Free The Devil and the Detective by John Goldbach Page A

O’Meara to his peon.

14
    M y downstairs neighbour knocked on my door to complain about my pacing, so I apologized. He thought I had people over. Nevertheless, moments after he left, I was back to pacing, though I removed my shoes. After pulling over to the roadside, O’Meara chewed me out and told me he’d let me go if I’d stayed away from the case. I agreed to his terms. Of course, it’s ridiculous to think I’d stay away from the case – he knew that and I knew that – but I’d definitely try and keep my distance from him, I thought. I stood on the side of the highway trying to hail a cab but there were none. Eventually, I hitchhiked. Back at my apartment, I was upset and I paced. Somehow, I needed to see Elaine again. There was so much to discuss, but then again I wondered if she was even alive. She must be, I thought. There’s no way a third party got past the officer outside and into the house, up the staircase, and stole Elaine away from the bed I was sleeping in, holding her in my arms, without making a single sound. It was an impossibility; therefore, Elaine left of her own volition. She knowingly escaped, I thought, for that was the only explanation that made sense. Why? I wondered. Well, first off, because her husband was murdered, so perhaps she feared for her own life, too, and wanted to make a getaway; however, perhaps she was involved in the murder and wanted to get away before I or the police discovered her involvement. The latter explanation, of course, made the most sense. Still, I didn’t want to admit it. I didn’t want to think that Elaine, this beautiful, funny and tender woman, could be involved in a murder, especially the murder of her own husband, who, presumably, I thought, she once loved. Murdering someone you once loved, however, I thought, makes more sense than murdering a total stranger. Nevertheless, I didn’t want to believe she’d done it, or was involved in any way. By now, I thought, while pacing the long hallway of my apartment, she’s probably fled the country, fled to São Paulo or Buenos Aires or who the hell knows where, with the money she’s been stockpiling over the years, the years she was married to Gerald, after they met at the ski resort in the small town out west.
    I needed rest but my mind wouldn’t slow down. I thought about pouring a drink but decided it’d be better if I remained clearheaded. I lay down on the couch and stared at the ceiling, thinking, thinking about everything, and I was frightened – frightened that perhaps this woman was dead or a murderer: either scenario frightening, I thought. My eyes were heavy but I didn’t close them. Staring at the ceiling, I wondered whether this boyfriend was really dead, if he’d indeed killed himself, or if he’d just disappeared, only to come back and help Elaine murder Gerald, and then flee with her after a night with me. I was back up pacing. I poured myself a glass of red wine from a lousy bottle I had in the fridge. I need to find out if Adam’s dead or alive, I thought. I need to find out if Adam even exists. Adam’s most likely an alias, I thought, and he’s probably alive, too, and with Elaine Andrews this very minute. I must accept the hellacious possibility that she’s with another man right this minute, I thought, while I paced my apartment floor worried about her safety, worried about a life without her. I’ve been played, I thought, like a big fat sucker. I downed the rest of my wine and then poured another glass. It was horrible wine, bitter and thick with sediment, but it was all they had at the corner store the night I’d bought it, the night before Elaine Andrews called me crying, crying over her dead husband, a dead husband I’m sure she conspired to murder. O’Meara’s right, I thought, I’m an idiot – Elaine’s stories don’t jibe. For some reason, despite my