Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [146]
“So when he took Charlotte to the waterfall, he was going to reenact that event in his ‘past life'?”
“Somethin’ like that, yeah—by that time he was so whacked who knows what was goin’ through his head?”
“How is Charlotte doing?” Lee asked.
“She’s out at Rikers. How do you think someone like her would be at a place like that?”
Lee looked down at the round oak table, heavily scarred by initials carved into its surface by over a century and a half of patrons.
“She shouldn’t have shot him,” he said. What he didn’t say was that if Caleb had lived, it would have been a chance to study him, leading to potentially valuable insights into his mind and motives.
Butts waved a hand dismissively. “She’ll get off easy. I can’t imagine a jury alive that wouldn’t have sympathy for her after what happened.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“How’s Diesel—he okay?”
“He’s back at work already. I think he’s enjoying the fuss everyone’s making over him—big hero, you know, taking a bullet and all that.”
Butts looked down and pushed his beer mug away. “Yeah, about that. Look, I’m sorry—”
“Don’t say another word about it. It’s a tough hike for anyone, and you just happened to get a stitch in your side. It could happen to anybody.”
“Well, it happened to me, so I’m hittin’ the gym from now on. I’m tellin’ you, Doc, I’m a new man—you just wait and see!”
Lee smiled. “Okay. I’ll wait and see.”
“How ‘bout you? How’re you doin'?”
“Oh, fine. I’m a little beat up, but I’ll live.”
“Yeah.” Butts paused and looked out the window at the pedestrians striding along East Seventh Street, so full of purpose and energy. “Any follow-up on the phone calls—the ones about the dress?”
“No. I don’t know who was making them. It wasn’t McNamara. Chuck still has my line tapped, of course.”
“How about … have you talked to … her?”
“No. I’m going to call her.”
“Okay,” Butts said. “Be sure you do. You two got some-thin', I’m tellin’ you. You be sure to call her.”
Lee nodded and took another swig of beer. It slid down his throat, cold and bitter, rich with the promise of the serenity of forgetfulness. Gazing at the amber liquid, he longed to sink into its River Lethe for a long, deep sleep.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Barefoot, Lee padded into the kitchen and stared at the phone hanging on the wall next to the refrigerator. It was the old-fashioned kind—the receiver was attached to the phone with a cord—but he liked it. It was there when he moved into the apartment, and he liked its cherry-red color. It seemed to be waiting patiently for him to make up his mind.
He circled the room like a bird dog on a scent three times before finally picking up the receiver from its cradle. He dialed her number, hung up before the first ring, then dialed again. He almost hung up again, but forced himself to wait for at least three rings. He prayed he would get her answering machine, but she picked up after the third ring.
“Hi,” he said, trying to sound as casual as possible. Don’t want too much, don’t be too needy.
“Hi.”
He wondered if Kathy felt as neutral as she sounded, or if she was deliberately flattening her voice. “How are you?”
“I’m doing okay. How about you? I hear you got a little beat up.”
Was she really okay? Or was she hiding her desperate need for him with a deliberately dispassionate tone, feeling him out before committing to anything herself?
“I’m okay.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. He took a deep breath, and felt a sharp stab from his injured ribs. Okay, fine—tell her the truth. “I miss you.”
Time stretched out like pulled taffy in the pause that followed.
“Congratulations on solving the case.”
Congratulations. Could she sound any more impersonal? But all he said was, “Thanks.”
Another pause. He twisted the phone cord around his finger and shifted his weight to the other foot. He regretted using the kitchen phone rather than the portable in the living room. All he wanted to do was flee, rather than stand here and wait for her next response.
“I miss you too, you know.”
Caught off guard, he wasn’t sure how to answer.