She sat up and faced him. “Do you?”
“Sure. Well, not exactly a nightmare.”
“What then?”
He lay back, his eyes staring up. “Something very strange happened to me when I was about ten years old.”
“What?”
Stan continued to gaze at the ceiling. He wondered why he was about to tell Gloria a secret he had kept locked within himself for nearly thirty years—especially when he had just convinced himself that Gloria didn’t mean a mule’s load of shit to him. And he had sworn to himself that he would never tell another soul this story. Never. But David was dead now. So was his mother. How could the truth hurt him anymore? He lowered his eyes toward her and just stared for a long moment. “I saw my father being murdered.”
Gloria gasped. “But . . . but I thought David said he—”
“Committed suicide? I know. That’s what everyone thought. But he didn’t. Somebody shot my father in the head and then put the gun in his hand to make it look like a suicide.”
Gloria’s face turned white. “But . . . I don’t understand. How did you get away?”
“Simple,” Stan continued. “No one saw me. I was hiding behind the couch. You see, I used to play in my dad’s office all the time, even though it drove him crazy. He used to get so pissed off when I sneaked in there and messed up all his important papers with my little games. So when I heard him coming back early, I quickly hid behind the couch. But I saw the whole thing. I saw the gun pressed against my dad’s temple. I saw the blood shoot out from his head. I’ll never forget that sight, Gloria. Never.”
“But why didn’t you tell anybody?” she asked.
Stan shrugged. “Good question. I don’t know really. At first, I was in shock. And then I was so scared.”
“Scared?”
“Of the killer. I was afraid the killer was going to come after me, too. And one other thing.”
“Yes?”
“I think the police knew my father hadn’t committed suicide.”
“But why—?”
“Because of pressure from the college board. You see, my father taught at Brinlen College—”
“Brinlen? That’s near where we lived in Chicago.”
“It’s in the Chicago suburbs,” Stan agreed. “Anyway, Brinlen was one of those elite schools for the preppie upper class. A suicide would be a bad enough scandal for the school, but a murder? That would have been devastating to the college’s haughty image.”
Gloria sat back. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything,” he replied. “And please don’t tell another soul.”
“Never,” she promised. “Stan, can I ask one more question?”
“Sure,” he said softly.
She moved her fingers across his hair in long, soothing strokes. “Did you recognize the killer? I mean, was it somebody you knew?”
“No,” he replied, “but I still remember the face.” Stan closed his eyes. Oh yes, he remembered the face, that twisted expression of pain that still haunted his dreams. He was sure he would never see that face again.
He was wrong.
“LET me get this straight,” began the taller of the two police officers who had responded to Laura’s call. He was ultrathin, almost emaciated, with a bobbing Adam’s apple. He strongly resembled Ichabod Crane. “You were out of town for a couple of days, correct?”
“Yes,” Laura replied.
“You flew back home and took a taxi to your apartment. You headed up the elevator, got out, walked to your door—Was the door locked?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, door locked,” he repeated, writing in a small pad. “Where were you coming from, Mrs. Baskin?”
“What difference does that make?”
“Well, it’s—”
A voice interrupted him. “I’ll handle this, Sleepy.”
The tall officer nicknamed Sleepy (short for Sleepy Hollow) spun toward the voice. “Hey, T.C.! How’s it going?”
“Not bad, Sleepy,” T.C. answered. “What’s going on here?”
“Break-in,” Sleepy said.
“You mind if I take over?”
Sleepy shrugged. “All yours. Joe’s in the other room. We checked around. No fingerprints. It’s kinda weird, T.C. Some guy breaks in, turns on the VCR—”
“Thanks, Sleepy. I’ll take it from here.” T.C. glanced quickly at Laura. She was staring back with fury in her eyes.
“Suit yourself,” Sleepy said. “Joe,” he shouted, “let’s go.”
“Huh?” Joe called back.
“T.C.’s here. He feels like taking over.”
Joe came out from the bedroom and greeted T.C. He and Sleepy quickly left, closing the door behind them and leaving Laura and T.C. alone in the apartment. Neither spoke. T.C. stood and stared at the closed door; Laura kept her eyes on him. After some time had passed, T.C. swung his line of vision toward her.
“You don’t trust me anymore, do you, Laura?”
Laura tried to hide her panic. “Should I?”
“I wish you had, Laura,” he said. “I wish you did.” He took a cigar out of his shirt pocket. “Do you mind?”
She shook her head.
He lit the stogie and puffed. “What happened here?” “My house was broken into.”
“And?”
“And that’s all.”
T.C. shook his head. “Laura, I’m going to find out anyway. Wouldn’t it be easier if you just told me?”
She continued to study his face. Did you kill my husband, T.C? Were you somehow involved in his death? How could you—you whom he trusted and loved so? “I was away for a few days. When I came home, the VCR was playing the last game David played in.”
“The tape was still on?”
“Yes.”
“Then whoever broke in timed the whole thing. He knew when you were coming home.”
“Sounds logical,” Laura agreed.
“Who knew your schedule?”
“Nobody.”
“Are you sure?”
“Just Serita.”
“Well, we can rule out her. Where were you anyhow?”
“On business.”
T.C. looked at her for a long moment. “You really don’t trust me, do you, Laura?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“Do you honestly believe I would do something to hurt David?”