Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [71]
“Me talk to Cole?”
“No.” Peters laughed. “Not you. I will.”
“And what am I supposed to do while you do that?”
“Go back over every shred of information we have so far to see if you can find anything new.”
We had reached the Hillclimb, a steep flight of stairs that leads from the waterfront up through the Public Market and back into the heart of the city. I felt beaten, defeated. I had turned on her, given tacit approval to Peters to go ahead and scrutinize Anne’s past. Suddenly I was more than a little afraid of what he might find there.
We climbed the stairs without speaking. The market was jammed with vegetable and fish merchants setting out their wares. The boisterous activity was totally at odds with how I felt. We came out of the market at First and Pike. Peters turned right and started back toward the Public Safety Building.
I stopped. “I’m going to go talk to her,” I called after him.
Peters came back. “Why?”
“I have to. I have to give her a chance to tell me. I want to hear it from her.”
“Suit yourself,” Peters said with a shrug.
I didn’t go directly back to the Royal Crest. Peters’ questions hadn’t fallen on deaf ears. Why hadn’t she told me? More to the point, what had she told me? Very little, I decided. She had said she had been married once, but she hadn’t mentioned her husband’s profession or his subsequent suicide. That’s not surprising. Suicide is something that hangs around forever, dropping load after load of guilt on the living.
Anne had divulged little of her family background, other than bits and pieces about Patty. And she certainly hadn’t mentioned being institutionalized; but then, that’s hardly something you go around advertising. I know I wouldn’t.
Come to think of it, there was a lot I hadn’t told her, either, gory details in the life and times of J. P. Beaumont. I had touched briefly on my relationship with Karen, but that was all. It was as if Anne and I had an unspoken agreement not to let the past taint our present or our future. On the one hand, I could rationalize and justify her not telling me her life story. On the other hand, I was angry about it.
I walked for a long time, trying to think what I would say to her. There wasn’t the smallest part of me that accepted the idea she might have been responsible for Angela Barstogi’s death. I finally turned my steps homeward. I stopped and bought a P.I. from a vending machine on the corner. I remembered her reaction when I had asked her about Patty. I had an obligation to be there when she read the article. After all, it was because of me that she was drawing Maxwell Cole’s fire.
The halls in high-rises are less well soundproofed than the apartments. As I approached my door, I could hear Anne’s voice from inside the unit. That surprised me because I expected her to be there alone. I paused before fitting my key in the lock. Listening through the door, I could hear she was on the telephone, that she was finishing a conversation. I turned my key in the lock and pushed the door open.
I expected to find her on the couch next to the phone. Instead, she was halfway across the living room, eyes frantic, face ashen. She looked at my face blankly, with no sign of recognition. All I could think was that she had laid hands on the article before I got there.
I moved across the room quickly and grasped her by the shoulders. She was shaking, quivering all over like someone chilled to the bone. “Anne, Anne. What’s wrong? Are you all right?”
For a long second we stood there like that, with me holding her. I don’t think my words registered at all. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I came to check on you. I was afraid you’d read it by yourself. Have you read it?” She was struggling, trying to escape my grasp. Her eyes stared blindly into mine. She didn’t answer.
“Who was that on the phone?” I demanded. “Who were you talking to?”
My words finally