Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [112]
“How’s the book?” Mrs. Columbo asked.
“You haven’t read it, have you?” Joe asked. “You know how I hate when you tell me how things end.”
“No,” she said, laughing. “I haven’t read it.”
“It’s pretty good,” he told her. “In fact, I think with this one, even you would have a hard time guessing the ending.”
“What’s the plot?” she asked, folding her clothes neatly into the bag.
“People are found dead at a big research hospital,” Joe said, sitting up in the bed. “No one can figure it. They come in for a simple operation. They come out a corpse.”
“It’s probably somebody who works for the hospital,” Mrs. Columbo said with a shrug. “What kind of research do they do?”
“Mary, I’m begging you.” Joe clasped his hands together. “Let me have just this one book. Let me get to the end and not know.”
“What kind of research?” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Cancer,” Joe said, resigned to his fate.
“The head administrator,” Mrs. Columbo said. “Tell me about him.”
“Straightforward and honest,” Joe said. “Cares about the hospital and the people who work there. You’re off base if you think it’s him.”
“Was the administrator a surgeon before he quit to run the hospital?” Mrs. Columbo asked.
“I suppose,” Joe said. “I have to go back and double-check.”
“That’s your man,” Mrs. Columbo said, standing and walking over toward a bureau. “And your killer.”
Joe stared at his wife, trying to fight the temptation to pick up the book. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and went to the last chapter.
“I’m gonna grab a shower,” Mrs. Columbo said. “Let me know how it turns out.”
She came out ten minutes later wearing a white terry-cloth robe and combing her wet hair straight back. Joe was leaning against a wall on the far side of the bedroom.
“So?” she said.
“I’m giving up mysteries,” Joe said. “That’s my last one. From now on, it’s romance novels for me.”
“Like those endings are hard to guess,” Mrs. Columbo said.
“Remember when I took you to see Chinatown?” Joe asked. “Halfway through, you knew John Huston was her husband, her brother, her uncle, whatever the hell he was to her. You knew.”
“Honey, it’s my job to know,” Mrs. Columbo said, walking over and stroking his face. “Remember?”
“It was your job, Mary,” Joe said quietly.
“Oh, Joe, let’s not have this conversation again, please. I’ve got too much on my mind right now. If it’s still bothering you, we’ll talk about it when I get back.”
“We were going to take Frankie up to Maine the year you got wounded,” Joe said almost wistfully. “We’d made the reservations and everything. Now here you are, going up all by yourself.”
Mrs. Columbo stood frozen in her place. Her eyes narrowing in on her husband. “Joe,” she said slowly, “who told you I was going to Maine?”
“I don’t know,” Joe was suddenly flustered. “You must have mentioned it earlier.”
“Who told you, Joe?” Mrs. Columbo held both her place and her gaze. “Who told you about Maine?”
“Does it matter?” he asked.
Mrs. Columbo’s upper body shook slightly, her face was flushed, and her eyes were lit by rage. “It matters a great deal. Do you know what flight I’m on too?”
“I want it to stop, Mary,” Joe said, ignoring the question. “It’s too dangerous. You’re going to end up getting yourself killed.”
Mrs. Columbo sat on the edge of the bed. She was trying to think like a homicide detective, but the emotional rush was too strong. “Do you know what you did, Joe?” Mrs. Columbo asked. “Do you have any idea?”
Joe came over to her side and knelt down before her. “I was trying to save the woman I love,” he said. “That’s all I did.”
Mrs. Columbo reached down and held his face with her hands. “But you didn’t,” she whispered. “You put us all at risk.”
“No one’s at risk if you stop it now.”
She shook her head.
“There’s too many out there against you,” he said. “You can’t beat them.”
“Who did you go see?” Mrs. Columbo asked. There were tears in her eyes now. “Who told you about us?”
“Deputy Inspector Lavetti,” Joe said after a long