"It's in the book," Alice said, and smiled up sweetly at Peaches.
Peaches tried to think of a scathing midget remark, but nothing came to mind.
She turned and started for the door.
"I'll call you," Parker whispered, and ran out after her.
The house was a white clapboard building with a white picket fence around it. A matching white clapboard garage stood some twenty feet from the main structure. Both buildings were on a street with only three other houses on it, not too far from the turnpike. It was two minutes past midnight when they reached the house. The first day of November. The beginning of the Celtic winter. As if in accordance, the weather had turned very cold. As they pulled into the driveway, Brown remarked that all they needed was snow, the turnpike would be backed up all the way to Siberia.
There were no lights burning on the ground floor of the house. Two lighted windows showed on the second story. The men were inappropriately dressed for the sudden cold. Their breaths plumed from their mouths as they walked to the front door. Hawes rang the doorbell.
"Probably getting ready for bed," he said.
"You wish," Brown said.
They waited.
"Give it another shot," Brown said.
Hawes hit the bell button again.
Lights snapped on downstairs.
"Who is it?"
Marie's voice, just inside the door. A trifle alarmed. Well, sure, midnight already.
"It's Detective Hawes," he said.
"Oh."
"Sorry to bother you so late."
"No, that's all… just a minute, please."
She fumbled with the lock, and then opened the door. She
"Have you found him?" she asked at once.
Referring to Jimmy Brayne, of course.
"No, ma'am, not yet," Brown said. "Okay for us to come in?"
"Yes, please," she said, "excuse me," and stepped back to let them in.
Small entryway, a sense of near-shabbiness. Worn carpeting, scarred and rickety piece of furniture under a flaking mirror.
"I thought… when you told me who you were… I thought you'd found Jimmy," she said.
"Not yet, Mrs. Sebastiani," Hawes said. "In fact, the reason we came out here…"
"Come in," she said, "we don't have to stand here in the hall."
She backed off several paces, reached beyond the door jamb for a light switch. A floor lamp came on in the living room. Musty drapes, a faded rug, a thrift-shop sofa and two upholstered armchairs, an old upright piano on the far wall. Same sense of down-at-the-heels existence.
"Would you like some coffee or anything?" she asked.
"I could use a cup," Brown said.
"I'll put some up," she said, and walked back through the hall and through a doorway into the kitchen.
The detectives looked around the living room.
Framed photographs on the piano, Sebastian the Great doing his act hither and yon. Soiled antimacassars on the upholstered pieces. Brown ran his finger over the surface of an end table. Dust. Hawes poked his forefinger into the soil of a potted plant. Dry. The continuing sense of a house too run down to care about—or a house in neglect because it would soon be abandoned.
She was back.
"Take a few minutes to boil," she said.
"Who plays piano?" Hawes asked.
"Frank did. A little."
She'd grown used to the past tense.
Mrs. Sebastiani," Brown said, "we were wondering if we could take a look at Brayne's room."
"Jimmy's room?" she said. She seemed a bit flustered by their presence, but that could have been normal, two cops showing on her doorstep at midnight.
"See if there's anything up there might give us a lead," Brown said, watching her.
"I'll have to find a spare key someplace," she said. "Jimmy had his own key, he came and went as he pleased."
She stood stock still in the entrance door to the living room, a thoughtful look on her face. Hawes wondered what she was thinking, face all screwed up like that. Was she wondering whether it was safe to show them that room? Or was she merely trying to remember where the spare key was?
"I'm trying to think where Frank might have put it," she said.
A grandfather clock on the far side of the room began tolling the hour, eight minutes late.
One… two…
They listened to the heavy bonging.
Nine… ten… eleven… twelve.
"Midnight already," she said, and sighed.
"Your clock's slow," Brown said.
"Let me check the drawer in the kitchen," she said. "Frank used to put a lot of junk in that drawer."
Past tense again.
They followed her into the kitchen. Dirty dishes, pots, and pans stacked in the sink. The door of the refrigerator smudged with handprints. Telephone on the wall near it. Small enamel-topped table, two chairs. Worn linoleum. Only a shade on the single window over the sink. On the stove, the kettle began whistling.
"Help yourselves," she said. "There's cups there, and a jar of instant."
