Worth the risk. Of course, she needed to be prepared. As she turned the corner at the top of the last block, she reached under the car seat, found the switchblade, and slipped it into the pocket of her velvet pants.
The Widdler house was an older two-story, with cedar shingles and casement windows, built on a grassy lot, with the creek behind. She glanced at her watch: ten-fifteen.
There was a light in an upstairs bedroom and another in the back of the house. An early night for the Widdlers, she thought.
She parked in the drive, went to the front door, and rang the bell. Nothing. She rang it again, and then felt the inaudible vibrations of a heavy man coming down a flight of steps. Leslie Widdler turned on a light in the hallway, then the porch light, squinted at her through the triple-paned, armed-response-alarmed front door.
Widdler was wearing a paisley-patterned silk robe. As fucked up and crazy as the Widdlers might be, there was nothing inhibited about their sex life, Anderson thought.
Widdler opened the inner door, unlocked and pushed open the screen door, and said, “Well, well. Look what washed up on our doorstep. Nice to see you.”
Anderson walked past him and Widdler looked outside, as though he might see somebody else sneaking along behind. Nobody. He shut the door and locked it, turned to Anderson, pushed her against the wall, slipped one big hand up under her blouse, pulled her brassiere down, and squeezed her breast until the pain flared through her chest.
“How have you been?” he asked, his face so close that she could smell the cinnamon toothpaste.
Her own hand was inside his robe, clutching at him. “Ah, Leslie. Where's Jane?”
“Upstairs,” Leslie said.
“Let's go up and fuck her.”
“What a good idea,” Widdler said.
And that's what they did, the three of them, on the Widdlers' king-sized bed, with scented candles burning all around.
Then, when the sweat had dried, Anderson rolled off the bed, found her purse, dug out a cigarette.
“Please don't smoke,” Jane said.
“I'll go out on the back porch, but I need one,” she said. She groped for her pants, said, “Where's that lighter?” She got both the lighter and the switchblade. “We need to talk.”
They didn't bother with robes; they weren't done with the sex yet. Anderson led the way down the stairs in the semidarkness, Leslie poured more wine for himself and Jane, and got a fresh glass from the cupboard and gave a glass to Anderson. They moved out to the porch, and Jane and Anderson settled on the glider, the soft summer air flowing around them, while Leslie pulled a chair over.
“Well,” Jane said. She took a hit of the wine, then dipped a finger in it, and dragged a wet finger-pad over one of Anderson's nipples. “You were such a pleasant surprise.”
“I want a cut,” Anderson said. “Of the Connie Bucher money. Not much. Enough to take me to Europe for a couple of years. Let's say… a hundred and fifty thousand. You can put it down to consulting fees, seventy-five thousand a year.”
“Amity…” Leslie said, and there was a cold thread in the soft sound of her name.
“Don't start, Leslie. I know how mean and cruel you are, and you know I like it, but I just don't want to deal with it tonight. I spotted the Bucher thing as soon as it happened. It had your names written all over it. But I wouldn't have said a thing, I wouldn't have asked for a nickel, except that you managed to drag me into it.”
After a moment of silence, Jane said, “What?”
“I got a visit from a cop named Lucas Davenport. This afternoon. He's an agent with the state police…”
“We know who he is. We're police consultants on the Bucher murder,” Leslie said.
Anderson was astonished; and then she laughed. “Oh, God, you might know it.”
But Jane cut through the astonishment: “How did he get to you?”
“He hooked the Bucher murder to the Donaldson case. He's looking at the Coombs murder.
He knows.”
“Oh, shit.” Anderson couldn't see it, but she could feel Jane turn to her husband.
“He's a danger. I told you, we've got to do something.”
Leslie was on his feet and he moved over in front of Anderson and put a hand on her head and said, “Why shouldn't we just break Amity's little neck? That would close off that particular threat.”
Anderson hit the button on the switchblade and the blade clacked open. She pressed the side of the blade against him. “Take your hand off my head, Leslie, or I swear to God, I will cut your cock off.”
Jane snorted, amused, and said, “A switchblade. You know, you should take off about four inches, just to make him easier to deal with.”
“I'll take off nine inches if he doesn't take his hand off my head,” Anderson snarled.
She could feel the heat coming off Leslie's thighs.
“Fuck you,” Leslie said, but he moved away and sat down again.
Anderson left the blade extended. “One good reason for you not to break my neck: Davenport will then know that the thieves are close. And when they investigate either my death or disappearance, the police will unlock the center drawer of my desk, where they will find a letter.”
“The old letter ploy” Jane said, still amused, but not as amused as she'd been with the switchblade.
“It's what I had to work with,” Anderson said. “About Davenport. He's working on the Bucher case and now on Donaldson and Coombs, but he's also working on a sex scandal.
There was a story in the paper this morning. Some state legislator guy has been screwing some teenager.”
“I saw it,” Leslie said. “So what?”
“So Davenport is running that case, too, and that's apparently more important. He was interviewing me and he had to run off to do something on the other one. Anyway, I heard him talking on his cell phone, and I know the name of the people involved.
The girl's name.”
“Really,” Jane said. “Is that a big deal?”
“It could be,” Anderson said, “If you want to distract Davenport.”
Sandy the intern was sitting next to Carol's desk when Lucas came in. He was running a little late, having taken Sam out for a morning walk. He was wearing his grand-jury suit: navy blue with a white shirt, an Hermes tie with a wine-colored background and vibrating commas of a hard blue that the saleslady said matched his eyes; and cap-toed black tie-shoes with a high shine. His socks had clocks and his shorts had paisleys.
Sandy, on the other hand, looked like she'd been dragged through hell by the ankles-eyes heavy, hair flyaway, glasses smudged. She was wearing a pink blouse with plaid pants, and the same scuffed shoes she'd worn the day before. Somebody, Lucas thought, should give her a book.
She stood up when she saw him, sparks in her eyes: “He's innocent.”
Lucas thought, “Ah, shit.” He didn't need a crusader, if that's what she was morphing into. But he said, “Come on in, tell me,” and to Carol, “I've gotta be at the Dakota County courthouse at one o'clock and it's a trip. I'm gonna get out of here soon as I can and get lunch down there, with Virgil.”