead, too. It could be a coincidence, of course, but she had to know. She dialed Atlanta information and got the number of the Homicide Bureau of the Atlanta Police Department. It took only a moment to be connected to Detective Sergeant Lee Williams.

"Sergeant Williams," he said, and the voice was rich and deep, with African-American intonation.

"Sergeant, my name is Elizabeth Barwick; I'm calling about the murder of Raymond Ferguson and his wife."

"Murder? Do you know something I don't, Ms. Barwick?"

"I think they were murdered."

"First things first," Williams said. "May I have your address and phone number, please?"

"I'm outside Atlanta, and I don't have a phone. Please just listen to me."

"Just a minute, please," he said. He covered the phone with his hand and spoke to somebody else.

"All right, go ahead, tell me everything." There was an electronic beep on the line.

"I believe the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson may be connected to the death of Al Schaefer, a couple of weeks ago."

"Schaefer, the lawyer? Was he acquainted with the Fergusons?"

"He met Ray through me. They didn't know each other well."

"So why do you think their deaths were connected?" Liz's resolve began to weaken. She was at the point of committing herself to accusation, now, and she knew that if she did, there would be no turning back. The beep sounded again;

Williams was obviously recording her. She took a deep breath. "They ere both connected with me. I think my ex-husband may have killed them both."

"What is your ex-husband's name?"

"Baker Ramsey." There, it was out. There was a brief silence.

"The running back for the Bobcats?"

"That's right."

The detective took a deep breath. "Could you spell your name for me, please?" She did so. "And you were married to Bake Ramsey?"

"Yes. Our divorce became final less than a month ago. Al Schaefer was my lawyer; Ray Ferguson was my publisher. He published a book of my photographs, and I've been working on another one for him."

"And why do you think Ramsey would want to kill both these men—and Ferguson's wife, too?"

"Sergeant, can I just begin at the beginning?"

"Go ahead, I've got plenty of time."

Liz began with the night Baker Ramsey nearly killed her, and brought the policeman up to date.

"I see," Williams said finally. "You've been the victim of domestic violence at the hands of Ramsey, but why would he want to kill Schaefer and the Fergusons?"

"I know it isn't rational," she said, exasperated, "but Baker is completely crazy. He's stoked up on all sorts of steroids; he's capable of anything. Look, he was in Los Angeles the night Al Schaefer drowned; the Bobcats were playing the Rams the following day. Why don't you just check on his whereabouts on the night the Fergusons died. I'll give you odds he was in Atlanta."

"So were half a million other people, Ms. Barwick, but I'll look into this, I promise. Now how can I get in touch with you?"

"You can't."

"Be reasonable, Ms. Barwick. If you really believe Ramsey did this, and you really want to help me, then I've got to be able to get in touch with you."

"You know everything I know; there's nothing else I can tell you. I can call you back later, if you like. I have to borrow a phone."

Williams sighed. "All right, call me back this time tomorrow, and we'll see where we are then."

"All right. And, Sergeant?"

"Yes?"

"It is very important that Baker Ramsey not know that I've spoken to you, I hope you can understand that. He's already come close to killing me once, and I don't want him any madder at me than he already is."

"I understand, Ms. Barwick. I won't tell him I've spoken to you."

"Thank you. I'll call you tomorrow."

Williams gave her another phone number. "That's my cellular phone; if I'm out of the office, you can reach me at that number." Liz wrote down the number, then hung up and put her head down on Germaine's desk. She hoped she hadn't sounded hysterical; she knew the whole business must sound improbable to the detective, but she knew in her bones that Baker had done this, even if she couldn't explain to herself exactly why.

CHAPTER 18

Detective Sergeant Lee Williams knew were Baker Ramsey lived, someone had pointed out the house to him once. He was nearly to the house when he heard a report on a radio sports show. "Bake Ramsey, the Bobcats' star running back, came through his knee surgery in fine form and will be watching team practice from the stands at Bobcat Farm this afternoon." Williams swung the car around and headed north. Bobcat Farm was the team's headquarters, a large spread near the little town of Roswell, north of the city. Williams was a Bobcats fan, and he was excited about a visit to a place that rigorously excluded the public.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled up to the gate of Bobcat Farm and showed his badge to the guard. "Atlanta PD. I want to see Bake Ramsey." The guard asked him to wait while he made a telephone call, then came back to the car. "Drive straight up the road to the main building. Mr. Smith, the public relations director, will meet you there."

Williams drove slowly up the drive, taking in the grounds. In the distance, he could see a scrimmage taking place on the practice field. The main building was a faux southern mansion, and a middle-aged man wearing a Bobcats polo shirt was waiting for him on the front steps. "Hi, I'm Bob Smith," the man said as Williams got out of his car.

"Detective Sergeant Lee Williams, Atlanta PD," he replied, careful to avoid mention of the Homicide Bureau.

"I understand you want to see Bake Ramsey. Can you tell me what it's about?"

"Just some routine questions," Williams replied. "I hope he may be able to help me with some information."

"Is this to do with an active investigation?" Smith asked, standing his ground. "Bake can't be disturbed right now. He's learning some new plays."

"It's official police business," Williams said, "and I can wait until he's finished. I've got all day." Smith still did not move.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," he said.

"Mr. Smith," Williams said in a flat voice. "I'm going to talk with Mr. Ramsey today. Now, I can do it here and now, or I can radio for a warrant, arrest Ramsey, and talk to him downtown. What's it going to be?"

"It's as serious as that?" Smith asked, looking worried.

"It may not be serious at all, I don't know, and I won't know until I've talked to Ramsey himself. Now, I know it's your job to protect the players, but the best thing you can do to protect Ramsey is to get me to him right now." Smith hesitated only a moment.

"Come with me, please." He led the way through the front doors of the mansion, past a reception desk, into a room that might have been the library of an antebellum house. "Please wait here, and I'll ask Bake to join us. Can I get you a drink?"

"No, thanks." Smith left the room, and Williams had a look around. All the books on the shelves were about football, and one wall was filled with leather-bound Bobcats playbooks.

Williams was a little nervous about speaking to the Bobcats' star. Ten minutes passed, then Smith returned. Bake Ramsey was right behind him, on crutches. He was wearing shorts and his player's jersey, and his left knee was wrapped in a huge bandage. Smith made the introductions and sat down. "I'd like to see Mr. Ramsey alone," Williams said to him.

"Against team policy, I'm afraid," Smith replied firmly. "No interviews of players at Bobcat Farm without a PR man on hand."

"I'm happy to have Bob hear what we say to each other," Ramsey said, speaking for the first time. He seemed cool, relaxed, unworried.

"As you wish," Williams said, sitting down. "Mr. Ramsey—"

"Call me Bake; everybody does."

Ramsey smiled at him. "Thanks, I'm Lee," Williams replied, smiling himself. He was happy to keep it informal; he didn't take out his notebook. "Bake, you were in Los Angeles for the opener with the Rams, weren't you?"

"Right. That's where I hurt my knee."

"The game was on Sunday?"

"Right again."

"When did you arrive in Los Angeles?"

"On Friday afternoon."

"Do you remember what you did on Saturday night?"

"Sure, I had dinner in my room and went to bed early."

"Were you alone?"

Ramsey grinned. "No, there was a young lady with me. She stayed the night."

"May I ask her name?"

"Brenda. I never got her last name. We met in a bar on Friday evening and, well, we got along."