Talking to her, I realized, was probably unwise. Hang up and call Edwin, I thought. I really might need a lawyer. Was my confrontation with Theo about to make me into a murder suspect? After all, I’d been up there, too, to his trailer. I’d found the body. Was Stryker thinking I had something to do with his murder?
But if she considered me a suspect, would she be interviewing me over the phone? Wouldn’t there have been a police car parked out front, waiting for my return?
And of course, they did have Doug in custody.
“So is that what the apology’s about?” I asked. “The fire?”
“Hard to say. At the top of the page is your name, and under that some words. Let me read you what he wrote. Keep in mind, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. Just phrases jotted down in very messy handwriting. And he wasn’t much of a speller, either. Let’s see here… Okay. ‘Mr. Garber, you judged me, not fair’ and ‘sorry about Wilson.’ Who’s Wilson?”
“It was the Wilson house that burned down.”
“Okay. Then, ‘just trying to make a living’ and ‘thought parts up to’ and it looks like c, o, maybe a b, and-”
“Probably ‘code.’ The parts were up to code, he thought.”
“And ‘can’t cover it up anymore.’ Does that make sense?”
“No,” I said.
“And then the last thing scribbled down is ‘sorry about your wife.’ Why would Theo Stamos be sorry about your wife, Mr. Garber?”
I felt chilled. “Is there anything else?”
“That’s it. What’s he got to be sorry for where your wife is concerned? Is she there? Would you be able to put her on?”
“My wife’s dead.” I heard the bleakness in my voice.
“Oh,” said Stryker. “When did she pass away?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“That recently.”
“Yes.”
“Had she been ill?”
“No. Her car got hit in a traffic accident. She was killed.”
I could sense her interest growing. “Was Mr. Stamos at fault in that accident? Would that be why he was sorry?”
“I don’t know why he would say that. He wasn’t driving the other car.”
“So he wasn’t involved in the accident?”
“No… no,” I said.
“You seemed to hesitate there.”
“No,” I repeated. What the hell did it mean? Why had Theo written that? Of course, plenty of people had said something along those lines to me in the past weeks. Sorry about Sheila. But it was out of context here. It didn’t make sense.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “Now I have a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Are you sure about Doug? Do you really think he killed Theo?”
“We charged him, Mr. Garber. There’s your answer.”
“What about the gun you found in the car? I’ll bet, even if it’s the gun that killed Theo, that Doug’s fingerprints aren’t on it.”
A pause. “What makes you say that?”
“I haven’t been there for Doug lately. But I am now. I don’t think he did it. He hasn’t got it in him to kill somebody.”
“Then who did?” she asked. When I couldn’t think of an answer, she sighed. Then she said, “Well, if you come to some conclusion, give me a call.”
There was a banging on the front door.
“Betsy,” I said, in surprise, as I opened it.
She stood there on the porch, a hand on one hip, looking like she wanted to punch my lights out. There was a car idling at the curb, her mother behind the wheel.
“I came for Doug’s truck,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“The police got my car, they took it to some crime lab or something, and I need wheels. I want Doug’s truck.”
“Come by tomorrow,” I told her. “When I’m at the office.”
“I got a set of keys for his truck, but I don’t have a key for the gate. Give me that and I can go get it.”
“Betsy, I’m not giving you the keys to anything. Your mother can drive you around until tomorrow.”
“If you don’t trust me and think I’m going to run off with all your precious little power tools, then come on down and unlock the place so I can get the truck. Won’t take five minutes.”
“Tomorrow,” I repeated. “It’s been a long day and I have things I have to do.”
“Oh, really,” she jeered, hands on both hips now. “It’s been a bad day for you. First I lose my home, and the day after that my husband gets arrested for murder. But you’ve had a bad day.”
I sighed. “You want to come in?”
She weighed the offer, then, without saying anything, stepped into the house.
“Tell me how Doug is,” I said.
“How he is? How the fuck do you think he would be? He’s in jail.”
“Betsy, I’m really asking here. How is he?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.”
“They won’t let you see him?”
She didn’t like the question, looked off to the side. “I haven’t exactly had a chance. But they’ve probably got him locked up where I couldn’t see him anyway.” She looked, briefly, at her hands, which appeared to be trembling ever so slightly. “God, I’m a nervous wreck.” She shoved her hands into the front pockets of her skintight jeans.
“Have you got him a lawyer?”
She laughed. “A lawyer? Are you kidding me? How the hell am I supposed to afford a lawyer?”
“Can’t you get a court-appointed one?”
“Yeah, right. And how good would one of those be?”
I thought about the money between the studs in my study. I could hire a lawyer for Doug with that.
“Besides,” Betsy added, “I’ve had stuff to do.”
“Getting the truck? That’s your number one priority?”
