SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT

by

MEDORA SALE

  By the Same Author

MURDER IN A GOOD CAUSE
MURDER IN FOCUS
MURDER ON THE RUN
                                      VIKING
 Published by the Penguin Group
 Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,
 Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3112
 Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ, England
 Viking Penguin, a division of Penguin Books USA Inc.,
 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
 Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia
 Penguin Books (NZ) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10,
 New Zealand

 Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth,
 Middlesex, England

 First published 1991

 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

 Copyright (0 Medora Sale, 1991

 All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved
 above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or intro-
 duced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means
 (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the
 prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher
 of this book.

 Publisher's note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
 and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used
 fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events,
 or locales is entirely coincidental.

 Printed and bound in the United States of America on acid-free paper E)

 Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data
 Sale, Medora.
  Sleep of the innocent

 ISBN 0-670-83781-4

 1. Title.

 PS8587.A35387S58 1991C813'.54 C91-093515-7
 PR9199.3.S165S581991
For
Dina Fayerman and Jacqueline Sbaver,
whose patience and encouragement helped to make all of this possible
                                     SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT
 
 
          CHAPTER 1

 The call came in at 3:02 on a quiet Thursday afternoon in March. A north
 wind, blowing straight down from Baffin Island, was keeping the streets
 free of troublemakers; the dispatcher, working with purely mechanical
 efficiency, drowsed in the bright sunshine and thought of all the places
 where he would rather be. Warm places. Places where spring had already
 arrived. Places like ...
  The hysteria in the voice on the other end of the line had elicited his
  usual calm response without seriously interrupting his daydream, but the
  message he had taken down more or less automatically jolted him awake.
  The hysteria was routine; the tale was not. Wounding by gunshot is rare
  in expensive midtown hotels. "Please don't hang up, miss," the dispatcher
  was saying as a click signaled the broken connection. "Damn," he muttered
  philosophically, unsurprised, and set about dealing with the problem.
  The Karlsbad Hotel was a scant two blocks from the corner of Bloor and
  Yonge, the midtown center of Toronto; there was a patrol car idling along
  James Street, fifty yards away, when the call went out. In seconds the
  constable in it had double parked in the no-parking area in front of the
  hotel, blocking a green Mercedes being tagged by an earnestlooking police
  cadet. "Here, you," said the constable. "Give us a hand. Fast."
 The reply was indistinct. The constable took it as assent
 2               MEDORA SALE

 and hustled in through the heavy brass doors, dragging the cadet after
 him.
  "Tbird floor, apartment three-seventeen. Gunshot wound." He looked around
  the small, very quiet lobby. The elevator stood open. "Up the stairs.
  I'll take the elevator. And hang on to any witnesses you run into."
  The cadet flew up the stairs two at a time, intent on arriving before
  that arrogant lazy bastard stepped out of the elevator. He paused at the
  second floor landing for a quick glance through the glass panel set in
  the door and looked down the corridor. Nothing. But the swish of a fire
  door opening as he rounded the corner to the next flight made him stop
  and look up.
  A woman was clattering down the cement steps headed straight for him. His
  still -inexperienced eye took in a set of keys in her hand and a very
  tight and very short leather skirt; at the same time his nostrils were
  assailed by a heavy perfume that set off warning bells in his head. No
  girl he knew would wear perfume like that. Her eyes were on the steps as
  she rushed down them; her first intimation of his existence was a view
  of his boots. She stopped, her hand on the banister, and let her eyes
  travel upward. Her white face, under its white makeup, turned ashen, and
  the keys dropped out of her hand. He stooped to pick them up.
  "Excuse me, miss," he said awkwardly. "I'd, uh-" He took a deep breath
  and started again. "I have to ask you to return to the third floor with
  me. If you don't mind."
  "I do mind," she said sharply. "I'm late and I'm in a hurry. And I
  haven't been anywhere near the third floor, so I can't return to it. I've
  come down from the fifth. So, if I could have my keys back-"
  The cadet hesitated for a moment. Lectures on the rights of citizens
  battled in his conscience with the curt injunction from the constable to
  grab anyone he could find. He looked at the skirt and the bizarre makeup,
  and his resolve strengthened. "Look here-someone opened that door to
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT          3

 the third floor corridor, and I never heard you coming down those stairs all
 the way from the fifth. You'd better come along with me," he said firmly,
 "and give a statement to the other officer." He still held her keys clutched
 tightly in one large hand. He stepped forward, taking her black-clad arm in
 his other hand, and began to steer her up toward apartment 317, nervous
 perspiration pouring down between his shoulder blades.

 Sergeant Rob Lucas dropped the telephone receiver back on its cradle and
 swore. Loudly. If he had not stopped to tidy off his desk, if he had not
 been a softhearted ass and agreed to stick around while Eric had one of his
 late, long, boozy, and erotic lunches, he would have been out of there
 before this call came in. Out and away, and it would have taken them hours
 to find him. He shoved the piece of paper across his desk. "When Patterson
 gets back, tell him to get his ass over to the hotel right away. The only
 reason I'm going now is to keep him out of trouble. Make sure he understands
 that."
  As soon as he walked into the lobby of the hotel Lucas was almost drowned
  in an unwelcome wave of nostalgia. He had known the place from his school
  days. It was a quietly expensive apartment hotel, respectable enough that
  a man walking in there could equally well be seeking the sleep of the
  innocent after a late night at the office, or be paying a discreet visit to
  his mistress. It was also the place where his father used to take him for
  lunch on half holidays from school. The dining room was small, expensive,
  and good at what it did. It knew its clientele only too well; fads came and
  fads went, but at the Karlsbad one could be assured of properly smoked
  salmon, or Dover sole, or delicately pink roast lamb and an array of
  pastries for dessert that would soften the harsher moods of a mistress or
  delight a schoolboy at lunch. Not a place, he thought as he waited
 4              MEDORA SALE

 for the elevator, where people got themselves murdered. Not until now,
 anyway. But then, it had changed ownership since his days at private school.
 Perhaps the clientele was rowdier.
  Having achieved the third floor, he pushed his way through the crowd in the
  corridor into apartment 317, stepped carefully over a cordless telephone
  lying on the floor of the entrance hall, and then stopped in the doorway to
  see what he was up against. The living room facing him was large and
  insipid, a model of middle-class restraint, enlivened only by the presence
  of the corpse lying supine on the floor. Lucas bent over to have a closer
  look. He had been a big man, somewhat plump, and expensively dressed. His
  face was clean-shaven and undamaged, its muscles slackened in death, in
  unpleasant contrast to the shattered skull visible through his thin, pale
  hair. You didn't need a medical degree to figure out that he was dead.
  Forty? Fortyfive? He didn't look as though he'd ever been particularly
  pleasant. "He's been bleeding on the nice new carpet," said Lucas. "That'll
  irritate the management. Who is he?"
  "Dunno," said the constable standing beside him, and shrugged his
  shoulders. "I just checked his pockets. No wallet-nothing like that.
  Someone's gone down to see the manager. He should know."
  I wouldn't count on that, thought Lucas cynically, and glanced around at
  the bare room: pale blue walls, two large glass coffee tables with nothing
  on them but a half glass of red wine, side tables empty even o~ a magazine,
  no shoes or socks on the floor, no clutter at all, in fact. Except for the
  corpse. "What else is there?" he asked finally, and yawned. He should have
  been home in bed hours ago.
  "Small kitchen, bedroom, bathroom. Nothing much in the kitchen except the
  other wineglass-bedroom and bathroom might be a bit more interesting."
  Lucas walked around the corpse, glancing into the kitchen as he went, and
  went into the bedroom. The bed looked
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         5

 like the aftermath of a demolition derby. Lucas picked up a pillow and
 sniffed at it. "Perfume," he said. "Disgusting stuff." He shook his head.
 "Recent activity in this bed, I'd say. Wouldn't you, Constable?"
 "I would," he answered briefly. "Look in there, sir."
  Lucas walked over and opened the door. It led to a large and
  luxurious-looking bathroom that reeked of the heavy, musky odor that had
  permeated the sheets and pillows of the bed. "Christ-it stinks in here."
  The constable leaned in beside him and pointed to a bottle of perfume on
  the counter. Beside it sat a rumpled hand towel. "She must have spilled
  some. The towel's soaked with it. It's called Cobra, according to the
  bottle," he added in bemused tones.
  "I can smell, Constable," said Lucas irritably. The bathroom was even
  untidier than the bedroom. Towels spilled out of a large linen cupboard,
  whose slatted door was hanging open; a couple of wet bath towels and an
  even wetter bath mat were hanging over the edge of the tub and drooping
  onto the floor. There were tubes and sticks and boxes and bottles of
  makeup lying on the counter. He picked up an uncovered lipstick lying in
  a pool of water on the edge of the basin. It looked black to him, or
  maybe dark brown. "Jesus," he muttered, "who would wear a color like
  this? It's sick."
  "That girl out in the hall," said the constable, as if Lucas's question
  had been a serious inquiry.
  "You mean they've got her?" said Lucas, yawning. "I'll see her in a
  minute." He turned back to the bedroom. "What's in these drawers?"
  "I haven't had time to check yet," said the constable defensively.
  "Then get a move on. I'll search, you write," said Lucas irritably,
  stuffing his notebook back into his pocket and opening the top drawer.
  "In the top left-hand drawer," he muttered, his fingers moving rapidly
  through the contents,
 6              MEDORA SALE

 "women's underpants, white cotton, and black tights. Count them later. Right
 below," he went on, closing one drawer and opening the next, "there is one
 large white sweater-wool-one pair of jeans, and three pairs of wool socks.
 Below that," he went on, throwing open the bottom drawer, "a black garter
 belt, black stockings, and black lace pants. That's it. In the top
 right-hand drawer," he said, slamming one closed with his knee as he opened
 the next, "shirts, socks, shorts, and handkerchiefs, men's. Oh-and just a
 minute-Jesus Christ!" he spluttered, digging farther back behind the
 handkerchiefs. "Look at that."
  "Either this guy had one hell of a sex life," said the constable, who was
  peering over his shoulder, torn between laughter and admiration, "or he
  wore 'em six at a time!"
  Lucas spilled two fistfuls of packages of condoms back into the drawer.
  "Cautious, anyway," he said, grinning. "I better talk to that woman. Get
  her for me, and then check the closet," he added, walking into the living
  room and almost stumbling over the corpse. "Do you think one of you guys
  might manage to cover him up? I need this room to talk to a witness."
  Someone drifted in the direction of the bedroom to get a sheet. "And for
  Christ's sake, not those sheets, you fool! They're evidence. What have you
  gotten from her so far?"
  "She says that her name is Stormi Knight," began the constable.
 "Come off it," said Lucas. "You've got to be kidding."
  The constable's face reddened. "That's what she says," he repeated
  doggedly. "I just took a statement from her and wrote it all down. I never
  questioned what she said. I reckoned you guys could sort it all out. She
  sings in a band; she knows nothing about anything. She was visiting a
  friend In the hotel-"
 64Who?"

  "A girlfriend. No name. just a girl she met, when someone in uniform,
  actually it was that cadet over there," he
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         7

 added, nodding out the door, "grabbed her for no reason and brought her
 up here and made her look at a dead man lying on the floor, and she's
 never seen the dead man before. And it made her feel sick, and she's
 thinking of suing us."
  As they reached the hallway, the elevator door opened and disgorged a new
  crowd of people. "Thank God," said Lucas, rubbing his aching temple.
  "Here come the rest of them. I'm not even supposed to be here. This is
  Eric Patterson's case." He turned to the constable. "Look, tell Patterson
  when he gets here I'm talking to the girl, and he owes me. But not in
  there," he muttered, suddenly reluctant to return to that icy blue room.
  "What else did you get from her?"
  "Not much-but when the cadet grabbed her, she dropped a set of keys. I
  tried them in the door," he added modestly.
 "And?"
 "One of them fits. The door of this room."
 "Good. Where is she?"
 "Over there, leaning on the wall."
  In the discreet light of the corridor, Robert Lucas got the distinct
  impression of something dead propped up against the red-and-gold
  wallpaper. Storml Knight was dressed in black: a black leather skirt that
  revealed too much skinny, black diamond- patterned leg; a black minuscule
  cardigan; a mop of curly shoulder-length hair dyed a flat, dead black.
  At least, he assumed it had been dyed. He didn't believe nature had ever
  been cruel enough to give anyone hair that color. When he got closer, he
  could see that her face was caked with white powder, except around the
  eyes, where her mascara and whatever had run and smeared into black
  rings. Her lips were bare of makeup, although surely the tube in the
  bathroom had been lipstick. That fat, dead mouth in there had probably
  eaten it off. He felt slightly sick. Closer still, and he could smell the
  heavy, cloying perfume, although it was less noticeable out here than it
  had been in the apartment. On her right cheekbone was the
 8              MEDORA SALE

 broad yellow smudge of an old bruise, barely concealed by the heavy makeup;
 on her right shoulder, close to the neck, an angry red mark spoke of a nasty
 bruise to come.
  Lucas had seen them all before. He snapped open his notebook and said,
  "Name?" almost before she had registered his presence.
 "Stormi-" she began sulkily.
 "Real name, this time. If you don't mind."
  "Jennifer Wilson," she said, and raised her chin stubbornly. "Stormi
  Knight's my stage name. So it is a real name."
 "Who is the man in the apartment?"
 "Which man?" she asked innocently.
  "The corpse. The one the constable took you in to look at. How many corpses
  do you run across in one day?"
  "I have no idea," she said steadily. "I don't know why you should think-"
  "Why? Because you were carrying a key chain with the key to apartment
  three-seventeen on it when the cadet spotted you on the stairway, that's
  why. If you don't know him, how do you explain the key to his apartment?"
  "Shit," she muttered, and paused, chewing her lower lip nervously. "I guess
  I should have told you, but I was scared I'd get mixed up in it-"
 "Listen, lady," he said. "You are mixed up in it."
  She shrugged her shoulders and then winced. "Uh, it's like this," she said.
  Her eyes flickered nervously. "I was out of town-the band was, the one I
  sing with-and when I got back, my landlady had rented my apartment to
  someone else. I was behind with the rent or something. Anyway, they hadn't
  paid us for this last job yet, and I was real broke, and this girl I met
  last night said she had this huge apartment she lived in, and I could sleep
  on the couch if I wanted. And so that's what I did."
 "And what's this girl's name?"
 "Krystal. And I don't know what her last name is," she
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT          9

 snapped. "We don't expect our friends to show us ID. And probably her
 first name isn't Krystal, either. It's probably Mary, or Lesley, or Susan,
 but she wanted something snappy that would help her career."
  Lucas speculated for a second about the nature of the career and
  abandoned the line of thought. "So where's this Krystal now?"
  "How should I know? She told me I had to clear up all my stuff and get
  out by eleven, Just in case, and not to come back before three. Because
  she had a friend coming by. I figured it was the guy who was paying for
  the apartment, because Krystal sure as hell didn't have that kind of
  money. So I got out. I mean, I didn't want to run into him."
  "If this Krystal was entertaining someone this afternoon, how come the
  sheets and everything stink of that perfume you're wearing?"
  She blinked in a flash of amazement, and for the first time he noticed
  that behind the gooey black mess she possessed a pair of large, sharp
  gray eyes. "Oh, dear," she said, for a second sounding oddly sweet and
  innocent. "How embarrassing. I borrowed a couple of splashes of it. And
  I'm afraid I spilled it while I was opening the bottle. I'm such a klutz.
  It's kind of overpowering, isn't it? It's terribly expensive," she added,
  and almost smiled. "It's Cobra."
  "Yeah-we got that. Now maybe you could give us-" He stopped and looked
  at three people stepping out of the elevator, two constables with another
  man in tow. That dark suit and polished exterior could only belong to the
  hotel manager. "Here-you," he said to the cadet, who was still standing
  around, looking curious and unsure of himself, "keep an eye on Miss
  Wilson. I'll be back in a minute."
  He followed the small crowd into the living room and pushed his way up
  to the manager's shoulder. Someone pulled back the sheet that had been
  draped over the body. There was a dignified pause. "I certainly do know
  him," said the manager somberly.
 10             MEDORA SALE

  "Who is he?" asked Lucas. "The person who rents this apartment?"
  "He's the chairman of the corporation that owns this hotel," said the
  manager. "NorthSea/Baltic Enterprises. Apartment three-seventeen is the
  apartment reserved for the corporation, which means, in effect, for Mr.
  Neilson. That's his name. Carl Neilson. He lives-he lived out of town, near
  Thornhill; he used this apartment a great deal."
  "Did he ever have company while he stayed here?" asked Lucas. "Female
  company?"
  "Female company?" He paused. Lucas could see the battle raging within him.
  Between honesty and loyalty? Between discretion and disapproval? More
  likely the latter. "You understand, gentlemen, it is not my job to monitor
  the actions of the chairman of the corporation. And in addition, all the
  apartments are on the second and third floors, so that the residents, if
  they wish, may come and go as they please. Without taking the elevator. The
  stairs, as you no doubt have observed already, take you directly outside or
  to a section of the lobby that is not particularly visible from the desk.
  Deliberately. All that aside, however," he said even more gravely than
  before, "from time to time I believe that Mr. Neilson may have had female
  companions staying with him. I would not be able to swear to that," he
  added with emphasis. "But it has come to my attention now and again."
  "Ah," said Lucas in tones of triumph. "Wait right there." And he dashed out
  of the apartment, returning seconds later with a protesting Jennifer
  Wilson. "This one?"
  The manager shook his head. "I wouldn't know," he said. His tone expressed
  disapproval. She obviously did not live up to hotel standards in female
  companions. "I don't believe I've seen this young lady before. But she
  could have been going in and out by the side exit if she had a key-a privi-
  lege we extend to monthly tenants-and of course, Mr. Neilson could supply
  one to any guest he chose." He gave her one more searching look. The next
  time he ran into her,
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         11

 he would know who she was, thought Lucas. And he didn't give much for her
 chances of getting into this hotel again. "The maids might know her. But
 they went off duty at twothirty."
  Irritated, Lucas pushed her out of the apartment again and back into the
  care of the cadet. Before he could return to the manager, however, the
  elevator door opened once again, and the errant Eric Patterson stepped
  out. Lucas stepped in his way, blocking his entrance to the apartment.
  "Christ almighty, you sure as hell took your time, Eric. Where have you
  been?"
  "So what's going on?" said Eric with cheerful insouciance. "I get back
  from lunch and there's this pile of urgent messages, including one kind
  of nasty one from you." He looked around appreciatively. "This is a nice
  plush place to find a body in. Who is it?"
  "The chairman of the corporation that owns the hotel, Carl Neilson. A
  very big guy, every which way you look." Lucas yawned. "You want to take
  over here, Eric?"
 "What have you done?" he asked, dropping the frivolity.
  "Not a whole lot. The crew just arrived. The guys who got here first
  picked up a witness probably coming from the scene. I was just going to
  take her down and fingerprint her and have them run a residue test-"
 "He was shot?"
 Lucas suppressed the sarcastic response. "Yes."
 "I'll do that," said Patterson. "You don't have to-"
  "The hell you will. I'm taking her in, running her through, and then
  going home, If anyone stays up all night tonight, it isn't going to be
  me. I haven't slept in"-he paused to calculate-"thirty-two hours, and
  it's beginning to show."
  "Okay, okay. And look, I appreciate what you did. That lunch was-words
  fall me, Rob, old pal. But anytime you need a return favor-"
 "All I need right now is some sleep. I'm going. Oh, and
 12              MEDORA SALE

 get the girl's keys from that cadet or whoever still has them, and find
 out if one of them fits the side door of the hotel."
  "What?"
 "Don't ask. just do it. Or talk to the manager."

 Lucas propelled Jennifer Wilson across the lobby, holding her by one thin
 arm, toward his car, which had been abandoned in front of the hotel. As
 he handed her in on the passenger side, he suddenly noticed what else was
 odd about her. The coat. Or rather, the absence of it. She wasn't wearing
 a coat on a day in March so vicious that it made January seem temperate.
 And he had been able to feel her tremble with the cold. "Where's your
 coat?" he said curtly as soon as she got into the car.
 "My coat?"
 "Yes, your coat. Why aren't you wearing it?"
 "It's not that bad out," she said, still shivering.
  "For chrissake, the dogs are sticking to the sidewalks out there, and
  you're trying to tell me you don't need a coat?"
  "I came over here in a cab," she said hastily. "I was just carrying it
  on my arm, and I left it in the cab, I think."
  "What kind of cab?" he said, turning the heat up full and unzipping his
  down jacket.
  "How in hell should I know? I don't go around writing everything down,
  like you guys." She slouched down in her seat and lapsed into sulky
  silence.

 And the sulky silence remained as she wiped ink off her fingers and
 glowered at the floor.
  "So," he said coolly, "your name is Jennifer Wilson, and you sing in a
  band, and you have nothing to do with that apartment except that you
  spent last night there. And you never saw that guy before in your life.
  You know what I think? I think when that apartment is dusted for prints,
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        13

 we're going to find Neilson's, yours, and the mald's. Period. And most of
 all we're going to find yours. Because I think Krystal is a figment of
 your imagination. Couldn't you have come up with a better name?"
  "It's not my fault that Krystal has no imagination," she replied, her
  gray eyes flickering at him from their smudgy sockets. "And if that's
  what you think, why not go ahead and fingerprint everything?"
  Her confidence shook him a little. "Okay. Let's run through the whole
  thing from when you left the apartment this morning. Or better still,
  when you met Krystal last night."
  "Sure," she said, sounding bored. She yawned, and once more he realized
  how hideously tired he was. "I went to my apartment and couldn't get in,
  so I put my suitcase in a locker at the bus station-"
 "Why there?"
  "Why not? It's central and open all night." She paused to see if he
  wanted to say something else. He leaned back, yawning. "I'm sorry if it's
  boring," she said. "But you asked for it. Anyway, I went to the pub-which
  pub, I know, the Pocket, on Queen Street-because I figured at least a few
  people I knew would be there. Well there weren't, really, but I sat at
  a table with one guy I'd met a couple of times before-"
 "Name?" said Lucas. His eyes were closed.
  "Doug. just Doug. And some other people, and one of them was this girl,
  Krystal. Anyway, I put my purse down on the floor and had a couple of
  beers, and when I reached down to get it because I was going to the
  washroom, it was gone. So now I had no purse, no ID, no credit card-yeah,
  I have a credit card-and no money. I got real upset, and Krystal said I
  could sleep at her place. Is this what you want?" she asked, looking at
  the apparently sleeping sergeant.
 He had been barely listening to her words; what his mind
 14             MEDORA SALE

 was playing with was the sense of familiarity induced by her manner of
 speech. Suddenly it came to him, and he sat up, eyes open. It was the
 continual slipping up and down in the social scale-from the tough-guy
 illiteracy of half her explanations up to snatches of cool elegance and
 intelligence. And it was familiar because he did it himself. It was one
 of the things that alienated him from the people he worked with. His
 inability to find a level and stick to it. It made people suspicious.
  "Sure," he said, lapsing back into somnolence once he had settled that.
  "Anyway, this morning Krystal told me I had to go out because her friend
  was coming over, and she loaned me some money and gave me her keys. So
  I went out for lunch and did some shopping-"
 "What did you buy?"
  "Nothing. I went downtown and looked around at a lot of stuff. Killing
  time, that's all. Anyway, I took a cab and left my coat in the cab, like
  I said, and got back to the hotel. I came in the side door and went up
  to the apartment. When I opened the door, I heard someone make this awful
  noise-a groan or something like that. At first I thought it was-well,
  anyway, I realized someone was hurt, and I looked in the living room and
  saw this man lying there, bleeding, and I panicked because he looked as
  if someone had just shot him, and I didn't want whoever it was to shoot
  me, so I called the police and ran."
  "You thought the assailant was still in the apartment, and you stopped
  long enough to telephone before you panicked and ran? You're a brave
  person, Miss Wilson."
  "Well, I didn't. I grabbed the cordless phone off the hall table and ran
  out in the corridor and phoned."
 "And how did the phone get in the front hall again?"
  "I opened the door and threw it back in. I didn't want to be accused of
  stealing a telephone."
 "Well," he said, yawning again. "They say truth is
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        is

 stranger than fiction. You just make yourself comfortable there while we
 check some of these wild notions out, Miss Wilson. I'll get someone to
 bring you some coffee. You want a muffin? It's the best thing you're
 likely to get around here right now."
  She looked as if she were considering a protest, shrugged her shoulders
  and huddled down in her chair.

 Lucas's faint hope of catching a half-hour nap-while the mills of justice
 ground up Miss Wilson's statement and processed it-dried up as soon as he
 hit the corridor. The reason was walking rapidly toward him, a vision of
 expensive tailoring and more expensive shoe leather. Inspector Matt
 Baldwin, who for the past three uncomfortable weeks had replaced Inspector
 John Sanders as his superior officer, with a look on his face that meant
 more work. More work for Robert Lucas, that is, not for Baldy.
  "Patterson finally get down there?" he snapped. Hostility electrified the
  corridor.
  So the puss had clawed its way out of the sack. "Yeah. He's there now.
  I was just clearing up one or two things before going home."
  "Not until someone goes out to talk to the widow," said Baldwin. "I just
  found out who it is, so be tactful, eh? This ain't Ma Jones whose old man
  got knifed in a brawl. It's Lydia Neilson."
  "Isn't she just a mile or two out of our jurisdiction?" asked Lucas with
  heavy irony. "Why not let the locals tell her she's a widow?"
  "She may be a witness. And I've cleared it. Now get the hell over there,
  Lucas."
  Common sense told Lucas to shut up and get out; exhaustion prodded him
  into one last flicker of insubordination. "Do we have an address? More
  precise than Mrs. Neilson, somewhere near Thornhill?"
 16              MEDORA SALE

  Lucas's bad temper remained through an hour of rushhour traffic, past the
  exit off the expressway, down two secondary roads, and into the play farms
  of exurbia. Everything looked bright and cold and dirty with the detritus
  of winter. But familiar. Once upon a time, in a time and a world far from
  this one, he had lived out here on one of these little gemlike farms, until
  his father had tired of country life and his mother had tired of his
  father. And of him. And the farm was sold-at a handsome profit, no doubt,
  since everything his father did was at a handsome profit. Except raise a
  son. And he grinned at that thought, slowed down, and signaled for a right.
  The broad acres belonging to Carl Neilson were protected from the highway
  by a stone wall and wrought-iron gates. On one of the pillars a polished
  brass plaque said FREYFIELDS. The gates were open, and Lucas pulled in. The
  house was pseudo-Georgian; the white fencing said horses, and the whole
  setup screamed money. As he mounted the steps, he wondered why Baldy hadn't
  chosen to come out himself. Clearly Mrs. Neilson would be right up his
  alley. It must have been an epic struggle between lethargy and upward
  mobility while he was deciding to send Robert Lucas instead. The chimes
  rang faintly, as though muffled by miles of carpets and tapestries and
  draperies and other expensive things. The door opened with a sigh; its
  place was taken by a square middle-aged woman in a white uniform and apron,
  who looked like something between a practical nurse and a short-order cook.
  She tried to size him up, failed, and addressed him in a manner in which
  courtesy mingled uneasily with contempt.
  "May I help you?" The words were meek enough, but the tone was one of
  crossed arms and heavily planted feet.
 "I'd like to speak to Mrs. Neilson," he said briskly.
  "I'm afraid she isn't here at the moment. Is she expecting you?"
 With a sigh he pulled out his ID and set it squarely under
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         17

 the woman's nose. "Sergeant Robert Lucas. Metropolitan Toronto Police. It is
 most important that I talk to Mrs. Neilson as soon as possible. Do you know
 where she is?" This was the point at which the housekeeper should have
 screamed and fainted in alarm. She didn't.
  "She's down at the stable," she said, in the same tones she might reserve
  for describing the whereabouts of the man who looked after the septic tank.
  "In that case, I'll wait," said Lucas, prepared, if necessary, to sit on
  the front steps. Because if he left without seeing her, bloody Baldwin
  would send him out again. He wondered grimly how long he was going to be on
  special duty, stuck with Baldwin.
  "You'll have a long wait, then," she remarked sourly. "If it's that
  important, you'd better go and speak to her yourself. It's in back-you
  can't miss it," she said, pointing to the gravel walk that circled the
  house.
  If the neat white building hadn't looked very like a stable to him, he
  would have been drawn to it by the small warm noises-the stamps and snorts
  and nickering-that ooze out of all stables. The wide door was open, giving
  onto a clean cement floor, and he stepped inside. There were six box
  stalls, three on each side, but only three of them had tenants. The first
  on the left had been fitted up as a tack room, its walls bright with
  ribbons, and the first on the right as an office, with a desk, two chairs,
  and a camp bed all crowded into it. The stall next to it was stacked neatly
  with feed and straw. Mozart bubbled gently from a cassette player on the
  desk.
  Two heads emerged over their doors to look at him; a third horse, a
  chestnut mare, was standing facing him with a faraway look on her face as
  her legs were being vigorously rubbed down. "Mrs. Neilson?" said Lucas to
  the crouching back in front of him. "Could I have a word with you?" The
  chestnut tossed her head in warning, and Mrs. Neilson rose quickly to her
  feet. She looked to be in her mid-
   18              MEDORA SALE

 twenties-startlingly young to be Neilson's wife. She had long shiny hair the
 same color as the mare's glossy coat, and dark eyes that regarded him
 acutely, wondering no doubt what in hell he was doing there. She was dressed
 in worn, mud-splashed corduroy breeches, a beige turtleneck sweater, and a
 gray tweed jacket with scuffed leather patches and a tear on the sleeve, but
 her riding boots were as clean and well cared for as the tack in the room to
 his left and as the coat of the chestnut mare. What man could possibly have
 traded-even temporarily-this magnificent creature for that thin, messy
 little slut in the hotel? Maybe he hadn't. Maybe Jennifer's story was true,
 then.
  "Yes, certainly," said Mrs. Neilson at last, since he seemed to be without
  anything to say. "What did you want a word about?"
  He gritted his teeth. This was the bad part, the part he had been avoiding
  by thinking irrelevant thoughts about her clothes. "I'm with the
  Metropolitan Toronto PoliceSergeant Lucas." He held out his card, as
  before. "You're Mrs. Carl Neilson? Your husband is Carl Neilson?" It was,
  he knew, a stupid thing to say, but it gave the widow the chance to realize
  that something was wrong.
  It worked. She laid a hand on the mare's withers, as if to steady herself.
  "Something has happened," she said. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"
  "I'm afraid so, Mrs. Neilson. There's been a-something has happened at your
  husband's hotel, at the Karlsbad. He's been shot."
  "He's dead?" she asked, her voice flat. Lucas nodded, bracing himself. This
  was when the reaction started. Sometimes. Sometimes it didn't start until
  much later, and what you got was this cool stunned acceptance. Not as good
  for the widow, maybe, but a hell of a lot easier on him. "You're sure?" she
  asked again. "Dead? Not just hurt?"
  "No-I'm afraid there's no question of that," he said gently. "He was dead
  when we found him."
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         19

  "Did he .- She hesitated and stopped, taking a deep breath. The mare
  snorted and bent her head around to find out what was going on. "Did he do
  it himself? Was it suicide?"
  Lucas shook his head. "It doesn't appear to have been suicide. No."
 "Then that means that someone killed him."
 "It looks like that."
 "Who would-when did it happen?" she asked.
  "This afternoon. I'm sorry someone didn't come earlier, but he had no
  wallet on him, and it took us a while to find out-"
 "You're sure it is Carl?" she said quickly.
 "The hotel manager identified him."
 "Bent? Bent Sigurdson?"
 That sounded familiar. Lucas nodded.
  "He would know." She sounded oddly reassured, as though the certainty of
  the identification comforted her. "Poor Carl," she said. She stood
  absolutely still, leaning slightly against the mare. "He was so afraid of
  dying. More than most people, I think. Do I have to identify him? I will if
  it's necessary." She patted the mare, who was stamping restlessly and
  turned to nudge her pockets.
  "She's expecting something," said Lucas, nodding at the mare.
  "There's a carrot on the desk, if you don't mind," said Mrs. Neilson.
  "She'd kill for carrots."
  He stepped into the office, grabbed the carrot, broke it in half and fed
  one piece to the impatient animal; then, with a friendly pat, he caught her
  firmly by the halter and led her into the empty box.
 "You've done that before," said Lydia Neilson.
  "That I have," said Lucas. "Did your husband ride? Is one of the horses
  his?"
  "Well, in a manner of speaking, I suppose." She spoke hesitantly, as if she
  felt her comments could be construed
 20             MEDORA SALE

 as a betrayal of marital trust. "The mare is my hacking pony-actually, I
 guess she's a bit big to be called a pony, but"-she gave him a pale
 smile-"she's a pet. Well, they're all pets, in a way. Too much so. That was
 jasmine. This is Hector-eh, baby, come here," she cooed, and a big bay stuck
 his head farther over the door. She opened it and led him out. "Isn't he a
 beauty?" she said. "Most of the ribbons in there are his. He's very neat and
 intelligent-he can tell exactly what I'm thinking before I think it." She
 raised his head to show him off. "You should see him over a fence. Poetry.
 Restrained poetry. But Carl's horse-I suppose he was Carl's horse, although
 he didn't ride him very oftenis over here." Lucas held out the other half of
 the carrot for Hector, who took it with restraint and dignity and then paced
 elegantly back into his stall. "Achilles," she said, opening the last door,
 and an enormous gray gelding stepped out and then shook his head
 impatiently. "Isn't he a fine size? That's how they described him. He's
 Irish."
 "Did you get him here?" asked Lucas.
  She shook her head. "I went over to the spring sales and fell in love with
  him. Then they told me his name, and I knew it was fate. You should see him
  move. He's young yet, though. He's from Tipperary-the finest bloodstock in
  the country, they say. I paid a bundle for him by the time I had him
  shipped over. He was a birthday present for Carl-I wouldn't spend that much
  on a horse for myselfbut Carl never appreciated him. He was threatening to
  sell him this spring; it broke my heart to think of it. Eh, baby?" she
  murmured. "Do you think you could find another carrot? There should be one
  in my bag-it's on the chair. Everyone else got a carrot, didn't they?" she
  went on softly, rubbing his nose.
  Lucas went back into the little office and found her handbag sitting on a
  chair. He unzipped it. Inside was chaos; everything you might expect to
  find in a woman's purse: wallet, keys, lipstick, comb, tissues, pens,
  pencils, notebook;
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         21

 and, in addition, two large dirty carrots, a plastic bag with sugar lumps in
 it, and a hoof-pick. "There you go," he said, and handed her one of the
 carrots. "Who looks after the stable for you and exercises the horses?" he
 asked in real curiosity.
  "Who looks after it? I do," she said, surprised, sending Achilles back into
  his stall with a nudge of the halter and a slap on the rump, and then
  reaching her hand with the carrot on it over the door to him. "I do
  everything. Clean it out every morning, give each one a good gallop, work
  with Hector a bit, groom them, everything. I love it. It gives me something
  to do. The house is filled already with people tripping over each other to
  do the work. They don't need me. Anyway, it means I have an excuse for not
  traveling all over the place with Carl on business trips. My God! What's
  the matter with me?" She sat down on a couple of bales of straw piled up
  outside Achilles' stall. "What am I saying? Carl's dead, and I'm bitching
  about going on business trips with him. I mean, I could have. Joe down at
  the riding stable will always look after the beasts for me if I need him."
  She shook her head and looked blankly up at Lucas.
  "Don't worry about it," he said. "It's the shock. It takes a while to get
  used to it."
  "I suppose," she said, standing up. She walked around the stable and
  fastened all the doors, picked up her purse, turned off the cassette
  player, flicked off the light, and headed toward the door. "Come back to
  the house and we'll have some tea," she said. "Mrs. Howard will have it
  ready."

 She took him in through a small back door and along a short tiled hallway.
 The room she led him into was as seductive as the stable. It was relatively
 small, but a set of three windows looked out over the paddock and the
 stable. The windowsill was deep, with a couple of cushions lying on it:
 22             MEDORA SALE

 someplace to sit and drowse away an afternoon, he thought. A fire burned in
 the fireplace, and the comfortable chairs and sofa were covered with dark,
 countrified material. There was a desk, audio equipment, a small piano, and
 some book space. The housekeeper stalked in with tea, followed closely by a
 thin, dark-haired little boy with worried blue eyes, who ran over to his
 mother's side and whispered urgently in her ear.
  "I don't know, sweetheart," she said, gently shaking her head. "He's around
  somewhere. Ask Mrs. Howard. Maybe she put him away." He snatched up a
  chocolate-covered biscuit and left as quickly as he had come.
  "That's Mark," she said simply. "He's eight. I'll tell him later. When
  we're alone."
  "Do you have other children?" asked Lucas, looking down at the tea in his
  hand as if he had never seen such a thing before.
 She shook her head.
  He stared at the fire, mesmerized, relaxed. He could sit in this room for
  hours, beside this elegant, slightly muddy woman, except that he was not
  here on a social call. He pulled himself together. "Do you mind if I ask
  you a few questions?" he said.
  "Not at all," she said readily. "What do you want to know?"
  "Where you were this afternoon?" The cozy atmosphere came apart with a
  jerk.
  "Oh. Of course. It's the obvious question, isn't it? WellI was out on
  jasmine. We went for a long ride-all through the woods. Didn't get back
  until after four. That's why I was still rubbing her down when you came
  in."
 "Do you ride alone?"
  "Usually. Very awkward, I suppose." She smiled and offered him a piece of
  shortbread. "From your point of view, I mean."
 "Mrs. Neilson," he began, and hesitated.
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         23

 "Yes?" She looked entirely composed and unafraid.
  "Is there any reason that you know of why a girl, a singer, would have a
  key to your husband's apartment?"
  "Reason? Do you mean a printable reason? An excuse? Not that I can think
  of. I mean, only the usual reasonand that seems quite likely." She seemed
  to ruminate for a while. "A singer, you said?"
 "Mmm. A singer-with a band."
 "With a band?" She seemed surprised. "What's her name?"
  "Jennifer Wilson," said Lucas without thinking. Oh, Christ, he said to
  himself. That was bright. "Look, I shouldn't have given out her name like
  that," he said. "I'd appreciate it if you'd forget it, if you can."
  "Oh, that's all right. I won't do anything to her, don't worry. I'm just
  surprised. I thought that Carl-well-you can't tell, can you?" She stared
  into the fire, apparently considering the oddities of life. "May I ask you
  a question?"
  "That depends," he said. "Actually, you can ask it, but I don't promise to
  be able to answer it."
  "Do you know when I can get possession of his private papers-his account
  books, I mean-and things like that? Not the business ones-they're the
  property of the corporation, I assume-just the private ones. I'm afraid
  that there are bills to pay and that sort of thing, and he was in the habit
  of locking everything up in his safe unless he was out of town. Then, of
  course, I looked after the household money."
 "Don't you have the combination?"
 "No." She shook her head.
  "I don't know. But surely you can have access to anything in the house. Why
  don't you call his lawyer?"
  "Maybe," she said unhappily. "I suppose I have to call him anyway."
 "Did your husband have any enemies that you know of?"
  "Enemies? What kind of enemies do you mean?" she asked sharply.
 24             MEDORA SALE

 :'Any kind," he said.
  'Not that I know of. He might have, I suppose. Business enemies. I don't
  know anything about his business." She shook her head and turned to look
  out the window toward the stable.
  Lucas stifled a yawn and couldn't think of anything else to ask her.
  "Thank you for your help," he said lamely. "And for showing me the
  horses. It's a long time since I've seen such magnificent animals. Do you
  have someone to stay with you?" he added. "I should be going."
  "Don't worry, Sergeant. There are enough people in this house to guard
  me. Anyway, my sister will always come over if I need her." She sounded
  very tired now. "I'm all right, really. It was a shock, but Carl and I
  hadn't been what you would call close for some time. I'm not surprised
  about the singer in his apartment. I have Mark and the horses-I guess he
  needed something, too. Poor Carl."
  With those words Lucas felt that Carl Neilson had all the obituary that
  he deserved, and he took his leave.
          CHAPTER 2

 By the time Rob Lucas was back downtown, it was darkdark, late, cold-and
 even people who were supposed to have been working that day were home
 tucked up cozily in front of their television sets.
  "Anything come in on the girl's fingerprints?" he asked, and sat down to
  tackle the clutter on his desk.
  Patrick Kelleher glanced up. "Yeah. They're all over the apartment,
  including on that phone. She was the last person to have used it. And in
  my book that makes her the one who called in."
  Kelleher's words were lost in the rustle of paper. "Where in hell are my
  reports?" said Lucas, sorting rapidly through the mess.
 "Baldy came in and got everything," said Kelleher.
 "Why?55

 Kelleher shrugged.
 "Anybody get anything else from the girl?"
  Kelleher shook his head. "Don't think so. You going to let her go?"
  "What do I hold her for? Lying to a cadet?" he said wearily. "Look, I'm
  leaving as soon as I talk to her again. Tell Baldy if he comes by."
  "Oh," said Kelleher. His voice turned mock-official. "Inspector Baldwin
  has requested that you report to him as soon as possible. If you step
  into the hall, you might bump into him. He's kind of upset."
 26             MEDORA SALE

  "Thanks," said Lucas, "a helluva lot," and headed out the door.
  He collided with him as he rounded the corner. "Ah, Lucas. Good. A word
  with you," said Baldwin, leading him away from his office. "I'm assuming
  control of this case. Not anything against you, understand-"
  "No need to apologize, sit. It's not my case. I was supposed to be off this
  afternoon."
  "Whatever," he said irritably. "Anyway, you and Patterson-you understand,
  Neilson was influential. And Mrs. Neilson is very involved-charities,
  fund-raising, horses, opera, you know what I'm talking about. Anyway, you
  and Patterson just don't have the clout, or maybe even the tact, to deal
  with them."
  "I don't mind, sir." Lucas yawned. "Patterson might be annoyed, though. He
  has lots of tact when he needs it."
  Baldwin grunted. "That may be-but he has trouble remembering when to use
  it. Look, I've got Marty Fielding sitting in my office right now, bitching
  about police harassment of Neilson's widow. What in hell did you say to
  her?"
  "Not much. We chatted about her horses, I asked her where she was during
  the relevant time period-"
  "You asked Mrs. Neilson where she was?" said Baldwin. He looked
  incredulous. And then, in spite of himself, he added, "Where was she?"
  "Out riding. Alone. She does it all the time." He paused to let that sink
  in. "Do you think someone would kill someone to prevent him from getting
  rid of a favorite horse, sit? Because if that's possible-"
  "Oh, for chrissake, Lucas, leave Neilson's widow to me. And I want you to
  check in with me personally before you do anything; and I want
  reports-detailed reports-on everything you do, say, or find out. Have you
  got that? I'm going over to the hotel, and I'll pass the word on to
  Patterson. What are you doing now?"
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        27

  "Releasing the witness we found at the hotel-and then going home."
 "Oh-right," he said vaguely. "Don't lose track of her."
 "I won't," Lucas said and yawned.

 Jennifer Wilson was sitting at a table, flipping through the pages of a
 magazine, when Lucas opened the door of the room she had been stashed in.
 "Miss Wilson?" he said, and yawned again.
  She continued to stare at the page in front of her. Maybe singing in a rock
  band had deafened her.
  "Hey-you," he said louder. "Jennifer. You can go home now.
  She whirled around. "Sorry-1 didn't hear you. It's not often you get a
  chance to read last year's news. Did you say I could go? Really?"
 "Sure. You want a ride home?"
  "That'd be nice," she said. "If I had a home to go to. Maybe you could
  drive me to a motel. How far out do you go?~

  "How far out do you want to go?" he asked. "This time of night, it doesn't
  take that long to get anywhere, really."
 "How about around the airport, then?"
  He had asked for that one. "Sure. What the hell. I guess you could say it's
  on my way-sort of. Get your stuff." He stopped to think for a second or
  two. "Right, you don't have any stuff, do you? Well, then let's go." He
  went first, followed by the quick clicking of her little black half-boots,
  paused to grab his parka, and headed out to the parking lot.
  "Around here is okay," said the girl suddenly. They had been traveling for
  twenty minutes or so through light traffic and had reached an area of
  plazas, parking lots, cheap family restaurants, and motels.
 "This is quite a ways from the airport, lady," said Lucas.
 28             MEDORA SALE

  "It's not as though I was catching a plane. I just want a place to stay for
  a few days that's off the beaten track. Off my beaten track, anyway."
  "Have you eaten?" asked Lucas suddenly. "Because I haven't, and I'm
  hungry."
  "Not since breakfast," she said. "Except for that stale muffin."
  A stab of guilt pierced his fatigue. "How about there?" he said, waving to
  their right. "Italian, with lots of parking." She made a small sound that
  might have been assent, and he pulled into the lot.
  The waitress stood over them, balancing on one foot, as though the other
  one hurt too much to use, and waited. "You want something to start with?"
  she asked. "A cocktail or anything?"
  He looked up from the oversize plastic-covered menu. "I'll have a Blue and
  she'll have-what would you like? Beer? Wine? Something?"
 "I thought you weren't supposed to drink-"
 "I'm not on duty. What'll you have?"
 "The same," she said, turning to the waitress.
  "And bring us a whole lot of garlic bread to start with," added Lucas,
  "unless it's going to take too long. We're starving."
  "Won't take long at all," she said comfortingly. "I'll be right back."
  He put the menu down and looked across the table at Jennifer, puzzled. "You
  look different," he said.
  "They let me use the washroom down at the police station," she said. "I
  washed my face."
  That was it. Those great black smudges, the caked white quality of the
  skin, they were all gone. Now she looked pale and tired, but human. "The
  bruise looks worse now," he said, touching the discolored patch on her
  cheek. Its center was still dark. "It must have been a good one. And this
  one doesn't look too healthy, either," he added, touching her
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        29

 shoulder, where the angry red mark was turning to a purple stain. She
 winced. "You have a left-handed friend, I take it?" he asked.
 "What makes you say that?"
  "Because your visible bruises are on your right side. I suspect that's
  where the others are, too."
 "What others?"
  "I doubt if he only marks you where the world can see. Look, Jennifer,
  I don't know who it is you're mixed up with, but has it ever occurred to
  you you'd be better off without him? I've seen what guys like that can
  do to a woman, you know, and it isn't very pretty. Why don't you get out
  while you still have some teeth?"
  She turned her head back from her study of the parking lot and fixed her
  eyes steadily on him. "You really know how to make a girl feel good,
  don't you? Well, maybe I already know that. Maybe that's why I'm out here
  and not downtown," she said, and shivered.
 "You're shaking," said Lucas, touching her arm.
  "I'm freezing," she said. "This sweater isn't very warm, I'm afraid.
  Neither is the skirt."
  "Jesus," he said. "I forgot you don't have a coat. just a minute."
  When he got back from the car, he was carrying a heavy
  dark-blue-and-white-patterned sweater in his hand. The beer had arrived
  and so had the garlic bread. She ripped a piece in two and ate most of
  the first half as he walked to their booth. "Have some," she said. "It's
  heavenly."
  "Put this on first," he said. She wiped the butter off her fingers,
  slipped out of the booth, and dived into the sweater. It covered her
  skirt almost completely. She carefully folded up the cuffs until her
  wrists were visible and looked down at the effect.
  "It's beautiful," she said. "A bit large, but very warm and beautiful.
  It must look good on you." She slipped back into the booth.
 30             MEDORA SALE

  "So my stepmother says. She knit it, she claims, and the color is
  supposed to be the same as my eyes." He picked up a piece of garlic bread
  and realized just how hungry he was.
  "I ordered lasagna and salad for both of us. She said it was the best
  thing on the menu." She looked over at him, holding up her arm in the
  direction of her face. "Your stepmother's right. It is the same color as
  your eyes. Wow. A beautiful cop. It doesn't seem fair, somehow. How did
  you break your nose? And why didn't you have it fixed?"
  To his horror, he felt himself blushing. "Playing rugger. And I felt it
  improved my face. You've never been a blueeyed blond male with a cute
  little nose in a men's washroom, or you wouldn't ask me that."
  "I can't say I have been. You poor lamb," she said with a grin of mock
  sympathy.
  He shrugged, as if her tone didn't matter. "Anyway, life got a bit easier
  for me after the nose was smashed a couple of times."
  "At your size?" she asked, and then answered herself. "But of course-you
  weren't always that size, were you~ She paused to tackle the beer and
  garlic bread again. "What's your name? Besides Sergeant Lucas, that is.
  Since we're having dinner together."
 "Robert," he said uncomfortably.
  "But people don't call you that," she said. "Robert's much too formal for
  someone who looks like you. And Bob is too casual. I bet they called you
  Robin at home. I shall call you Robin-unless you object violently."
  He stared at her in amazement. "And how about you?" he countered with a
  flash of anger. "Why do you do this to yourself?" He picked up a lock of
  her hair. "And wear those clothes?"
  "Oh, that's nothing. just part of my professional disguise, that's all.
  People expect it. Here comes the lasagna. I hope it's good."
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         31

 He pulled up in front of a reasonable-looking motel a few blocks farther
 on. "I guess that'll do," she said. "I can look after myself from here.
 Thanks for the ride. And dinner."
  "I'm coming in with you," he said, abruptly remembering that he was
  supposed to be keeping an eye on her. "Just to make sure they've got a
  room. Besides, what about money? If you really did lose your purse-"
  "You still think I'm lying, don't you?" She laughed. "I did lose my
  purse, but I borrowed some money. Remember? I've got plenty." She patted
  an area in the vicinity of the hipbone.
 "Plenty? I figured she lent you a ten."
  "Oh, no. Her friend was pretty generous, I reckon, and she's easygoing
  about money. She must have thought there was more where that came from.
  Poor thing."
  "Okay," he said in a voice heavy with doubt. "I'm coming in anyway,
  though. just in case. But I'll stay in the background."
  "Oh, good," she said dryly. "I wouldn't want you to sully my reputation.
  Let's go.,'
  He concealed himself tactfully behind a rack of postcards on the other
  side of the lobby while she checked in. "Right," said the man behind the
  desk, as a key hit the desk with a muted clang. "Room one-sixteen. Right
  along the corridor over there. You sure you don't want something on the
  top floor? It's quieter." Lucas strolled over to the desk.
  She picked up her key and shook her head. "I like to be near the ground,"
  she said. "We all have our little oddities. Oh, hello, Robin. Thank you.
  It was a lousy start to a friendship, but dinner was great."
 He tried to think of something to say, nodded, and left.

 Lucas walked into his apartment, dropping his parka on a chair. It was a
 long drive from Finch to Adelaide Street.
 32             MEDORA SALE

 And on one beer and a glass of wine he felt as if he'd been up all night
 boozing. Sleep, said his tired brain. He started for the loft that served as
 his bedroom, shedding clothes as he went; by the time he was up the short
 flight of stairs, he was down to his shorts. The ringing of the telephone
 came as a hideous jolt. "Shit," he muttered, and picked up the receiver.
 "Lucas. It's Baldwin. Where in the hell have you been?"
  "Stashing the witness in a motel and getting myself something to eat. Sir."
  Odd that he had instinctively reversed the order. "What's wrong?"
  "Wrong?" he roared. "Marty Fielding's on my back. Wants to know what's
  being done, who killed his client, everything." In the ensuing pause, Lucas
  could see him pacing fretfully back and forth. "Everyone else in the city
  wants to know, too. What did you get from the girl?"
  "Nothing much," said Lucas, yawning. "Calls herself a singer, but she's
  probably a hooker with a pretty meantempered pimp. Lots of bruises. I think
  she was in the apartment when Neilson got killed-didn't kill him but can
  identify the person who did. She's scared."
 "What makes you think she was there?"
  "I just don't believe in this mysterious girl, Krystal, who lends her an
  apartment on fifteen minutes' worth of friendship. And she was wearing the
  perfume the bed stank of, and her fingerprints were all over. It stands to
  reason. Neilson brought her in for the day--or whatever-and when he was
  killed, she was under the bed or behind the couch or something like that.
  And besides, she doesn't have a coat. No one goes out without a coat on a
  day like this. I'll bet there was a woman's coat in the apartment. Was
  there? You got a list there of the stuff they found?"
 "What kind of coat?"
  "How the hell should I know? Probably black and not very big."
 "Just a minute."
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        33

  Lucas sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall. Come on,
  Baldy. Get a move on.
  "Yeah. A black leather coat, size eight, woman's, made by-"
 "She was there. And so scared, she forgot her coat."
  "It was in the living room closet. She couldn't have got the door open
  without moving the body. So, don't lose track of her, eh? Where did you put
  her?"
  "The Blue Star Motel. No one's likely to find her there. Good night,
  Inspector. I've had it." And he dropped down the phone and climbed under
  the bedclothes in the same motion, sinking almost instantly into oblivion.
          CHAPTER 3

 Lucas walked into the noise and activity around his desk with his eyes
 clamped half-shut and his mouth dry and foultasting. He wasn't sure how much
 sleep he had finally managed the night before, but it hadn't been enough.
 Not nearly enough. He put down his coffee, carefully removed the lid, and
 with equal care set his almost-cold Danish beside it. So far this morning he
 had successfully avoided speech. Even the woman at the bakery where he
 picked up his breakfast had said, as she always did, "Black? And you want
 your Danish warmed up?" and he had nodded. Gratefully. And so, when Kelleher
 said, "Morning, Robert," all he got in return was a croak.
  He took a mouthful of coffee. That was better. "Anything new?" he said in
  a voice passably like his own.
 "Not so's you'd notice."
  "Nothing?" he asked incredulously. "What's everyone been doing?"
  "Tripping over each other's feet. Whatever you do, duck when the phone
  rings. Ten to one it'll be Baldwin screaming at you to do the exact
  opposite of what you were supposed to do five minutes ago. If you follow
  me. I've only been here an hour, and he's phoned at least four times,
  screwing everything up. Eric's not here-he'll be in later. He went off to
  get some sleep. Been chasing around most of the night, I think, trying to
  avoid Baldy. He has this big list of
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         35

 people he's not supposed to question, and he's looking pretty grim."
  "That's going to look great when it hits the papers, isn't it?"
  "Yeah," said Kelleher, with a certain amount of relish. "Won't it? Tempting
  thought. I want to be here when Sanders hears about it, too. Not that
  Baldwin's his favorite person anyway."
  "Where in hell is Inspector Sanders?" asked Lucas forlornly. "If he doesn't
  come back, I'll never get away from Baldy."
  "Somewhere in the States with his girlfriend," said Kelleher. "Having a
  hell of a lot more fun than we are and screwing up everyone's schedule. I
  wish to hell people didn't just take off on holidays anytime they felt like
  it," he added, in a low-voiced mutter. "Leaving other people stuck with
  assholes like Baldwin to deal with. Anyway, relax. It's safe around here
  for a while. Baldy's coming in late, thank God. Did you know him when he
  spent all his time bending paper clips and worrying about politics? I never
  realized what a pain in the ass he could be when he started taking his job
  seriously." He paused to pick up his coffee. "So help me God, I'll never
  complain about someone not working again. I swear. By the bones of my
  sainted Aunt Mary."
 Lucas grunted and pulled the telephone closer to him.

 "Room one-sixteen," he said, when he reached the desk at the Blue Star
 Motel. During the ensuing pause, he started in on the Danish. It was cheese.
 He varied the kind from day to day, depending on his mood. Cheese meant
 exhausted. And grim.
  "Who do you want to talk to?" The voice on the other end was a suspicious
  voice. A cautious voice.
 "Jennifer Wilson."
 36              MEDORA SALE

  You could almost hear the head shake. "Miss Wilson left last night."
  "Last night? She only checked in last night." There was an icy pause.
  "Damn," muttered Lucas. And then something else occurred to him. That
  little bitch had gone sneaking off with- "You didn't find a blue sweater in
  the room, did you?" he asked. "Men's, large, hand-knit?"
 "Who is this?" Now the voice was heavy with suspicion.
  "I'm a police officer," he started in his usual bored singsong, "and I've
  been-"
  "We made a damage report on the room to the officer who came by this
  morning," he said coldly. "There wasn't any sweater."
  "Damage? What damage?" The world had gone mad on him this morning.
  "The damage caused by the people who broke into the room," he said
  carefully, as if he suspected that Lucas was not very bright.
  "What in hell are you talking about? Someone broke into her room? Why
  didn't you tell me that in the first place? Was she hurt?"
  "I don't believe so. I think Miss, uh, Wilson-if that's her name-had
  already left by the time they entered."
 "Let me speak to the clerk on duty last night."
 "He's asleep," said the voice. It sounded shocked.
  "Then wake him up. No-I'll be out there as soon as I can. I'll see him
  then. just leave everything as it was."
  There was a significant pause. "I'm sorry, sit. But the constable said we
  could repair the damage. The workmen are already in the room."
  "Damn, damn, damn," muttered Lucas. "Never mind. I'll be out sometime this
  morning."
  He dropped the phone back down and cursed the girl, the motel, the phone,
  everything. "Something wrong?" asked Kelleher, amused.
 "I've lost the witness," said Lucas. "I stashed her in a
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        37

 motel last night, showing touching faith in her word that she was going to
 stay there for a few days, and she took off in the middle of the night." He
 omitted the complication, the strange people who came to visit her and
 apparently destroyed her room, because explaining them was going to be
 beyond him at the moment.
 "Baldy's going to be pleased, isn't he?"

 Inspector Baldwin was not pleased. His face became unnaturally still, then
 reddened slightly, and then paled to white again. There was silence--ominous
 silence-for at least a minute.
  "Let me see if I understand this," said Baldwin at last. "First of all, you
  find someone outside the murdered man's apartment who has come out of it
  very recently, but you decide, even though this is a very sensitive
  investigation, that she is not important enough to hold. You drop her off
  in an out-of-the-way motel of her choice-"
  64 Not exactly, sir," said Lucas. "She chose the direction; I found the
  motel."
  "Some motel in her part of town, then. You still think she's relatively
  unimportant. And then you decide when you're talking to me that she must be
  an eyewitness to Carl Neilson's murder, and on that comforting thought you
  go to bed. Leaving her to skip out in the middle of the night with a couple
  of accomplices. What made you think she hadn't killed the man? Do we have
  a better suspect?"
  "Her hands were clean. She hadn't fired a gun. And we got her right after
  the phone call went in. For God's sake, the guy was still bleeding when the
  constable got there," said Lucas defensively.
 "Gloves? Rubber gloves?" snapped Baldwin.
  "There weren't any," said Eric Patterson, who had walked into the office
  without knocking-or any other ceremony-as was his habit. "We've combed
  through the entire
 38             MEDORA SALE

 apartment. And there's no place to stash them between the apartment and
 where the cadet grabbed her. And before you ask-no one's opened the windows
 since they were last painted, a year ago, but Just in case, we searched
 every inch of land under them anyway."
 "Did you search her?"
  Patterson looked at Lucas, who shook his head uneasily. "I didn't. But she
  wasn't wearing very much, and it was pretty tight."
  "So," said Baldwin. "She could have slipped a pair of surgeon's gloves in
  her underwear."
  "There's something else," said Patterson, yawning. "She might have hidden
  the gloves, but we didn't find a weapon, either. Harder to miss. Did she
  look strange to you, Robert? Like she had a Beretta in her bra?"
  "Listen, she couldn't have hidden a hairpin in the outfit she was wearing."
 "Or a Colt in-"
  "Watch it, Eric," said Baldwin. "Well, if you're right, and she didn't
  shoot him, then she must know something about the person who did. I want
  her found. Soon. Today. How far can she have gotten since the middle of
  last night?" Lucas looked at Patterson and shrugged his shoulders. The
  answer, of course, was that she could be landing in Paris right now. "And
  as soon as you get any sort of lead on her, I want to know. I'm under great
  pressure to find out who killed Neilson. Fielding has already called a
  couple of times this morning. We need results, and fast."
  "I sure as hell screwed that up," said Lucas gloomily as they walked back
  down the corridor.
  "Don't worry about it. She's probably not that hard to find. You want me to
  get onto it?"
  "Don't bother. How many people can it take to find one girl? What I can't
  figure out is what's gotten into Baldwin. You'd think Marty Fielding was
  the goddamn mayor. Or the prime minister."
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        39

  "Jesus-where have you been for the last year?" said Patterson.
  "Out of it, obviously. Who's Fielding? Besides being a rich lawyer. I
  know that."
  "Fielding is the membership secretary of the Yacht Club. No, it's not
  even The Yacht Club. Baldwin doesn't aspireyet-to The Yacht Club. It's
  the Sandy Cove Yacht Club. You know. Number two. We try harder."
 "I see. And Baldwin wants to join-"
 "Right. And so he doesn't want Fielding annoyed at him."
  "He's crazy. He should keep his boat at a marina. It's cheaper and less
  aggravating."
  "Oh, he doesn't have a boat. If he gets in the Yacht Club, he's going to
  buy a boat and learn how to sail." Eric chuckled. "I wonder if Marianne
  gets seasick," he added softly.
 "Marianne?"
  "His wife. Last year it was horses, remember? He took riding lessons, the
  whole thing."
 "Yeah, I remember."
  "Only Marianne kept breaking out in some sort of rash, and they
  discovered she was allergic to horses. So he had to find something else."
  Patterson's gossipy, malicious voice went on and on while Lucas tried to
  imagine Baldwin on a boat. He was a big man, used to getting his own way
  through sheer size and forcefulness. Lucas imagined him standing by the
  mast, roaring at the wind to blow from the right quarter and stop all
  this messing about. And then-wonderful thoughtbeing swept overboard.
  Boats. His thoughts drifted away from Baldwin. Lucas's father belonged
  to The Yacht Club, all ties, blazers, white flannels, and quarts of gin.
  Those sails, at least twice a summer, in his father's Nonesucb, with his
  stepmother lying about chattering and oozing sex all over the place. His
  father, to give him credit, still regarded sailing from the point of view
  of the serious racer he once had been and preferred to stay quiet and
  sober on the water;
 40             MEDORA SALE

 if Tricia hadn't been along, Lucas might have enjoyed himself. But there was
 no point in going sailing with someone who talked incessantly. On a boat, in
 the middle of the lake, was the only place around where you could get away
 from the interminable sound of voices and phones ringing and bloody internal
 combustion engines. He shrugged. Patterson's monologue seemed to have
 exhausted itself. He went back to finish his cold coffee and Danish before
 setting off for the motel.

 The March sun poured down on the ferry dock as the M/V Uncatena edged gently
 away from Vineyard Haven. Inspector John Sanders, Metropolitan Toronto
 Police Department, Homicide, and Harriet Jeffries, free-lance architectural
 photographer, were up on deck, leaning companionably against the rail,
 staring down into the water. They were almost alone. Most of the people
 crossing were islanders, year-round residents of Martha's Vineyard, and for
 them the off-island trip was routine enough to make them consider hot coffee
 and a warm, comfortable seat inside more important than looking at
 late-winter scenery.
  "It's beautiful, isn't it?" said Harriet, yawning and pulling her coat more
  tightly around her.
  "The parking lot?" asked John, pointing to the broad expanse of asphalt
  where cars lined up to get on the ferry.
  "No, you benighted idiot-the island. Now. In March. With lots of cold wind
  and no tourists. Except for us, of course." She turned to look at him. "Do
  you suppose that the locals saw us and groaned-here comes the tourist sea-
  son all over again?"
  "Maybe they took us for a sign of spring-like robins." He wrapped his arm
  tightly around her shoulders. "After all, the sun started to shine just as
  we pulled into the harbor on
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        41

 Wednesday. We've given them three whole days of good weather."
  "I still can't believe that we actually got here," said Harriet. "That
  you were willing to walk out and leave them all behind. How much vacation
  time did you say you had accumulated?"
  John ignored the question. "Me? When did you last take a holiday?"
  "I never take holidays," said Harriet smugly. "I merely change my working
  locale temporarily when I get sick of Toronto architecture." She giggled
  huskily. "And alter my working hours somewhat."
  "To between eleven and eleven-thirty on Tuesdays and Wednesdays."
  "Something like that." Harriet leaned forward over the rail and looked
  past her companion in the direction of the open water. "You know, you
  could be right. About our bringing good weather. Look at that."
  The ferry was gliding tranquilly into a wall of fog. Somewhere close to
  their ears, a crew member loosed a melancholy, ear-splitting blast of the
  horn as the world disappeared behind a blanket of gray. Harriet jumped
  and then shivered in the cold dampness. "What a magnificent atmosphere,"
  she said. "All we need is a ghost ship to come drifting past."
  "If we're really lucky," said Sanders with a grin, "we'll have to put
  back into harbor and won't be able to get off the island for another
  week. Maybe I should have a word with the captain-"
  "No chance of that," said a pleasant-looking man who had suddenly
  appeared next to them, also leaning on the rail, "No need to be nervous.
  That's my cousin in there," he added, nodding in the direction of the
  bridge. "And a little fog never bothered him."
 "I wasn't nervous," said Sanders irritably. He felt that a
 42             MEDORA SALE

 significant moment had fled, and he resented this man for chasing it away.
  "We just don't want to go home, that's all," added Harriet. "Are you from
  the Vineyard?"
  "Yes, just back for a few days. Visiting." Reluctantly, Sanders
  relinquished his hold on Harriet, and the three of them fell into the kind
  of inconsequential chatter that serves to pass the time on brief voyages
  such as this.
  "What are you thinking about?" asked Harriet, when their newfound
  acquaintance had taken himself off for a final cup of coffee. "You look-1
  don't know-profound. Or maybe gloomy. Worrying about what's happening at
  home while you're not there? Or is this the effect of three days alone on
  an island with me?"
  "Why should I worry about what's going on at home?" Sanders grinned at her.
  "What could possibly be going on that they can't handle without me? No
  one's indispensable, Harriet, my love. Not even me."
  "I'm indispensable," said Harriet. "And don't you forget it." She ducked
  his mock attack and deftly caught his wrist as it went by. "And that looks
  very like Woods Hole up there. We should be thinking about getting the
  car-and then onward. To Boston."
  "Backward, you mean," said Sanders sourly. "We're on our way back. And my
  gloom certainly isn't retrospective. It's the thought of next week that
  doesn't exactly fill me with joy right now." He released his wrist gently
  from her grasp and put his arm around her again. "What is there about us?
  We've never spent more than a week together since we met."
  11 But it has been the most gorgeous holiday, hasn't it) And we promised
  not to wreck it by getting into fights over what happens next," said
  Harriet lightly. Then she shook her head. She turned to face the wind, and
  her green eyes filled with tears. "Damn it. Why in hell am I trying to
  sound like Pollyanna? You're right. It is going backward. Come
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         43

 on. Let's get out of here." She twisted away from the solid comfort of his
 arm around her shoulders and headed for the companionway, following the
 small crowd down to the hold. Silently they climbed back into Harriet's car,
 ready to start the return journey.

 It took Rob Lucas a lot longer to drive to the motel during the day,
 fighting his way through a newly sprouted forest of road construction,
 delivery vans, and pedestrians. The manager was not pleased to see him. He
 had already dealt with the situation, written off the damage, and wanted no
 more to do with the police or anyone else on the issue. On the other hand,
 he didn't want to stand around all day arguing with a policeman in his
 lobby, and he agreed, finally, to rout the night man out of bed and send him
 to the conference room.
  In ten minutes the door opened and the desk clerk from the night before
  arrived with a tray. "Hl," he said. "I'm Bernie. I thought you might like
  some coffee. You brought that girl in last night, didn't you? I knew you
  were a cop. I can always tell. Here," he said, putting a cup and the cream
  and sugar in front of him. "Have some of this," he added, setting down a
  plate. "It's strudel. One of the maids makes it. It's better than the shit
  we serve in the coffee shop. Now, what can I do for you?"
  Lucas tried the strudel. Bernie was right. He mumbled his thanks through a
  mouthful of crumbling pastry and plunged in. "Okay, what happened last
  night after I left?"
  "To one-sixteen?" Lucas nodded. "Some guy comes to see her-asks for her by
  name, Jennifer Wilson, and says she's expecting him. Well, that happens,
  although I wouldn't have thought she was the type."
 "You didn't tag her for a hooker?"
  "Naw. Not her. Anyway, there's another guy sort of in the background, too,
  and that bothers me. Well, I tell him
 44             MEDORA SALE

 she's in one-sixteen, and he heads off to the corridor. It's the last unit
 in that wing, and I figure it'll take him a minute or so to get there. So I
 call the girl. I always do that. When they want to be surprised by some guy
 in the middle of the night, they give 'em their room numbers. She asks what
 he looks like, I tell her, she says thanks a lot, and that's it."
 "What did he look like?"
  "Kinda short, maybe a little bigger than me. And skinny. He had one of them
  blue caps like sailors wear, so I couldn't see his hair-but he had a dark
  mustache and a skinny face. Mean-looking bastard."
 "You notice a lot."
  "It's part of the business," said Bernie philosophically. "You meet a lot
  of strange people in hotels, and it's a good idea to recognize 'em when you
  run into them again. just so's you know where you're at."
 "What about the other guy?"
  "The one in the background? I didn't get a good look at him-just his back
  when he was going through the door into the corridor where one-sixteen is.
  But he's probably over six feet and maybe one ninety, two hundred pounds."
  "So what else happened?" he asked impatiently. "Anything?"
  Bernie looked at him with bright and cynical eyes and went on. "In a couple
  of minutes I get a call from onefourteen, something about a lot of noise
  next door. I go to look, the door's swinging open, and the lock's
  splintered; I check if the girl's there and call the cops from the room."
  He paused for a second. "Then I look at the door again. Someone's bust
  through the bolt and the chain. Not surprising-those door frames are pure
  crap. Anyway, the bathroom window's wide open. The screen's undone and been
  dropped outside. She must have left right after I called, because the room
  looked untouched except for the doors and the towels and the spot where she
  turned the bed down
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         4S

 to get out. You know what I mean? She had used the room, but it was neat,
 and no one was pulled around in it."
 "Did she walk on her bill?"
  "Nope. When she asked for a room she pulled a huge wad of cash out of her
  pocket and peeled off two fifties to pay for it. Room was sixty-five
  dollars. You figure she stole the money? That why you're here?"
  He shook his head. "I don't know. She's just a witness, mostly. Can I use
  that phone?"
 "Sure. Dial nine."
  It took a good five minutes to find someone who had a copy of the
  victim's possessions near to hand. "You got it there?" said Lucas
  impatiently. "Now, did Neilson have any cash on him?"
  "Jesus, yes. Didn't you know? He had-let's see$5,637.83 on him in cash.
  Mostly in fifties and twenties, a few hundreds."
  Lucas dropped the phone down in amazement. If Jennifer Wilson was a
  thief, she was a pretty restrained one.
 CHAPTER 4

 She sat in her car, shivering uncontrollably in spite of her warm clothes,
 and told herself she had to leave before someone came to the apartment
 looking for her. It was only going to be a matter of time-not days but hours
 or even minutes. After all, it hadn't taken them more than two or three
 hours to find the motel room. If she got away, she might be safe; there was
 nothing of hers left in the apartment. She had collected every last scarf
 and pair of panty hose and stuffed them all into the trunk of the car. And
 now light from early dawn was oozing its way through the cracks between the
 buildings. She had to get going. She started the engine, but her foot
 trembled so wildly on the accelerator that she stalled it again. She could
 never control the car. Well, stupid, she said to herself, you don't have any
 other choice. Get out or stay and be killed. She slipped the lever into
 drive and pulled away from the curb.
  She kept chewing over yesterday afternoon, her mind returning to it like a
  gerbil to its wheel. No, she thought, wrong image. More like a dog to its
  vomit. Trying to make sense of it. She had been lying in the bed with the
  sheet pulled up to her chin, dressed in the black bra and the hideous black
  stockings with the tacky garter belt. He had showered first. He always
  showered first, as if he suspected that she would befoul the bathroom for
  him. And he had locked her out, as he always did. What in hell did he do in
  the shower that could possibly be more embarrassing or
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        47

 disgusting than the things he did in bed? Play with her clothes? They were
 in the bathroom, as always. That was where he liked her to take them off,
 allowing her to prance into the bedroom half-undressed. That way he didn't
 have to look at her squirming out of her panty hose or dragging a sweater
 over her head. He had come out at last, red-faced, shiny, his little fringe
 of hair wet, and started to get dressed. She didn't move. He liked her to
 stay in bed, relaxed and happy-looking, until he left. Which was fine with
 her. Up until then the afternoon had seemed perfectly ordinary, although
 there was a tension in him, a kind of triumphant tension, as if he were
 about to make a killing on a deal.
  As he adjusted the knot of his tie, whistling softly, there was knocking on
  the door, first hesitant, then firmer. He looked at his watch, grinned,
  reached for his suit jacket, and turned in her direction. He had been
  expecting someone.
  "Come on," he said brusquely. He ripped off the sheet and grabbed her by
  the shoulder, digging his hand deep. "Out of bed, you lazy bitch," he said
  cheerfully, and yanked her over the side. "Into the bathroom-lose yourself.
  I don't want him to know there's anyone here, understand? It'll screw up my
  deal if he thinks someone's listening in. Don't come out until I tell you
  to, and don't run the goddamn water. Stay dressed like that." All this time
  his hand was digging into her shoulder, harder and harder, until, with a
  shove, he threw her in the direction of the bathroom.
  She closed the door, reached automatically for the lock, and then took her
  hand away in fear. Nausea twisted her stomach; her shoulder throbbed. She
  knew what was coming. She wrapped an outsize bath towel around her and sat
  down on the edge of the tub. And thought. Once before, only last week,
  someone else had turned up. He had dragged her half-naked out of bed and,
  smiling cheerfully, had grasped her around the waist and thrust her in the
  direction of his friend. "Nice, isn't she?" he had said. "She'll keep you
  entertained while I get those papers."
 48             MEDORA SALE

  She had been deeply offended. That had been the worst thing about it, she
  decided. It still made her squirm to remember that she had honestly
  believed that he would care how she felt. She told him with as much dignity
  as she could dredge up that she had no intention of entertaining his
  friends-that was no part of their deal. She could still see that look of
  momentary amazement on his face before he punched her. The blow landed on
  her cheekbone and sent her reeling across the room. His friend sat down,
  grinning drunkenly, and watched. Carl had picked her up with one hand
  around her upper arm, clenching it so hard that she thought the bone must
  break under the pressure, and dragged her over to the phone. He called the
  desk to send up his chauffeur, and when the man arrived, took the car keys
  from him and handed her over. "Hang on to her, Cassidy," he said. "Don't
  let her move. I'll be back."
  And they had remained like that, except that his grinning friend had helped
  himself to another drink, staring at her until she thought she would scream
  from the pain and embarrassment. In twenty minutes or so he had returned
  with two more men and a bedraggled-looking whore. She would not forget that
  afternoon in a hurry. Her ideas on the role of a mistress had been drawn
  from misty, romantic, nineteenth-century portraits. She had seen herself as
  the lady of the camellias from La Traviata: all champagne, diamonds, and
  beautiful clothes, with a little elegantly passionate sex thrown in. Not a
  participant in disgusting little orgies with slimy businessmen. She swore
  she wasn't going to go through that again.
  But when the chauffeur had turned up at her apartment that morning to drive
  her to the hotel, she had been alone. She stared at him, horribly conscious
  of how strong he was and how little he cared what his boss did. She had
  been too frightened to tell him she wouldn't come with him.
 But this is the last time, she had thought, sitting in
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         49

 Neilson's bathroom, with her feet on the damp bath mat. No more.
  She had not been able to hear what was being said, but there were more than
  two people out there. Something had not worked out; he had been expecting
  only one. Then the low-pitched voices from the living room changed. Someone
  was yelling threats-Carl? She heard a high-pitched scream; someone yelled
  "Shut up." Then Carl, roaring that they'd never get away with it. There was
  pain and terror in his voice. It wasn't until that moment that it occurred
  to her that she, too, was in danger. There were at least two people out
  there threatening Carl, and she was trapped in this room, unable to yell
  for help and hope to be heard. These apartments were well built; noise did
  not travel well from unit to unit. She looked frantically around the
  bathroom, and finally opened the only door available to her. It was the
  linen closet, built to fill in the space between the head of the tub and
  the wall. It had generous, deep shelves that were piled with extra towels
  and bedding, more than anyone could need. She could just fit between the
  shelves, she thought, if she were desperate. And she was desperate. She
  removed some hand towels from the middle shelf and threw them up to the
  top, along with the extra blankets, and then pulled the bath towels
  forward, clearing a space behind them. She grabbed her clothes from the
  counter, knocking over a bottle of the hideous perfume Carl had bought her
  and splashing it all everywhere. On her, on her clothes, on the shiny fake
  marble. She hastily mopped it up, slung the clothes on the back of the
  shelf, pushed aside the piles of towels, and crawled in. As she eased the
  pile back to its position in front of her, she heard the first shot.
  Unmistakable, but surprisingly muted. She yanked the door shut as well as
  she could without a handle on the inside, and discovered that the louvered
  door gave her a perfect view of the bathroom. A voyeur's dream, she
  remembered thinking,
 50             MEDORA SALE

 with fine irrelevancy, as the second gunshot rang out. She began
 frantically arranging the towels in front of her and waited. If Carl were
 wounded or dead, she had a chance; they might not find her in here. But
 if Carl had the gun, and those people were dead, what would he do with
 her? There was no point in trying to hide from him. She was horrified to
 find herself praying that he was dead as she listened for his familiar
 roar.
 There was silence, absolute and total.
  She cowered behind her wall of towels, trying desperately hard not to
  make any sound in the stillness. When the noise came at last, her body
  twitched convulsively, and the towels skidded over an inch closer to the
  edge of the shelf. It was a voice from the bedroom, probably, an odd
  voice, hoarse and squeaky. "There's a girl in here somewhere. This room
  stinks like a whorehouse. Jesus, smell that lousy perfume."
  "Don't be stupid," said the other voice. "Of course there was a
  girl-that's what he uses the place for. But she isn't here now. It stinks
  of that piece of crap on the floor. Sweat and terror-did you ever see
  anyone so damned scared in all your life? I loved it. Bastard."
  "Shut up and look-there's someone here." The squeaky voice throbbed with
  panic. "I know what I can smell."
  "Okay, okay." She crouched down lower. She heard the creak of the bedroom
  closet door. "Not here. Nobody. Try under the bed."
 "Don't be stupid. There's no room under the bed."
  At last the bathroom door opened. "This is where the smell comes from,"
  said the second voice. "Someone's spilled perfume in here." She heard the
  rattle of rings as the shower curtain was jerked back and felt a rush of
  cool air past her ear as the door to the linen closet opened. She held
  her breath and concentrated on invisibility. "There's no one here."
  "Well-she hasn't been gone long," said the first voice. The tone was
  grudging, irritated. "These sheets are still
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         51

 damp and sweaty. Do you think she saw us when we came in?"
  "Don't be stupid. If she'd seen us, we'd have seen her, wouldn't we? I
  don't know about you, but I was looking, and I didn't see any hooker
  anywhere in this building. I didn't see any female. But I suggest we get
  the hell out of here anyway. Some of the deaf biddies on this floor might
  have heard us."
  She heard a door slam. She waited, terrified, feeling her calf muscles
  seize up while she counted slowly to a hundred. Finally she pushed the
  towels over to one side again and crawled with difficulty out of the linen
  closet, landing facefirst in a heap on the damp towels Carl had left
  behind. She was sore; her legs and arms were unwieldy and unwilling to do
  what she asked of them. She started to massage her leg and then shook her
  head with impatience. There was no time for anything like that. She hastily
  pulled on the skimpy leather skirt and tiny sweater she wore for these
  encounters and walked silently over to the door. She counted to three and
  turned the doorknob, convinced that two people with guns in their hands
  would be sitting on the bed, smiling, waiting for her to come out. She
  pushed the door open. The room was empty.
  He was in the living room, lying on the pale blue rug, close to the archway
  that led to the hall, as if he had been trying to get to the front door
  when they killed him. She noted dispassionately that there wasn't much left
  of the back and top of his head, but that it had been enough to block the
  closet door from opening more than a few inches. Someone had tried. Looking
  for her, probably. She had always thought the living room was an odd place
  to have a coat closet in an apartment this expensive. For the briefest
  instant she contemplated trying to get close enough to the thing on the
  floor to reach in for her coat. She couldn't. She backed into the bedroom,
  and with panicky haste bent her mind to essentials. A pair of clean
  panties. Her boots,
 52             MEDORA SALE

 by incredible luck sitting in the bedroom closet. On her way through the
 living room, boots still in one hand, she snatched up the cordless
 telephone. Caught between the horror inside and the unknown terror that
 might be waiting for her in the dimly lit hallway, she cowered against the
 front door and dialed 911. When the impersonal voice asked for her name, she
 slid the button to "off" and let the instrument drop to the floor. She
 shoved her feet into her boots, and began doggedly to thread the laces
 around their metal cleats. Tears welled up in her eyes as she tried to
 control her trembling fingers. You can't leave with your laces undone, she
 screamed wordlessly to herself. They'll know where you've been if you do. It
 took a thousand echoing measures of time before her boots were laced and
 knotted and she could leave the apartment. She turned toward the elevator,
 changed her mind, and ran for the relative security of the stairs.
          CHAPTER 5

 Rob Lucas slammed open the door, walked into the room, and slumped down at
 his desk. Traffic arteries between the Blue Star Motel and downtown had been
 clogged with cars driven by irremediably pigheaded and stupid maniacs; his
 fatigue and irritability levels were reaching new heights, and he was
 beginning to wonder what he was doing here. He looked up at the mildly
 sympathetic features of Patrick Kelleher. "Hey, Kelleher," he said, "how in
 hell do you find one lost hooker in this whole goddamn city?"
  "You could try Vice," said Kelleher. "But I suppose you thought of that
  already."
  Lucas nodded gloomily. "Of course, it might be possible-naw-" He shook his
  head. "I keep this up, and I'll be looking for quarters from the tooth
  fairy."
 "What in hell are you talking about?"
 "She said she was a singer. But-"
  "YOU could try it. It must be easier to find a singer in this town than a
  hooker. Sheer numbers-there can't be that many singers."
 "I wouldn't be too sure," said Lucas, standing up.
  "And where in hell are you going?" asked Eric Patterson as he walked in and
  slung his coat down on an extra chair. "In case someone asks me to find
  you?"
  "Off to give Baldy his hourly report," said Lucas, "and to spend the
  afternoon trying to track down a band singer. How many bands do you figure
  there are in this town?"
 54             MEDORA SALE

  "No more than two or three thousand," said Patterson, grinning. "Happy
  hunting."
  Gloomily convinced that he was wasting his time, he decided to pretend
  that success was possible and started at the most obvious place-the
  Musicians' Union. He asked the voice at the other end of the line if a
  girl named Jennifer Wilson, who called herself Stormi Knight, was a
  member. There was a pause. "Yes," said the bored voice. "She's with a
  group called Sex Kitten." He was so startled, he had nothing to say.
 :, Do you have an address for her?" he asked at last.
  'No," said the voice coldly. "We don't give out that information. You
  could try her agent. Al Hamilton represents her. He's in the phone book,"
  she added, lest he tax her energy further by making her read out the
  agent's telephone number.
  "Yeah, she's one of mine," said Al Hamilton when Lucas finally got
  through to him. "She doesn't like being called Jennifer, though," he
  said. "Claims it's too sweet a name, too innocent- sounding for a singer.
  I think Stormi's worse myself, but what can you do? The group started out
  modified punk, you know, and wanted real hard-driving namesbut that stuff
  doesn't sell anymore, not for all the breadand-butter jobs. They're into
  soft rock, easy listening. They get a lot of work; people like them. You
  know, weddings, dances, that sort of stuff. They're out of town right
  now, doing a week at a ski resort." He paused to take a breath. "You
  wanna hire them?"
  "What do you mean, out of town?" protested Lucas. "I was talking to
  Jennifer-Stormi-last night."
  "Just a minute." There was a pause and a muffled roar in the background.
  "You're right. The job ended Wednesday. But they haven't called in yet.
  Kevin always calls as soon as they're back in town."
 "Kevin?"
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        SS

  "Yeah-it's his group, Sex Kitten is. Not Stormi's. Although you'd never
  know it to talk to her."
 "How far away is that resort?"
  "Who is this, anyway? You want to hire them, what difference does it make
  where the resort is?" Lucas identified himself once more, and the agent's
  voice lost most of its energy and enthusiasm. That level of excitement was
  reserved for paying customers. "I see. Well, it's not that far. It's the
  Pine Valley Lodge-about two hours away, unless you're driving on the
  weekend. Then it might as well be on the moon."
 "You got an address on her?" asked Lucas.
  "What's this all about?" he said, his voice crackling with suspicion.
  "Homicide. Someone was killed, and we'd like to talk to her. just as a
  witness, Mr. Hamilton. Look, you want to call me back? Look up the number
  in the phone book, ask for Homicide, then ask for me by name."
  "You know, Sergeant, I think I will," said the agent and hung up.
  He sounded relieved when he got through to Lucas again. "Sorry about that,
  but you wouldn't believe the sick guys out there trying to find out where
  the girls live. I gotta protect my musicians-they're an investment, you
  know," and he laughed to make sure Lucas realized he was being funny.
  "Anyway, she lives at four ninety-two Oak Street, downstairs, and I got her
  telephone number here, if you want it."
  But the telephone rang at 492 Oak Street sixteen times without any answer,
  and Lucas finally gave up. He reportedyet again-on his progress, giving
  Baldy the address as proof he was still on the job, and went off to look at
  Oak Street.
  It was a street that had gone from never having been elegant to being
  actively run-down. Here and there, a few
 56             MEDORA SALE

 hopeful people were trying to renovate, but for most of its short length
 it retained a forlorn air. A good place for a musician, he supposed. A
 rock band could rehearse all night, and it would never occur to the
 neighbors to complain. They might heave bricks through the window, but
 they wouldn't complain. At least, not to the police. The bell marked
 Ground Floor rang loud and empty through the rooms. He peered through a
 small window in the front door at a narrow vestibule holding a few coats
 and a pair of boots. He walked along the porch that spanned the front of
 the house and looked in the front window. A bedroom that without a doubt
 had once been the front parlor. Behind it, through an arch, he could see
 a dining room, with a round table and chairs in dark wood. Family
 castoffs, probably.
  He walked to the right and up a paved path that followed around the house
  into the back garden. The view through these windows was just as
  unhelpful. The back room was also a bedroom, unoccupied at the moment.
  He shrugged and headed back to his car. It seemed fitting, somehow, that
  she wouldn't be easy to find. But just before he unlocked his car door,
  another thought occurred to him. He walked back to 490, up a neat
  concrete path, to a new porch with shiny black metal railings and rang
  the bell. No answer. No one lived on this street during the day. He went
  back to his car. This wasn't even his case.

 It was too early to go home and too late to do anything useful. He had
 settled down at his desk to make up his final report for the day when Eric
 Patterson came in, looking haggard and exhausted. "How's it going?" Lucas
 asked lightly.
  " It isn't," said Patterson. "I've been trying to get something on his
  recent business deals. That five grand he had in his pants pocket wasn't
  there to tip the doorman. He
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         57

 has to have been mixed up in some transaction that was purely cash."
 "Blackmail?"
  Patterson shook his head. "Not that I can see. Maybe. I think it's more
  likely to be a sweetener for someone. I mean, it's too much money and not
  enough. See? Not enough for a deal-his deals are two-, three-million-dollar
  babies. Buildings, hotels, that kind of shit. And it's too much just to
  carry."
 "Maybe he was going to the track."
  He paused, running his hand over his stubbly cheeks. "No, track hasn't
  opened yet, has it? Still, you're right. It's a logical amount for a
  gambling man to carry. I'll look into that." He yawned and stretched back
  in his chair. "You get anything on that mysterious witness of yours?"
  "I've discovered that she exists. That's something. And she sings in a band
  and lives on Oak Street."
  "You and Baldy are both demented, chasing after this bimbo. You're wasting
  your time." He slung his feet up on the desk and leaned his head back on
  his arms.
  "Look, Eric. She was in that apartment when Neilson got shot. I'm sure of
  it. They found her coat in the closet, the closet he was leaning against.
  And she sure as hell didn't come in the apartment, find a corpse, move it,
  put away her coat, move it back again, and then call us. Did she?"
  Patterson grinned. "And she stank of that crummy perfume that was all over
  the apartment, too."
  "Did she? I hadn't realized that. I never actually saw her, you know. From
  my personal experience, she could just be a figment of your imagination.
  But how do you know it was her coat?"
  "It was black leather, and she was dressed in black leather, and it was her
  size, more or less."
 "Well, maybe."
 "What else did you find in the apartment?"
 Patterson removed his feet from the desk, leaned forward,
 S8             MEDORA SALE

 opened a drawer, and took out a sheet of paper. "Photocopy. Wonders of
 modern civilization. It's a nuisance having your reports snatched away
 from you as soon as you finish them. Anyway, we found-property of the
 hotel-"
 "Skip that."
  "Okay. We found, in the kitchen, a bottle of champagne, two apples, a
  quart of milk, a half bag of coffee and a glass container of orange
  juice. In the bathroom, besides the towels and stuff, we found one
  lipstick, Luscious Purple, one tube of mascara, one black pencil, one
  bottle of Ivory Princess liquid makeup, one container of white powder-it
  looked white to me, anyway-one bottle of Cobra perfume, almost empty, one
  jar of face cream, one bottle of moisturizer, and one box of tampons.
  Some of these things were in a drawer-the face cream and the tampons-the
  rest were all over the counter. In the bedroom drawers-"
 "Forget the bedroom drawers. That's my list."
  "All the sexy underwear and stuff. Okay. In the bedroom closet was a
  suit, gray, pin-striped. Living room closet: one ladies' black leather
  coat, one men's gray topcoat. Missing: shaving things, toothbrushes,
  toothpaste, that sort of thing. No one lived there."
  "It sounds as if she used to turn up early, get into that incredible
  outfit, including the makeup, and take it all off again before she left.
  Then she must have showered and put on clean underwear and left in her
  jeans again. Weird. I like the bottle of champagne. It's a nice touch for
  such a slob. I wonder if he always had a bottle."
  Patterson shook his head. "No. He had put in an order for it in the
  morning. He didn't usually ask for champagne, apparently. He often
  ordered a bottle or two of wine, which he also kept in the refrigerator.
  Oh-I forgot. There is a bar in the living room, and it contained-"
 "A lot of booze. Anything else?"
  Patterson laughed. "No. Except why do you call him a slob? Did you know
  him?"
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         59

  "Nope. I just took an unreasonable dislike to his face and his taste in
  women."

 It was ten o'clock the next morning before Lucas managed to get an answer at
 the agency. A sleepy Hamilton said that he hadn't heard from Stormi as yet
 and suggested that he try calling the resort himself.
  "I'll do that, Mr. Hamilton. Now, if I could trouble you for the addresses
  and the telephone numbers of the rest of the members of the band, maybe I
  won't have to bother you again."
  Hamilton groaned. "Look, first of all, you'd better get her mother's
  address and phone number. That's the one she uses most of the time. And
  sure, you can have the others. Phyllis!" he yelled, just off the
  mouthpiece. "Give this nice man the addresses for Sex Kitten, will you? My
  wife will get them for you." He yawned, and Lucas was handed over to yet
  another person.

 Lucas pulled up in front of a neat suburban two-story house and looked at it
 in surprise. He hadn't expected this kind of background, somehow. He had
 expected something against which a girl could rebel-poverty or ostentation.
 A small woman answered the bell, thin and pleasant-looking, with an open
 cheerful face.
  "Do come in," she said when she was able to break through his explanations.
  "There's a terrible wind today. I was out in the garden, just trying to
  tidy it up a bit before the ground gets too sloppy, and my hands got
  frozen. Here," she said, leading him into a small room, "we'll sit in the
  den. It's nicer, really. And I'll get you some coffee. I'll bet you've come
  right from downtown if you got this address from Mr. Hamilton. That's a
  long drive just to turn around and drive back again." She disappeared and
  returned
 60              MEDORA SALE

 in seconds with a tray with mugs of coffee, cream and sugar, and a plate
 of cookies. "Nothing homemade, I'm afraid. Since Jennifer left-she's our
 youngest-I don't bake as much. Now-Jennifer. I'm sorry I don't know where
 she is at the moment. She was up at that ski resort, and she hasn't got
 back yet."
 "I called the resort," said Lucas, and-"
  "Oh, the job is over, but Jennifer's taken a couple of days off. She
  likes the country, and she was awfully tired. They've been working almost
  steadily since Christmas. She'll call me as soon as she's back in town,
  though. That's our arrangement. I never worry if she's been out of town
  and doesn't get back right away. Unless I knew she had another job, then
  I might worry, but she doesn't. Not right away. But she'll be by to get
  her mail and collect her phone calls. She uses this as her official
  address still. She was sharing the flat with a girl named Amanda or
  Annabel or something like that, and they have a phone, but she prefers
  not to let p eople have that number. This way we can act as an answering
  service. We bought her one of those machines for Christmas-not that we
  mind taking her calls, but we thought she might like the privacy, but she
  said, no, and made us keep the machine. She says there are too many
  weirdos, she calls them, out there, and she doesn't want to have to deal
  with them."
  "Does she have a boyfriend who might know where she is?"
  "I don't think so. She used to go out with Ryan-he was in the band-but
  they had a fight, and Ryan got another offer and he went off to the West
  Coast, I think. She hasn't really had a boyfriend recently."
  Lucas smiled and drank his coffee. There was obviously a limit to what
  Jennifer told her mother. "Why does she dye her hair black, Mrs. Wilson?"
  he asked out of a sudden anxiety and desire to make sure they were
  talking about the same Jennifer Wilson.
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        61

  "Oh, she hasn't gone and done that again, has she?" said her mother, with
  a look of half-amused distress on her face. "I knew we shouldn't have gone
  down to Florida. I thought I'd finally talked her out of doing things to
  her hair. She has such pretty hair, and it looks terrible like that. I keep
  telling her it'll all fall out if she keeps on dyeing it these awful colors
  every few months, and she just smiles and says it's part of the act and if
  she goes bald, she'll get herself a fancy wig. After all, she says, Dolly
  Parton wears wigs, and look at the money she makes. You just can't argue
  with her. She's that sharp. And funny when she wants to be."
  Lucas put down his coffee mug and rose to his feet. "Thank you, Mrs.
  Wilson. You've been very helpful. And please let us know if you hear from
  Jennifer. Call me at this number," and he lotted down his name and the
  number, 66and if I'm not there, ask for Sergeant Patterson, or failing
  that, Inspector Baldwin. They'll all know what you're talking about. Of
  course, you can always leave a message, and I'll get back to you." He hoped
  she had absorbed the fact that he really wanted to hear from her, although
  from the slightly distracted look in her eyes, he doubted it. "I don't
  think your daughter realizes how important her evidence is-she probably
  doesn't realize even what she was looking at when she witnessed the event.
  So she probably won't think to contact us." He would have been happier if
  he had thought she was listening to him; but she seemed to be one of those
  people who rarely give concentrated attention to any monologues but their
  own.

 Eric Patterson was leaning back in his chair again, looking considerably
 livelier than he had the day before. "So-how's the mystery witness tour
 going?" he said, and put his feet up on the desk in the attitude of a man
 who expects to be amused.
 62             MEDORA SALE

  "Not only does she exist, Patterson, you slob, but she has parents and
  a nice house in the suburbs. The only thing that puzzles me is that both
  her agent and her parents are under the impression that she is in the
  north woods right now and hasn't been near the big city in a week."
  "Really?" said Patterson, removing his feet from the desk in honor of the
  occasion. "Maybe you're chasing the wrong chickadee."
  4' 1 thought about that, but you know, Pine Valley isn't far from here.
  She could have come down. Neilson was killed the day after they finished
  their stint up there. There's a big name group in there for the weekend
  now-they were just a filler."
  "So she came down to see him, meaning to go back and loaf around with the
  boys in the band," said Eric, grinning, 66 only events intervened, and
  she got nabbed by us. So as soon as she can get away, she scoots off back
  to the woods to recover. And those sinister figures stalking the
  corridors of the motel whatever-it-was were just Joe and Ed from the
  band."
  "Guys in rock bands aren't called Joe and Ed," said Lucas. "But if that's
  true, why would she duck out on them? And why would they rip the door off
  its hinges instead of just waiting for her to answer?"
  Patterson ignored the question. "That means you'll have to wait until her
  ma or her agent calls you." Lucas nodded. "And that means you'll be
  available to canvass everyone on the second and third floors of the
  Karlsbad Hotel to find out if they heard anything."
  "Come off it, Patterson. It's a hotel. You aren't going to find any
  witnesses still there from Thursday," said Lucas.
  "Don't be stupid. Those floors are where the permanent residents live-or
  didn't you know that?"
  "I suppose I did. No one has reported hearing a gunshot? What was he
  killed with, by the way?"
 "A twenty-two. Understated-"
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        63

  "And relatively quiet. A professional?"
  "Possibly. Doesn't make things any easier, does it?"

 Sanders stepped into his apartment at nine o'clock on Sunday night and was
 overwhelmed with a powerful sense of oppression. It had been his suggestion
 to end the holiday then, to make a swift break between love and work.
 Harriet had given him a look he had trouble interpreting and then agreed
 that it was a good idea, pointing out that it was going to take her the rest
 of the evening to sort out a week's worth of mail and telephone messages. It
 had been one of his crummier ideas. He wondered if she felt as alone and
 abandoned at this particular moment as he did. He rummaged around in the
 refrigerator for a beer, pushed a pile of books and newspapers off his most
 comfortable chair, and reached for the telephone.
  "Ed," he said, with relief when he heard the voice on the other end. "How
  are things? What's been happening while I've been away?" His shoulders
  dropped in relaxation, and he raised the bottle to his lips.
  "No," said Sanders. "Haven't heard a thing. We were in the States. You'd
  have to assassinate the Pope in Toronto for it to hit the news on Martha's
  Vineyard." He listened for a moment. "Yeah, I remember Carl Neilson. Didn't
  he try to buy the entire town council in King City or someplace like that
  three or four years ago? They almost got him for it, too. Thank God I was
  away. Let Baldwin screw it up." John Sanders listened for five more minutes
  without interrupting before saying good-bye and gently replacing the
  receiver. He stood up and walked over to the window; he stared thoughtfully
  at the forest of high rises silhouetted against the black night, shook his
  head, and reached for the telephone again.
 CHAPTER 6

 "He always was a stupid bastard," said Ed Dubinsky softly. The sergeant
 shoved the loose papers on his desk to one side to clear a space for his
 partner to sit on, close enough to hear him. "Well, maybe not stupid,
 exactly. Anyway, they should get him the hell out of this department."
 "What's gone wrong with the case?" asked Sanders idly.
  "Aside from the fact that Matt Baldwin's been running it? I'm not quite
  sure," said Dubinsky with uncharacteristic humility. "Maybe it's that the
  widow's lawyer is Marty Fielding. Baldwin's scared shitless of Fielding.
  Always has been."
  "Wasn't there something about Carl Neilson and girls?" asked Sanders.
  Dubinsky rocked his hand gently back and forth. "Who can tell? He owned
  that place down on Dundas, La Celestina
 remember? Hooker was killed in the alley behind it. We sniffed around him a
 bit because it looked like she used to work out of the restaurant, but
 nothing came of it. That was Baldwin, too, wasn't it?" he said innocently.
 "And Patterson. They nailed the pimp for it, but he got off. He was a
 vicious bastard, that pimp. But that doesn't mean he killed the hooker."
  "Christ, I feel like I never left the city," said Sanders gloomily. "What
  have you been working on?"

 Forty-eight hours had passed by, forty-eight hours in which Lucas had
 knocked on doors and attempted to interview
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         65

 the residents of the Karlsbad Hotel, the shopkeepers on both
 sides of the street, the owners of the town houses behind
 the hotel. Nothing. He had collected a few reminiscences,
 several diatribes on the disintegration of society, and a great
 many baffled looks. Now he sat at his desk, meticulously
 fleshing out his report on the material he had collected. It
 was not difficult to write. No one had heard anything even
 remotely resembling gunfire. No one had noticed anyone
 behaving in a suspicious manner. In fact, no one had noticed
 anyone. People who had been home had been sleeping, or
 watching television, or listening to the radi 11-
                            io; everyone else had been finishing late
                            lunches, shopping, going to movies, even
                            working. Those, of course, were the people who
                            could remember what they were doing three days
                            ago. Most hadn't the faintest idea.
  Eric Patterson padded into the room, settled himself at his desk, and
  looked at his watch.
  "What's up?" said Lucas, yawning. "You're looking pale and sinister,
  Patterson, like a tired wolf about to eat Red Riding Hood. You should get
  more sleep."
  "Nothing the matter with me," said Eric, turning his chair half around so
  he could stretch his legs out past the desk. "I don't need ten hours a
  night in the sack to wrap up a simple case like this."
 Lucas ignored the crack. "So what's up?"
  "Not that much. just a hunch, what you might call a twitch in the gut. I've
  been nosing around Neilson's phony corporation, and there's one bastard
  that looks like a rabbit smelling the stew pot every time you ask him a
  question. I think I'll have another go at him this afternoon."
 "Who is he?"
 "The treasurer." Patterson grinned cheerfully.
  "Does he look like someone who owns an illegal twentytwo?"
  "He doesn't have to. He could have connections somewhere. Everybody's got
  some kind of connections. Anyway,
 66              MEDORA SALE

 I just want to bounce him a few times and see how high he jumps." He looked
 at his watch again. "Well, I'm off. Timing is everything." With that, he
 loped out of the office like a cynical wolfhound, his raincoat flying out
 behind him.
  And that meant that it was Rob Lucas's hand reaching for the telephone when
  the call came through. "Four ninetytwo Oak Street, lower apartment," droned
  the clear, businesslike voice. "Female, tentatively identified as Jennifer
  Wilson, age twenty-three, apparently bludgeoned to death sometime during
  the night." For a moment he sat absolutely still. He could see her standing
  in the restaurant, looking absurdly childlike in his blue sweater,
  observing him coolly; then waving her arm in the direction of his face and
  teasing him about his looks. His stomach twisted painfully and he got up.
  In the flurry that followed, he remembered to drop a note on Baldy's desk,
  grateful at least that he was not in the office to discover that their
  witness was now dead. He should have taken her midnight flight more
  seriously, done something more aggressive to protect her. "Christ
  almighty," he said to the walls of the elevator, "I might as well have
  killed her myself and been done with it," and punched hell out of the
  buttons.
  Six or seven people were standing around that large front bedroom when
  Lucas got there, waiting for someonehim-to arrive and start more things
  happening. "How did he gain entry?" he snapped.
  "Through this window," said a constable who was leaning against the frame
  of the bay window in the front of the room. "It was unlocked, maybe even
  open a crack. You can see pry marks in the wood of the sill. A crowbar or
  something like that. Rusty."
  Reluctantly, he looked down at the girl on the floor and froze. She was
  facedown, dressed in a long flannelette nightgown with little flowers on
  it. One side of the nightgown
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         67

 was caught under her, revealing a stick-thin leg as far as a smooth pale
 thigh. There was no mystery about the cause of death. Someone had smashed in
 the back of her skull with tremendous force. Blood and tissue had congealed
 in a black and sickening mess, horribly visible against her pale blond hair.
 Straight, short, blond hair. "Is this the girl you called in about?" he
 snapped finally at the constable standing near the door.
  "Yeah, this is the girl." He looked askance at Lucas, as if wondering if
  the man were entirely sane. "The neighbor rang the doorbell, and when no
  one answered, she looked in the window. She said the girl's name is
  Jennifer Wilson. She's out on the porch if you want to talk to her."
  "This is Jennifer Wilson?" he repeated stupidly. "Have you guys finished
  taking pictures?" he asked. The photographer nodded. "Anyone mind if I turn
  her over for a second?" The photographer shrugged. No one else said a word.
  Lucas took her gently by the thinnest, narrowest shoulders he had ever
  touched on an adult and turned her stiffening body over. Blue eyes stared
  at him above a thin, slightly curving nose and a narrow mouth, all set in
  a slightly elongated face. She would have been a pretty girl, he thought,
  with life in that face, and probably spectacular when made up for the
  stage. But there was one thing that she certainly was not. She was not his
  Jennifer Wilson. She was five inches shorter and twenty or thirty pounds
  lighter, and although his Jennifer hadn't been particularly large, this
  girl was elfin in her tininess-a doll-like creature. She was also, he
  observed with dismay, the daughter of the nice woman in the suburbs. Every
  bone in her face told him that. "Damn," he said at last, and set her back
  the way she had been found.
  "Has someone gone through her things?" he snapped. Silence. "I want to know
  if it's all hers. It shouldn't be too
 68              MEDORA SALE

 hard to tell. She must be size one, if there is such a thing. If you find
 anything that seems to belong to someone else, let me know."
 "What about prints?" said an intrepid voice.
 "After they've finished," he said. "After they've finished."

 The murder weapon-a rusty and aged-looking crowbarhad been extracted from
 the leafless bushes in front of the house. No particular attempt had been
 made to conceal it, for the excellent reason that concealment was
 unnecessary. The chances of tracing it to anyone were very dim. It was
 covered with blood and hair, undoubtedly Jennifer Wilson's, and no doubt the
 pathologist would find corresponding rust marks in the wound, but it was one
 of thousands of rusty crowbars in the city, of exactly the same design, and
 there was not a recoverable fingerprint on any of its surfaces.
 Plastic-shrouded, it had made its futile trip to the lab shortly after
 Jennifer Wilson's body, also plastic-shrouded, had left for the morgue.
 Lucas headed for the back bedroom. The print crew had been through and was
 now at work on the front bedroom; he was in full possession. There were twin
 beds, each covered with a thin orange bedspread, both concealing naked
 mattresses. In the corner was an old chest of drawers, empty even of dust
 particles. The closet was bare, except for a handful of wire coat hangers;
 even the wicker wastepaper basket had nothing in it but a plastic tab from
 an adhesive bandage. He collected it carefully and put it away, forlorn hope
 though it was. The bedside table in between the two beds had a drawer with
 an old ballpoint pen inside it. No matchbook covers from favorite hangouts,
 no name on the pen. No revealing letters jammed carelessly under the
 drawers. just a few curls of dust under the beds and a couple of darker
 patches on the walls where pictures had been. Posters, he supposed, judging
 by the size.
                 SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        69

        He was interrupted in his reverie by one of the constables
       who was working on the front room. "Hey, Sergeant," he
       said. "You want to talk to the neighbor? She says she's
       getting chilly out there."
        "For chrissake, you mean she's still on the porch? Why
       didn't you tell her to go home?"
        141 did," he said, with the look of a long-suffering and
       misunderstood man. "She didn't want to miss any of the
       excitement."
 0"Well, tell her again. I'll be over in a minute."
        It was actually closer to five minutes later when he pre
       sented himself on the concrete porch and rang the bell. This
       time it was answered almost at once by a plump elderly lady
       with bright and curious eyes, who regarded him steadily as
       he introduced himself, and then picked up his ID suspi
       ciously and stared at it long enough to memorize it. "Come
       in, Sergeant," she said finally. "You're the person who came
       a few days ago to see Jennifer, aren't you? I saw you crawl
       ing around her garden, trying to get in the back window. I
       thought police weren't supposed to do that. That's what
       they say on television, you know. But perhaps it's only in
       stories that police don't break into people's houses."
        He sighed and braced himself for trouble. "You were in
       when I came out here before? When I stood here and rang
       your doorbell?"
        "Oh, yes." She nodded vigorously. "I'm always in during
       the afternoon. That's when I take my rest. Very important,
       the doctor told me. That's why I didn't answer the door.
       Besides, you know, I couldn't tell who you were. And crawl
       ing around the garden like that, you could have been a
       burglar. Or a rapist." As she spoke, she led him slowly into
       a living room filled with dark, overstuffed furniture and a
       multitude of little tables. He picked his way carefully
       through the hazards and perched on the edge of a chair,
       taking out his notebook as he went down.
        "Another policeman was out here looking for her yester- 70             MEDORA SALE

 day as well," she observed brightly. "I suppose she must have been in some
 sort of difficulty." She waited a hopeful second or two for a response and
 then ploughed on. "Had something stolen, I expect. You never know-the people
 who live here these days-it gets worse and worse. Anyway, I was in the
 garden. It was in the morning, and I always work outside for a little while
 during the day unless the weather is too bad. It's very important to get out
 every day, you know. That's what the doctor says."
  "Who was this policeman?" asked Lucas in the momentary pause while she
  caught her breath.
  "Oh, I wouldn't know that. He didn't actually say he was a policeman, you
  know; he just looked like one."
  "Did he show you any identification? Like that card I showed you?"
  "Oh, no," she said, almost shocked. "Of course not. But he didn't want to
  come into my house, you see. I would never allow anyone in my house who
  didn't have proper identification-I'm very careful-but he just wanted to
  know about Jennifer. It's funny, he said the thin girl with black hair, and
  she is thin, too thin, but I told him no, she didn't, she had blond hair,
  and that black hair was just a wig. She had three wigs, you know. Very
  expensive they were. One all fluffy and curly and long, the same color as
  her own hair-a Dolly Parton wig, she called it. And the black wig he was
  talking about. And then a lovely dark red wig-that was my favorite. She was
  telling me all about them one day when she came over for tea. I wasn't
  feeling too good, and she was so excited about them that she went and got
  them and modeled them for me. She used them for her work. She was a singer,
  you know. For one of those rock bands. Such a lovely girl."
  "Can you tell me anything more about this man who came around yesterday?"
  said Lucas with a sense of almost suffocating impatience.
 "What else do you want to know?" she asked vaguely.
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         71

 "I mean, he was a tall man, and he had a raincoat on, and one of those
 tweed hats."
 "How old was he?"
 "Not very old. No, not very old at all."
 "my age?"
  "How old are you? You don't have to answer that," she added archly. "He
  could have been your age, or older. Or maybe younger. It's so hard to
  tell what age a man is, don't you find? Women are easier, I think."
 "What color was his hair?"
  "He had a green hat on, I know that. I don't think I saw his hair color.
  He had blue eyes," she added, "or maybe brown."
 Lucas tried another tack. "What did he want to know?"
  "Oh, he just wanted to know if Jennifer was back yet from her job. I said
  she was, but she was out. She'd just come in yesterday morning about ten,
  and she'd popped over to see me-I keep a key to her flat when she's out
  of town, in case of emergencies, you see, because her roommate's never
  home and the girl on the top floor is out at work every day and goes away
  every weekend, and if you ask me, she doesn't spend every night at home
  during the week, either, but that makes her a nice quiet neighbor, so I'm
  not complaining."
  "What roommate?" asked Lucas. "There doesn't seem to be-"
  "Oh, well, then, maybe she's moved out. I thought I hadn't seen her for
  a while. Anyway, Jennifer had to run out and do some shopping, and that
  was when he came around. He said he was sorry he missed her, but he'd
  call back some other time. She said he was probably selling insurance,
  but he didn't look to me like a salesman. It was when she got back that
  she said that-she'd popped in again because I'd asked her to get me a
  pound of butter while she was out."
  "What time did you say this man came around? Tenthirty?"
 72             MEDORA SALE

  For a brief miraculous moment, there was a pause. "Yes. Because I had just
  gone out into the garden, and I go out at ten-thirty, right after my tea,
  and he was just walking up the path between the houses."
  When he got back to Jennifer Wilson's flat, his ears still ringing from the
  monologue, the front bedroom was clear for inspection. He stood in the
  center of the room and looked around him. The double bed was almost
  unrumpled. She must have climbed out of bed when she heard her attacker,
  leaving behind that slight hump in the bedclothes and a flash of visible
  sheet. Why hadn't she screamed? Or perhaps she had, and no one had heard
  her. Another question for the neighbors.
  He started with the closet. It was small and jammed with clothes. On the
  left she kept her spangled, gaudylooking stage costumes; next to them was
  an assortment of ordinary casual garments: skirts, sweaters, sweatshirts,
  and jeans. But every piece of clothing was tiny. As was all the underwear
  lying in the drawers. No one larger than Jennifer Wilson could have
  struggled into any of it. The walls were covered with posters and
  photographs of the real Jennifer as Stormi Knight, some of them alone, some
  with the five male members of the band surrounding her.
  On the top shelf of the closet (how had she reached up that high? he
  wondered, and then saw a solidlooking stool pushed into a corner) were
  three hatboxes. He carried them over to the bed and looked inside. There
  were the wigs the neighbor had seen: the Dolly Parton; the black one-long
  and straight, designed to make her look ghoulish; and the dark red one. And
  this was the reason that little Jennifer Wilson was dead. For owning a
  black wig and, one gloomy day, modeling it as a joke for her neighbor, to
  cheer her up when she wasn't feeling well.
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         73

 The sun, sulking behind some ineffectual clouds, had almost set before
 Lucas got back to his desk. His head ached, his hands were shaky, his
 stomach rebellious. Guilt and misery and total bafflement, that was why
 he felt this way. Guilt because it was his inefficiency that had caused
 a harmless girl to be killed, and guilt because his first reaction when
 he saw that silky blond hair and realized that the victim had not been his
 Jennifer Wilson was profound relief. After a moment's consideration he
 added hunger. There had never seemed to be a moment in this day when going
 off to eat lunch had been even a slight possibility.
  The interview with Mrs. Wilson had been acutely painful and completely
  useless. She was confused and baffled, unable to understand why anyone
  could want to harm her Jennifer. As he listened, a nagging voice in his
  head was muttering, No one did want to kill her; he wanted to kill an
  over-made-up, perfumed little whore, who for some reason borrowed your
  daughter's name. For a horrified instant, he thought he had said the
  words aloud, but Mrs. Wilson had continued to stare helplessly at him,
  tears sliding down her cheeks unheeded, with no change in expression. It
  wasn't going to help the woman bear her grief to hear that Jennifer's
  death was just a mistake. And perhaps it wasn't. There are, after all,
  many painfully familiar reasons for pretty, fragi le-loo king, harmless
  girls getting themselves killed. He had ventured to ask her if her Jenni-
  fer had known another Jennifer Wilson, a girl with black hair, and Mrs.
  Wilson had silently shaken her head. She had no time for such irrelevant
  questions, she seemed to be saying. Not now.
  She had come to the conclusion, finally, that Jennifer's death had been
  caused by a demented person, not responsible for his actions, and that,
  curiously enough, she did find
 74             MEDORA SALE

 comforting. Miserably, Rob Lucas agreed that this could very well be what
 had happened, and assuring her that they were doing everything in their
 power to find whoever it was, he fled from the scene.
  He had sat in his car a block away from the Wilsons' house and thought. It
  was possible, of course, that the man in the green hat had had nothing to
  do with the Wilson girl's death. He hadn't believed it when he first heard
  about him; he didn't believe it now, but he still had to behave as though
  the possibility existed. So now it was time to look at the boys in the
  band.
  Kevin was tiresome. He bounced between playing the aggrieved juvenile,
  defensive and hostile, and the horrified adult, ready to string sex
  murderers from the highest tree. For just as Mrs. Wilson had clung to the
  notion that Jennifer had been the victim of a poor demented creature, Kevin
  clung to an image of sex-crazed pervert. He did, however, provide a
  rational explanation for the band's disappearance. This had been the first
  time that they had had a full week off since before Christmas, and they had
  spent three days in a borrowed chalet, skiing and eating and drinking and
  sleeping. And which of them, Lucas had asked, had been sleeping with
  Jennifer? None of them, Kevin swore. Not since Ryan left. She had said she
  would never mix work and sex again. And she hadn't. What had happened with
  Ryan had almost broken the group up just when they were getting somewhere.
  Rob filed that away for future reference and left Kevin to cope with his
  grief and how to find another girl singer.
  The rest of the group-Steve, Scott, and Brad-had all been huddled together
  in Scott's apartment, looking nervous, confused, and alike. Their only
  contribution was that Ryan was capable of smashing his ex-girlfriend's
  skull in if he hadn't been in San Francisco that week. But none of them,
  not Kevin, not his three interchangeable sidemen, had ever seen or heard of
  a girl with black curly hair who called
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        75

 herself Jennifer Wilson. Lucas yanked the keyboard closer to him and started
 to write up a report. Maybe he'd get something to eat later.

 Lucas walked in the next morning to discover a major reorganization in work
 loads. Kelleher was now coordinating the investigation into the death of the
 Wilson girl. Lucas could feel the weight lifting from his shoulders. With
 luck, he might never have to face Mrs. Wilson again.
  "Great," he said. "Just watch the woman next door. She'll strangle you in
  the world's longest sentence."
  "She can't be worse than my mother," said Kelleher. "And I've survived
  thirty-five years of listening to her." He got up and reached for his
  jacket. "I think I'll be off and have a look at that rock band. I'd like to
  get them before they're awake. I read the stuff you wrote up last night-
  anything left out as not suitable for Baldy's tender ears?" Lucas opened
  his coffee and took out his Danish, shaking his head, and then stopped.
  "Yeah-there is one thing. I sent someone to check the prints in the Wilson
  girl's apartment against my missing witness. Any results?"
  "You haven't seen them? Your witness's prints are all over the place. The
  back room, the victim's bedroom, everywhere. When you find her, I'd like a
  word. Like, where was she in the middle of the night?"
  Lucas turned his back on the rest of the room, put his feet up on the
  window ledge and worked on his breakfast while he considered the problem of
  finding Miss X. The chances were pretty good that her name was nothing like
  either Jennifer Wilson or Stormi Knight, so he might as well stop thinking
  of her as Jennifer. That, of course, explained why she didn't react to
  being called by name. What had looked to him to be general contrariness and
  sulkiness had been simple unfamiliarity. So we call her X, he thought,
  taking a bite of Danish. And X is either a whore or a musi-
   76             MEDORA SALE

 cian-or something else altogether. But let's start, he continued to himself,
 by assuming she is one of those two things. Of course, he reflected, there
 is nothing to stop you from being both a whore and a musician at the same
 time. And where does that get us?
  All I need is a picture and a visit to Vice. That will take care of the
  prostitution end of things. Maybe. If she's known to them. Or a picture and
  a lot of visits to places where local musicians hang out. He thought with
  a sinking heart of the hundreds of little bars and clubs in the city and
  suburbs where rock musicians played, and groaned aloud. "What's wrong?"
  asked a passing constable of Kevin's generation, and Lucas suddenly felt
  old. In the six years since he had been twenty-two, he had lost touch with
  the world of groups and teenage wonders.
  "Where would you start looking if you wanted to find a singer with a rock
  group?"
  "Any singer? Or a particular one? I mean, if you want to hire a band-"
 :,No, I'm trying to track down a girl. A witness."
  'The witness you lost? I didn't know she was a rock singer. I thought she
  was-"
  "Yeah, well, let's assume she's a rock singer. I need a name for her. And
  maybe even an address. But I'll take a name, to start with."
  "Try the record stores. Those guys that work there, they know everybody.
  Here, start with the big ones-I'll write them down for you," and muttering
  energetically to himself the names of a host of establishments, he wrote
  furiously for a minute or two. "I don't have the addresses, but they're not
  hard to find. Besides, you might even know some of them," he added with
  good-humoured contempt. "They sell classical stuff, too." Lucas's
  reputation for having peculiar tastes was well established.
  "Would you believe I also listen to country and western? No, you wouldn't.
  Thanks. You're a pal." And he
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        77

 reached for the phone to track down their sketch artist and plead for an
 instant drawing of X.

 Two hours later he was heading for Vice, armed with a pile of copies of a
 sketch of X. On the whole, he thought it had come out a reasonable
 representation of her, although maybe it made her look a bit too pleasantly
 respectable. Vice did not greet him with enthusiasm. "Jesus, Lucas, do you
 know how many hookers there are in the city? What do you think we are?" said
 someone resentfully, tossing the picture back at him.
  A sleepy-eyed detective in plain clothes picked up the sketch. "I don't
  know," he said. "Maybe. She looks vaguely familiar. But that doesn't mean
  a thing. You want to sit here and go through mug shots of every hooker
  we've booked in the past couple of years, be my guest. I don't think you'll
  find her, though. I haven't noticed her working downtown. How old is she "
 "Early twenties?"
  "Naw. I thought maybe she was one of those kids who come through for a
  couple of weeks and then get whisked off home again or somewhere by some
  social worker. There are so many of them, I can't tell them apart. No can
  do. Sorry." That was it. And off Lucas went in search of record stores.
  Every store seemed to have at least one clerk with an amazing knowledge of
  the local scene. They all knew Sex Kitten-a group Lucas had never heard of
  before this week-and that gave him a certain confidence in their opinions.
  He started with the two largest stores. In the first he drew a complete
  blank. In the second, the clerk stared at the picture and then called to
  someone poring over a stack of computer printout in the office. She stared
  at it, too, and frowned. "I can't place her," she said. "But she looks
  familiar."
 78              MEDORA SALE

  "Could you have run into her at a party?" suggested Lucas. "She's about
  your age."
  The girl shook her head. "Not familiar that way. Familiar, like I saw her
  on a record jacket or something. Can I keep the sketch?" Lucas nodded.
  "Give me your name, and if it comes to me, I'll call you." She wrote his
  name down on the back of the picture and whisked off again.
  He turned an inquiring eye back to the clerk. "Sorry. She looked, like,
  vaguely familiar, that's all. That's why I called Betsy over. But if Betsy
  can't come up with the name, no one can. She has a phenomenal memory.
  Still, if Betsy remembers her, like on a record jacket, the kid is probably
  a singer or something. Somewhere, for somebody."
  "Betsy wouldn't have seen her hanging around on the street outside, or in
  the store looking at records, and remember her from that? Get the girl
  confused with someone else?"
  "Definitely not. Betsy remembers faces, like, in context, you know? If a
  hundred people she'd seen before walked into this room, she could say,
  those ninety are customers, I saw those two on television once, that's a
  waitress somewhere, that's a politician, that's a hooker who works the
  street out there-she's good."
  "Thanks. Betsy should join the police force." And he left the store feeling
  elated. Somewhere in this city someone had to know who X was.
  Nineteen record stores later, his faith in the phenomenal Betsy began to
  fade. Nineteen clerks stared at the picture, consulted their friends, shook
  their heads, said they knew every singer in town, and she wasn't one of
  them. He walked into the twentieth tired, hungry, thirsty, and discouraged.
  The more discouraged because the lead had seemed to be so fertile in the
  beginning. If he'd been searching for a needle in a haystack right from the
  start, he wouldn't have objected so much. After all, he was used to
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        79

 that. It was the irrational rise that Betsy had given to his expectations
 that had caused this corresponding depression. That and hunger. The
 twentieth clerk looked at him and handed back the picture. "How the hell
 should I know? What do you think I am? This is just a part-time job I got,
 mister, not a goddamn career," he snarled. "I don't even like music. You
 wanna buy a record? Pick it out and give me the money."
  Lucas walked out onto the pavement in a rage and looked around him. To the
  east were more record stores and some fast-food restaurants; to the west
  were two pleasant shops across from the University's Faculty of Music that
  carried a lot of hard-to-get classical music. There were also a couple of
  cheap, slow-paced, friendly restaurants, where one could spend hours over
  a meal, one Middle Eastern and one Italian. This late in the afternoon
  they'd be almost empty. Obviously he should head east, grab a quick lunch,
  and finish this damn thing up today. He headed west.
  The Middle Eastern restaurant was about ten shop-fronts away to the west.
  To get to it he would have to pass the first record store. Perhaps he would
  slip in, show them his picture, Just in case, and see what they had that
  was new and interesting. Then lunch. Then back east to the grind. The
  entrance was down a flight of concrete steps, and the shop itself was long
  and narrow. Bins filled with CDs lined the two side walls. The cash
  register, unattended as usual, was at the front; the only other human being
  in the place was sitting at the order desk in the back, working in a little
  pool of light, listening to a recording of Pellias et Milisande that Lucas
  particularly liked. The shop was dimly lit after the brightness of the
  afternoon, and it took a minute for his eyes to adjust. "Excuse me," he
  said, opening his small briefcase for the twenty-first time that day, and
  stopped dead.
  There she was. Right in front of him, tacked to the wall behind the order
  desk. Boots, short black skirt, tiny black
 80             MEDORA SALE

 top, long black hair. Posed with her foot on a chair, looking bold and
 sluttish, with one hand on the backrest, the other on her hip.
  "May I help you with something?" asked the young man at the order desk,
  who had by then risen to his feet.
 :'Yes," said Lucas. "You certainly may. Who is that?"
  'Lulu?" he asked. "The main character in the opera. Berg's opera. The
  soprano," he added, as though talking to a mentally deficient.
  "No, no," said Lucas. "I know that. But that girl in the poster. Is she
  the one who's singing Lulu? Or did they hire a model?"
  " Oh, no," he said, shocked. "They don't do that. No, that's the Lulu.
  Annie Hunter. I was the tenor," he added. "That's why I still have the
  poster up. Can't bear to take it down. That's me, Peter Johnstone. I sang
  Alwa. My first big part."
  "This is an old production then? I see it says it's on April eighteenth,
  nineteenth, and twentieth. Is that last year? Who put it on?"
  He nodded. "Last year. It was a student production, really. We're all at
  the Faculty. Of Music," he added condescendingly. "Opera."
  "You mean this Annie Hunter is a student?" His surprise must have been
  evident on his face as he spoke.
  "Well, I don't know what she's doing now. Annie and I were in the
  performance program together-last year was our first year in the Opera
  School. I really haven't seen her this year at all. Once or twice on the
  street, maybe, but not to talk to."
 'She had the lead?" Lucas's astonishment was palpable.
  'Sure. She's pretty good. Actually, she was a terrific Lulu," he added
  generously. "Good voice and a great actress-that's why she got the part.
  There was no one else
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         81

 at the school who could have been Lulu. Sort of vicious and bitchy, yet
 seductive and pathetic, you know?"
  Lucas did know, but had no intention of discussing the point with Mr.
  Johnstone. "You have no idea where I could find her now?"
  "Why do you want to find her?" he asked, dragging himself from dreams of
  past glory to a present-day suspicious practicality.
 He drew out his ID silently.
  "Is she in trouble?" Lucas could feel the pull of fellowship, the closing
  of ranks in the face of the enemy in the tenor's every word.
  "I certainly hope not," he said. "She may have witnessed a crime-a serious
  crime-and she could be of great help to us. "
  "I see. And what in hell do you mean by witness? Cops seem to mean some
  pretty funny things when they call someone a witness."
  Lucas tried to sound nonthreatening. "Just that. We think she was an
  eyewitness to a serious crime. We think that the people who committed the
  crime knew she saw them. And are looking for her."
  "Just a witness." Lucas could see the clerk wavering. "So if anyone else
  asks you about her, it'd be nice if you had a memory lapse."
  "You mean, she may be in real trouble," he said flatly. "I see." He sat
  down to his order books again. "I don't actually know where she is myself.
  But if I were you, I'd check with the secretary at the Faculty. She knows
  everybody and everything." He swiveled around in his chair and looked back
  at the wall behind him. "And I think I'll just take this poster down for a
  while. It's time I replaced it anyway." As Lucas walked away, he saw the
  young man carefully removing the thumbtacks from his poster and rolling it
  up.
 82              MEDORA SALE

  As he walked by the opera section, he paused at B for Berg and pulled out
  a copy of Lulu. "What the hell," he muttered, "I don't have it," and he
  walked back to the order desk to pay.

 He looked at his watch as he left the record store and was startled to
 discover that it was almost five. If he ate now, the secretary at the
 music faculty would be gone by the time he got there. He could wait. He
 began dodging his way across four lanes of rush-hour traffic to the music
 school. But the administration offices were locked, lights out, silent as
 the grave. He knocked loudly, in case someone was working late. Not a
 sound. He rattled the doorknob vehemently. A pleas ant-looking girl who
 was walking past tried to put him out of his misery.
  " It's no good knocking," she said. "Even if they were hiding in there,
  they'd rather go out the window than answer. Believe me. You can get them
  at nine o'clock tomorrow."
  "Thanks," he muttered. Then, inspired by sudden hope and her friendly
  face, he added, "You wouldn't know a girl named Annie Hunter, would you?
  She was here last year, I think."
  She shook her head. "Sorry. I'm only in first year. What was she doing?"
  "Opera," he said, hoping that was the right category of response.
  "That's a graduate program," she said. "And anyway, 1, in in strings,"
  she added, and trotted on her way.
  Only slightly discouraged, he headed for the restaurant and a telephone
  call to report to Baldy that his witness had a name-a real name, he
  thought, although not yet verified from other sources. He was beginning
  to feel cautious about things like that. Baldy wasn't around to hear the
  happy news; he left the message to be added to the pile on his desk.
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         83

 He thought gleefully of the inspector spending his evening plowing through
 hours and hours of reports-every one of which he had summarily demanded,
 each one his own fault. It must be a shock to his system, thought Lucas, to
 be back to the routine of endless hours of actual work. He was probably out
 right now buttering up Marty Fielding over a martini, assuring him that all
 was well for his client, before heading back to the grind. Thank God. And
 that meant that instead of being hauled down to report in person, he was
 going to be able to eat and drink himself into a pleasant haze, go back to
 his apartment, take the phone off the hook, put up his aching feet, and
 listen to his new recording of Lulu.
          CHAPTER 7

 Lucas pushed aside his coffee and stared down at the soggy pastry on his
 desk. It had been 2:00 A.M. when he had given up trying to get to sleep.
 Neither books nor late-night television had been able to lull his lumpy
 brain, and he had prowled around the apartment until five-thirty or six,
 when he had slumped onto the couch and fallen into restless slumber for
 a couple of uneasy hours. A lousy way to start a lousy day. He had to get
 away from his desk. Maybe he should try the Faculty of Music. Not that
 inquiring there was likely to get him anywhere, he thought with more than
 his usual pessimism. Some sort of curse lay over this case. "I'm off," he
 muttered to the room in general. No one paid any attention.

 The secretary at the Faculty of Music glowered at him across the counter.
 "Annie Hunter?" she said, her voice tight with suspicion and dislike. "I
 don't give out information about students to unauthorized people." He
 pulled out his ID. She glanced at it, and the atmosphere in the room
 chilled several more degrees. "Is this supposed to make a difference?" She
 walked back to her desk. A flash of stubborn anger kept Rob Lucas standing
 immobile where he was. After a lengthy pause, she vouchsafed him one more
 glance. "Is she in some sort of trouble?"
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        85

  "No, she is not in trouble," he said, exasperated. "She's a witness. That's
  all. But we do have to talk to her."
  She was not convinced. "I'm afraid I couldn't tell you where she is right
  now," said the secretary briskly. "She dropped out last spring.,,
  He looked at the name plate propped up on the desk. "Mrs. Dubchek, I have
  to get in touch with her. She witnessed a crime. And the person-or
  persons-who committed it know she saw them. Can you understand that? And
  they're looking for her."
  She studied him, pondering. "Well, she really did drop out last year. That
  is, she didn't reregister in the fall. Her father had died a few months
  before that, and I think she had financial problems. Of course there was no
  need for the little fool to leave," she added. "She could have applied for
  extra grant money. But Annie always worried about money. She may have been
  too discouraged to think of asking for help-or was afraid we'd turn her
  down. Students," she went on. "A fragile lot, some of them. Very hard on
  themselves."
  "You have no idea where I might look for her? Who her friends are?"
  "She hasn't seen any of her old friends. I asked around in the fall, trying
  to get an address for her. They won't be any help, I'm afraid. But, just
  let me look. Don't despair." She disappeared into another room, emerging
  very shortly waving a manila folder. "I haven't retired her file yet-there
  are advantages to sloth, you know. I don't have a valid address, but, as I
  remember, I do have a copy of an odd letter that we wrote to her lawyer
  when she was in first year-something about her official status at the
  Faculty. Don't ask me why. I think her father requested it. Wanted proof
  she really was a student before he would continue to send support money.
  Parents," she added sadly, shaking her head. "Unpleasant, some of them. No
  wonder she always
 86             MEDORA SALE

 thought she was on the edge of starvation. Anyway, the lawyer ought to
 know where she is if anyone does." As she spoke she flipped through the
 contents of the folder in front of her. "Here we are. This is the address.
 And she had a lot to do with those lawyers over her father's will, I know
 that. Because she was in here worrying about it a lot last year. The poor
 thing needed a mother figure in her life," she explained, and Lucas began
 to understand why he had received so hostile a reception. "She's an orphan
 now. Such a sad word, isn't it? Even for a girl of"-she looked down at the
 file in front of her-" twenty-three. " She picked up another piece of
 paper. "In fact, I have that address here as well. She listed her next of
 kin as her lawyer. It made me want to cry. But then, I get sentimental
 over them. Some of them, anyway. Some of them are absolute-well, I won't
 go into that." She picked up her file and turned to go, and then changed
 her mind and turned back to him. "Look, Sergeant, if you see her, will you
 do me a favor?"
 "Sure," he said.
  "Tell her to come back. Not to worry about the money. Tell her we won't
  let her starve. Please?"
  "Sure," he said. "And thanks for the help." He ran lightly down the steps
  of the music building. The morning sun warmed his forehead, the cold
  north wind that had been blowing for days had died down at last, and his
  spirits rocketed upward. It was spring. Luck was cartwheeling along the
  sidewalk in front of him; failure was an unthinkable proposition. He
  stood irresolute in front of the building, debating whether to drop in
  on the lawyer unannounced or to find a phone and make an appointment. He
  had left his car down at headquarters, and the law office was only a mile
  or so away. Fate murmured in his ear. Clearly, he should walk and chance
  that the lawyer could and would see him.
  Either Mr. Hennessy, of Hennessy and Garside, had a miserable law
  practice, or he, too, had been infected by the
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        87

 shift in the weather. When Lucas arrived at his office, the receptionist had
 looked coldly at him, muttered about people arriving without notice and
 expecting to see people, and then, after a brief telephone conversation,
 said with a glare, "Mr. Hennessy will see you now."
  The lawyer was short, rotund, florid, and cheerful-looking. He belonged at
  the head of a gleaming mahogany table with a snifter of his namesake's
  cognac in his hand, gently infusing the surrounding company with good
  fellowship. At the moment, however, he was leaning forward across his
  almost-bare desk; he tilted his head like a suspicious and potentially
  hostile bird when Lucas sat down in front of him. "You were asking about
  Annie Hunter, I believe," he said, mildly enough. "Yes, I know her. I think
  I might even add that she is a client. And now that I've told you that
  much, perhaps you'll tell me what your interest in her is."
  "First of all," said Lucas, "is this Annie Hunter?" He put the artist's
  sketch down on the lawyer's desk.
  Hennessy nodded. "I've seen better pictures, but this does seem to be
  Annie," he conceded. "And again, now that we know we're both talking about
  the same person, perhaps you could explain your interest."
  Lucas took a breath and launched into a fairly straightforward and
  moderately complete version of the trouble that Annie Hunter was in. Mr.
  Hennessy looked at him intently, his fingers laced together somewhere near
  his chin, and nodded occasionally.
  "Just let me see if I understand you," he said, widening his eyes
  innocently. "You say my client was stopped for questioning on a staircase
  in a public building some distance from where a murder had been committed,
  because you assumed that she had something to do with the murder?" He
  smiled and continued on in mild tones. "Did you hold everyone who happened
  to be in the building on their lawful occasions that afternoon?"
 "Her fingerprints were found in the apartment," said
 88              MEDORA SALE

 Lucas, grateful that he wasn't in court right then, trying to justify
 their actions. "And she did admit, uh, say that she found the body. I'm
 not accusing her of anything, Mr. Hennessy. I don't think she's done
 anything, but I think she saw more than she said she did. And I believe
 that my hunch is confirmed by some odd things that have happened since:
 her hotel room was broken into; she gave us a false name-and a girl of
 that name has been killed. Possibly in error for Miss Hunter."
  "Aren't you assuming a great deal on very little evidence, Sergeant?"
  "Look, I'm not trying to prove her guilty of anything. We simply need her
  evidence, and we'd like to make sure that she's safe. Anyway, I don't
  think so," he added. "That I'm jumping to conclusions. Or if I am, so is
  someone else, which amounts to the same thing. The victim, Mr. Neilson,
  was killed with a twenty-two pistol, very-"
 "Professionally? Is that what you mean?"
  "Exactly. Do you see now why we're concerned for her safety? Do you
  know-do you have any idea where she might be?"
  Mr. Hennessy swiveled his chair around and looked out the window at the
  soft blue sky and hazy, trailing clouds for a perceptible length of time.
  "You put me in a difficult situation, Sergeant," he answered at last. "I
  have information that you might find useful, but I'm not sure that I'm
  being very wise in passing it on. However-" He leaned forward and picked
  up his telephone. "Mrs. Green? Could you bring in the Hunter files?
  Thanks." He looked back at Lucas. "It was her father, really, who was my
  client. I inherited Annie, so to speak. We were joint executors of her
  father's estate. Ah, thank you, my dear. You are a marvel," he said to
  his secretary as she dropped two files on his desk. He sounded as if he
  meant it. "A copy of his will," he said, opening the top file. "Mr.
  Hunter left his second wifeAnnie is his daughter by his first wife-a
  large sum of
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        89

 money; the residue of the estate he left to Annie, making her, with me, his
 executor as well. Sounds fair on paper, doesn't it? Well, in order to settle
 debts and pay the second wife the amount named in the will, we had to sell
 almost everything. His house, a few next-to-worthless stocks, and some
 bonds. Annie was left-after legal fees, which I pared down to next to
 nothing-with about three thousand dollars, his car, and a little cabin. Not
 at all what he intended, I suppose, but there was little I could do about it
 short of going into court for relief and using up most of the estate's
 assets in the process. I suggested that she sell the cabin and the land it
 was on to finance her schooling, but she said that she preferred to keep it,
 arguing that she liked it and that it wasn't worth much. She was right about
 that. It lacks amenities, and it's not on a lake. Her father bought it as a
 hunting cabin. Anyway . . ."
  Rob Lucas stirred impatiently in his chair, in a vain attempt to hurry him
  up.
  "I have heard from my client, Sergeant. She discussed her position in this
  matter with me, and told me that she was considering spending a few weeks
  at the cabin until the situation resolved itself. She doesn't feel safe
  here in the city.
  Under that steady, accusatory gaze, Lucas felt an upsurge of guilt. "We
  could assure-"
  "I have the official description of the lot in the will," Hennessy went on,
  paying no attention at all to Lucas's protestation, "and that ought to be
  enough to get you there. It's miles from the nearest town, and there's no
  telephoneor much of anything else-so if you want to find her, you'll have
  to send someone in person." He closed the file with a snap and stood up.
  "I'll have my secretary photocopy that description for you."
  "Just a minute," said Lucas, stubbornly retaining his seat. "How much did
  she tell you about what happened at the hotel?"
 90             MEDORA SALE

  Hennessy shook his head. "Oh, no, Sergeant. My client may have let slip a
  few speculations under the stress of the moment, but it would be most
  improper for me to pass them along, even if I could remember them.
  Hearsay," he added gloomily. "Idle gossip, in fact. I'm not very happy that
  I've given you this much. However, if you do see Annie, could you tell her
  something for me?"
 "Certainly," said Lucas.
  "Tell her to give us a call when she gets back into townwe'd like to see
  her again. She and Karen-my wife-get on like a house on fire. Karen's batty
  about music." As he reached to open the door, he suddenly stopped and
  turned around. "There was one thing," he said. "I almost forgot. When she
  told me she wasn't selling the cabin, she said that she had been offered a
  very good part-time job. Well paid. Enough to let her finish up her degree.
  That's why I was startled to hear she'd dropped out of university. But she
  must be keeping up with her voice lessons. They meant an awful lot to her.
  I don't know what job it was that she was offered, but her coach was Ren6e
  LaBourdi~re. If you can't find Annie at the cabin, Ren6e might know where
  she is."

 Lucas hesitated in front of the keyboard as he finished his account of the
 interview with Hennessy. It was a stark, pared-down outline of the
 conversation, limited to the barest facts. He could remember with unpleasant
 clarity the first report he had written for Inspector Baldwin. The sarcasm
 it had been greeted with still made him hot with anger every time he thought
 about it. "Impressions, Lucas?" he had said. "Impressions? What do you think
 you are, a printer? Since when did a sergeant have impressions? I look for
 evidence, Lucas, not impressions. Save the impressions for your girlfriend."
  He had sworn that Baldwin would never get anything but the bare bones from
  now on. But if he didn't put down his
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         91

 conclusion that Hennessy already knew a great deal about the crime, and that
 his source was Annie Hunter, he would have little justification for driving
 up to the cabin to find her. And that was what he was determined to do. Of
 course, if she were still in town, it wouldn't matter. He reached for the
 telephone book and began to look for Ren6e LaBourdi~re.
  It took Lucas four attempts to get past the busy signal; when he finally
  reached the vocal coach, he felt he'd been connected to a whirlwind. The
  voice at the other end crackled with impatience. "Of course I know Annie,"
  she said. "And I'd like to know what she thinks she's doing. She hasn't
  been here since before Christmas. She canceled a couple of times because of
  a sore throat-we all know what that means."
 "What does it mean?" he asked, curious.
  "Sore throat be damned," the coach snapped. "It means she wasn't working
  and couldn't face me. Tried to tell me she was depressed. How could she be
  depressed? She was coming along magnificently. She has no business wasting
  her time with depression. She hasn't taken a practice room since November,
  and then she simply didn't turn up for her lesson and didn't call-and when
  I tried to reach her, her number was out of service. What could I do? I'm
  sorry I can't be more helpful. But if you see Annie, could you give her a
  message for me?"
  "Sure," said Lucas. Why not? he thought. When I finally track her down,
  I'll just put an arm lock on her and make her listen to a half-hour list of
  messages from everyone she knows.
  "Tell her to call me. At once. And let me know what's going on. You don't
  think she's found another coach, do you? And was too embarrassed to tell
  me?"
  "Not as far as I know," said Lucas. "And I'll tell her." He put the
  telephone back down and began to type up his impressions of the interview
  with Hennessy.
 92              MEDORA SALE

  46 How's it going?" said a voice that could only have been Eric
  Patterson's. Lucas turned and nodded. Eric picked up a report from his
  desk and idly flipped over the pages, yawning heavily as he did it. He
  dropped the paper back down and sat down.
  "Could be worse," said Lucas, to fill the ensuing silence. "How are you
  getting on with the grieving widow and friends?"
  " Getting on? Are you kidding? Baldy hasn't let me within a hundred feet
  of her. Actually, that isn't true. I was allowed to accompany him out to
  her little shack in the country and take a few notes for her official
  statement. Her alibi stinks, doesn't it?" He yawned again and stretched
  his legs out beside his desk, where they could trip anyone walking by.
  "Of course, that's the difference between the rich and the merely
  prosperous. They're allowed to stink. Of horses, dogs, lies, you name it.
  It makes them authentic. You getting anywhere in finding that witness?
  Because we are getting nowhere at the moment, and we could use a break."
  "I think she may have taken off for her cottage. I thought I'd drive up
  there tomorrow morning. It's not that far."
 "Why not get the locals to do it for you?"
  "Because I don't want her arrested-I just want to interview her. And I'd
  rather do that myself. She's the skittish type. You had lunch?"
  "Nope. Let's go."
  I just have to give this to Baldy and let him know what I'm up to," said
  Lucas, picking up the report. "I'll be with you in a minute."

 "And so that's precisely where we stand at the moment." The voice of
 Inspector John Sanders's superior officer was soft and controlled. The
 rage was only perceptible in his eyes and in a faint tension around his
 nostrils. "I have been considering Inspector Baldwin's request for leave
 on health
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         93

 grounds." He tapped his fingers irritably on a piece of paper that occupied
 the central position on his desk. "Very seriously. But we can't do it. Not
 when I know damn well it's bullshit. If I were as healthy as Baldwin, I'd be
 a happy man. On the other hand, he is acquainted with some of the principals
 in the investigation. And he is moving so discreetly, it could take him ten
 goddamn years to finish the preliminary work on the case. He's giving us an
 out, but we can't afford to take it. Not with our current work load." He
 sighed and pulled the top file off the stack of material near his right
 elbow. "Even though it's awkward and inefficient to change horses in
 midstream, you will take over the Neilson investigation. Considering how
 little Baldwin's done on it so far, you shouldn't run into too much
 duplication of labor," he added sourly. "Baldwin will continue with the
 Wilson-"
  "Aren't they related?" Sanders raised his head from contemplation of a far
  corner of the broadloomed office and looked sharply across the desk.
  "Only in the feverish imagination of one of the investigating officers. As
  far as I can tell. If they do turn out to be related, of course, you will
  coordinate your work with Inspector Baldwin. And John-"
 "Yes?"
  "Neilson was rich. And he had friends. But he wasn't the goddamn Prince of
  Wales or the premier's favorite nephew or anything like that. There is such
  a thing as treading too softly."
 "When do I start?"
  "This afternoon. I'm having lunch with Baldwin in about thirty minutes, and
  I'll straighten things out with him then."

 The morning's euphoria had died away. Lucas almost envied Patterson, who
 could manage to come to terms with a pompous ass like Baldwin and was now so
 wrapped up
 94             MEDORA SALE

 in the Neilson case that he had been unable to concentrate on anything
 else. Talking to him had been like trying to have a reasonable
 conversation with someone who was hurtling down fifty stories in a broken
 elevator.
  Lucas turned back to the document in front of himKelleher's report on the
  band members-and could only see a pair of wide gray eyes and a mass of
  tangled, dead-black hair. He gave up trying to read. Miss Hunter was
  alarmingly well cast for the part of Lulu, he reflected. If you
  considered Lulu's fondness for luring men to their deaths, for example.
  Had Annie done that to Carl Neilson? Set him up for a hit and then
  screwed up by not getting out in time? If she had, he probably deserved
  it. Lucas could still summon up the revulsion he had felt when his
  overvivid imagination had placed Neilson's plump and thick-lipped body
  into that bed with Annie Hunter, young enough to be his daughter. You're
  thinking again, Robert, he said to himself. Heroines in operas spend a
  great deal of time luring men to their deaths. And then, of course, said
  the little voice in his head, they die, too. That's how it all ends.
  He shoved the report away and stood up. None of those sullen-faced kids
  in the band seemed to have had motive or opportunity for smashing
  Jennifer's head in with a crowbar, and that left him nothing to do that
  seemed important enough to tie him to this desk. For some inexplicable
  reason Baldy insist ed on ignoring the relationship between the two
  cases, treating Jennifer Wilson's death as an unwarranted interruption
  in the investigation of Carl Neilson's. Baldy refused to consider the
  fact that Annie Hunter's fingerprints were liberally scattered over both
  apartments. All of this gave the investigation a curious lack of
  substance. Lucas was too tired, too restless to deal with phantom tasks
  on paper. He grabbed his coat and headed outside. He turned in the
  direction of excitement-strip joints, arcades, obscene underwear shops,
  panhandlers, and underage prostitutes. Amid all that petty crime and
  corruption, the only thing he
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        95

 saw that engaged his attention was a movie theater. That was what he needed.
 He would waste a couple of hours on something totally unrelated and let his
 scattered thoughts sort themselves out.
  He lasted ten minutes. The film had promised to be a sophisticated comedy;
  every word of dialogue touched a nerve. The male lead was pompous and
  irritating; the female pretentious and silly. He had already run into too
  many posturing egos of both sexes in the last five days to watch another
  one here. He stalked furiously out of the theater, elbowing, glowering, and
  intimidating his way through the crowds on the street.
  Lucas passed through them all without noticing their existence. The only
  sensible thing to do at that point, he concluded, was to throw some clothes
  in a bag and head up for the woods. He could find the girl, talk to her,
  get himself a room for the night, and be back by ten the following morning.
  No one would even notice he'd gone until he walked in again.
  In twenty-five minutes he had the car and was back at his apartment, where
  he changed his suit for a pair of heavy corduroy pants, a wool shirt and a
  thick sweater-it was still winter up there-and then put on his hiking
  boots. He picked up his shoulder holster, considered leaving his weapon
  behind, shrugged, and slipped into it. He grabbed his bag, his down-filled
  parka, and the tape he had made of his new recording of Lulu the night
  before while he was listening to it. He slipped the photocopied description
  of the hunting cabin and the lot it was on from the jacket pocket of his
  suit coat to his parka and left the apartment.
          CHAPTER 8

      By three-fifteen Robert Lucas was on the expressway heading out of
      the city. The fact that he had not told anyone that he was leaving
      early impinged briefly on his conscience. But since the difference
      would be whether he was back at his desk before or after lunch
      tomorrow, who would give a damn about that? Unless, of course,
      said the little voice at the back of his head, all hell breaks
      loose tonight, and they're looking for you. "Frankly, my dear," he
      said to the ramshackle maroon van he was passing at the moment, "I
      don't give a damn."
       He was fairly sure he knew where he was going. The cabin ought to
       be more or less in the center of a square formed by two highways
       and two connecting secondary roads. There were towns at the
       northwest and the southeast intersections; as he remembered it,
       the land in between was rocky bush, drained by several streams,
       most of which had been dammed by beaver to make a series of
       shallow, mucky lakes. Not a place he would have chosen to build
       a cabin, he thought. The center section appeared on his map to be
       crossed by a couple of gravel roads; otherwise the area was close
       to impassable. At least it was too early for black flies and
       mosquitoes. In June there'd be enough of them to carry off a
       cabin and everyone in it.
       He chose the highway that cut through the woods on the far
       eastern side of the square, for no particular reason except that
       the one time he had traveled through the area,
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         97

 he had preferred the eastern town to the western one. It was not quite
 sunset when he arrived, and the main street was almost deserted. He stopped
 to have a careful look at the description Hennessy had given him, and real
 doubt began to creep in. What had seemed obvious in the bright light of
 morning in Hennessy's office might not be so simple out here in the fast
 advancing twilight. To start with, he had to find Township Road 23, which
 ought, according to this piece of paper, to branch off from the highway he
 was on now. But there was never any guarantee that these local roads would
 be marked. He started up again. Ahead, a gravel road branched off to the
 left, miraculously decorated by a small white signpost. He slowed almost to
 a standstill. There it was. In tiny lettering, black on white, TWNSHP 22.
 The next one should be-might be-TwNSHP 23. Of course, it was possible that
 it could turn out to be TWNSHP 21. Only there didn't seem to be a next one.
 For miles and miles, he drove at a snail's pace. At this rate, the sun would
 be long set before he found the turnoff, and he would be searching for his
 target by moonlight. The only thing on his left at the moment was an
 apparently endless beaver swamp filled with tall ragged stumps of dead birch
 and poplar. Maybe the beaver had drowned TWNSHP 23, he thought. Then what in
 hell would he do? The answer was simple. Wait till morning and ask the
 locals. So where was the problem? With that decided, he speeded up and
 passed by a gravel road on his left, unmarked.
  He braked, reversed and swerved left, hoping like hell that this wasn't a
  driveway leading to someone's palatial summer estate. "But it can't be," he
  muttered. Not a chance. Who would build a palatial estate in the middle of
  a beaver swamp? It seemed worth a try. The car bounced and thudded over
  sharp ridges and down into bone-jarring potholes. The spring thaw had
  created its annual havoc with the roads, and it would be months before
  anyone tried to repair them. He stopped once more to look at the
  description. If
 98             MEDORA SALE

 he was on TWNSHP 23, then five miles in he should come across a private road
 heading south, which, after a mile or so, would give him access to the
 property in question. He started up again. Around the next curve the road
 began to climb and to twist as it climbed. The swampy landscape changed; the
 trees grew farther apart and were more likely to be pines than poplars.
 There was considerably more snow lying between them. He checked his
 odometer. One more mile if his calculations were correct, and there should
 be a road off to the left again. Darkness was closing in under the shadow of
 the pines, and he began to worry about missing the turnoff. He slowed,
 switched off the tape, and rolled down his window. The only noise except for
 his engine was the muted roar coming from a stream on the left. The road
 continued to climb up, rather more steeply now, twisting to the right around
 an outcrop of rock dead ahead. When it resumed its rightful line, it was in
 the middle of a tiny meadow. At the meadow's edge was a small track running
 off to the left and into the woods. This must be it.
  He bounced and lurched another half mile through mud and slush, trying to
  convince himself that this had to be the road to Annie Hunter's cabin. If
  it weren't, and the car got stuck, it was a long hike back to civilization.
  The track turned sharply to the left and climbed, passing over a small
  wooden bridge. A stream. As he came out of the curve, Annie's retreat lay
  ahead of him.
  The cabin was indeed small. It had been built out of logs in the last
  century, he supposed, but recently someone had carefully caulked and
  patched and shingled the aging structure. It sat in a small clearing that
  spread out, fan-shaped, down the southwest face of the hill he had been
  climbing to get there. The sun had just set, and the sky glowed deep red;
  the streaks of snow in the meadowland burned scarlet in the surrounding
  darkness. The stream was even more turbulent than he had realized when
  driving over it; it rushed past the cabin, skirted the meadow, and
  disappeared
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT         99

 into the woods again. Smoke was pouring out of the chimney of the cabin, and
 the smell of the wood fire mingled headily with the scent of pine and
 melting snow. But the sweetly pastoral scene made him uneasy. The cabin win-
 dows were dark, and when he pulled his car up in front of the door and
 killed the engine, the silence was profound and unnatural. Another car was
 parked over to the right, under a tree, dark in the shadows. He had taken it
 for a derelict, left there by someone too lazy or too cheap to have it
 junked. Its windows were smashed in, its tires flattened. But even in the
 fading light something about it looked wrong. He took his heavy-duty
 flashlight out of the trunk and played it over the car body. The paint was
 shiny, the trim unrusted, the roof clean. The interior was filled with
 pebbles of broken safety glass, but the mess sat on clean, dry, gray plush
 upholstery. Whatever had happened to that car had happened that day-or
 possibly the day before. No earlier.
  He called out "Annie?" in the deep silence. His voice echoed. Shifting his
  flashlight to his left hand, he undid his parka and thrust his right hand
  inside it. When it emerged he was holding his Beretta. He walked over to
  the front door, called out "Annie?" again, and listened. Nothing. He
  reached out with the third and fourth fingers of his right hand to nudge
  the handle around but, as soon as he touched it, the door swung inward. He
  jumped out of the square of dimming light that outlined him and at the same
  time shone his flashlight into the room. There was chaos everywhere he
  looked. Chairs had been tipped over; broken glass was scattered on the
  floor. But there was no sign of any human being. A door in the wall
  opposite him was swinging open; he walked delicately over the cluttered
  floor and out the door, shutting it carefully behind him.
  The ground just outside had been chewed up with footprints. It was easier
  to see out there, even in the disappearing light, bright enough to notice
  the body of a man
 100             MEDORA SALE

 lying on his face near the corner of the cabin. Lucas walked over to him and
 felt gently for a pulse. The body was cold, very cold. Dead long enough to
 cool down, but not stiff, he noted automatically. He turned him over. He had
 been shot twice in the chest and left there in the snow and mud to die. He
 was dressed in work pants and a dark redchecked heavy wool shirt over a gray
 sweater; he probably lived and worked somewhere around there. Lucas turned
 him over the way he had found him. Where in hell was Annie? He retraced his
 footsteps back to the door in the rear of the cabin and looked around. There
 was a mess of footprints heading across the meadow in the direction of the
 woods. He shone his flashlight on them: large feet wearing work boots, he
 would say, larger even than his; then mixed up in them, at least for a
 while, smaller hiking boots or work boots-it was hard to tell. But off to
 one side, there was another set, much smaller than the others, but too large
 to be animal tracks. He shone his light directly into them. Clearly printed
 in the soft, almost-melting snow, was the outline of human feet, bare,
 running across the field.
  The bare feet belonged either to a female or a half-grown boy. A sudden
  vision of Annie, injured and barefoot, running across this field,
  superimposed itself on the snow, and he tore down the hill after the
  footprints. The three sets of prints moved along in strict unison until he
  reached the woods. There the drifts, protected from the sun, still lay deep
  except directly under the widely spaced, heavybranched pines. Their thick
  lower branches, growing close to ground level, roofed over the forest floor
  beneath them, leaving it free of snow. Lucas was able to follow the two
  sets of large prints as they blundered down to the stream, but Annie's-if
  they were hers-disappeared without a trace. He stopped at the point where
  she had apparently entered the treed area and tried to figure out what she
  would have done. He shone his light slowly to the right and
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        101

 then to the left, and then in an arc down to the stream. After a second
 or two, he walked down to the bank to examine it more closely. At this
 point the water eddied through some large rocks and then formed a
 relatively quiet-and probably deep-pool.
  The heavy footprints churned up the snow along the bank, a foot or two
  in from the water, creating a welldefined path. He followed them with his
  flashlight, searching for a reappearance of the bare feet. To the right,
  the snow on the ground between the line of prints and the stream was
  thick and undisturbed, the stream bed was wide and rocky, and the water
  turbulent. Unless she could fly, she had not gone that way. To the left,
  the trees were thicker and more impenetrable, tracks impossible to see.
  And down there, the stream narrowed sharply. He walked along the bank to
  the left, watching for her footprints, fighting his way past overhanging
  trees, in constant danger of slipping into the icy water. He wondered if
  that was what had happened to Annie. As the stream narrowed, it deepened
  as well. How long would she survive in water that temperature with no one
  to pull her out? The mind, he knew, would give up long before the body
  did and allow her the deadly kindness of unconsciousness. That was
  assuming, of course, that she had made it this far. He crouched down,
  holding his light at ground level and playing the beam up the slope. He
  could make out patches of snow, boulders, and fallen tree branches in
  among the pines, but nothing that looked like the body of a girl. She had
  reached the woods and vanished. He stood up, discouraged, and without
  looking, put his right foot on a slippery rock; it plunged into the
  stream up to the ankle before he could yank it out. The icy water seeping
  in over the top of his boot burned flesh and bone. For a moment, he could
  do nothing but shake his foot, gasping and cursing softly; at last, he
  shone his light down on the treacherous hunk of granite. There, beside
  the track left by his sliding hiking
 102            MEDORA SALE

 boot, were more telltale and slippery smears of dirt and pine needles.
 Someone else had slipped on this rock.
  He looked across the stream. Here it was at its narrowest, between four and
  five feet across; a large pine growing on the other side bent its branches
  over the width of the water. He could swear that there was a faint
  disturbance of snow and pine needles visible over there. With a deep
  breath, he grabbed the branch and leaped, hoping that the footing on the
  other side was good enough not to send him sliding back into the water.
  He landed neatly, on both feet, to his intense gratification, and paused to
  reconnoiter. Here the bank rose much more steeply and was clear of snow-and
  footprints-as far up the rough, tree-covered slope as his flashlight
  allowed him to see.
  He was getting cold, discouraged, and furious at himself; blundering around
  in the dark like this, he was obliterating all useful traces of whatever
  had gone on here. The temperature was dropping rapidly, now that night had
  fallen, and something wet and cold landed on his cheek. He looked up. The
  sky, clear an hour ago, was banked with fast-moving clouds. Snow. "Oh, my
  God," he said aloud. "Now what do I do?" He shone his light up and down
  and, desperate with worry, called out, "Annie, for chrissake, if you're out
  there, say something. It's Robin. I won't hurt you and I'm getting bloody
  cold standing here." He listened to his speech echoing through the trees
  and felt as great a fool as he must have sounded.

 She had just finished dumping the last of the fresh vegetables into the soup
 pot. She had frowned and chewed nervously on her bottom lip as she
 considered the problem. Should she risk driving into town tomorrow to get
 more-and some fruit-or make do with the canned food stacked up on her
 makeshift shelves? There was plenty to keep her going for
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       103

 a couple of weeks, but the dreary prospect of living for days and days on
 precooked pap depressed her. It was time she bought a paper, anyway, and
 found out what was going on. Now that that was decided, she went back to
 her comfortable spot, pulled off her shoes, and curled up again with her
 book.
  She spent most of her afternoons reading by the westfacing window that
  overlooked the sloping meadow behind the cabin, staving off the moment
  when she would have to light the lamps. That was when she felt the
  loneliest. She had even doggedly cleaned all the windows in the place
  shortly after she had arrived-windows that hadn't been cleaned in
  years-to capture every possible ray of light. In fact, she had been
  cleaning ever since she got here: sweeping, polishing, scrubbing. Maybe
  she would buy some paint tomorrow as well. And now the western sun shone
  on the window seat, warming her back as she perched on the old cushions
  and lazily drowsed her way through an ancient paperback. Today one could
  believe in the reality of spring. It was almost four o'clock.
  She heard a car in the distance, climbing up the township road. Some fool
  trying for a shortcut, not realizing that once he got down on the other
  side of the hill he was going to discover that the road had washed out.
  Again. It washed out every spring, and every spring the township council
  pretended to find the matter amazing, and every spring they said that
  something must be done about the road, and nothing was. Not that she
  minded; it kept down traffic. She went back to her book.
  When she heard it again, the noise of the car engine was much closer. Too
  close. Hell! She had no desire for stray visitors. Only Joe MacDougal
  knew she was here, and he didn't go in for bothering people-just drifted
  by every afternoon on his way back home from wherever, his hunting rifle
  over his arm in spite of the season. He would nod at her, giving her a
  chance to speak if she had anything to say,
 104            MEDORA SALE

 mutter something vaguely like good-night and leave. Who else could possibly
 turn up here? She closed her book and sat up. The car was definitely on her
 road. She heard it rattle over the logs on the bridge and pull up in front
 of the cabin. Feeling alone and vulnerable out here, she walked over to the
 stove, noiseless in her stocking feet, and picked up the poker. She waited
 for whoever it was to knock.
  Instead of hammering on the door, however, he-theyhad been doing nothing as
  far as she could tell. Maybe they're lost, she told herself, and they're
  just sitting in their car poring over maps. She took a step over to the
  small window that looked out on the road and hesitated. She had a horror of
  being caught staring curiously out the window, like some inquisitive old
  lady. Perhaps if she were quiet enough, they would go away again. She
  strained to hear what they were up to; there was no sound but the muttering
  of the brook and the sporadic complaints of a couple of birds. That must
  have been why the explosive smash caught her by surprise; she jumped and
  ran for the door in panic. Before she could reach and turn the
  old-fashioned key that sat in the lock, however, the heavy front door swung
  open, barely missing her.
  Her protests died down before they were made. Coming into the room were two
  men, one thin and wiry, the other big and powerful-looking. Beyond that,
  she could not have described them. Both their faces were shrouded by dark
  blue knitted ski masks that covered all but their eyes.
  "Grab her," said the smaller one. He had a cracked, hoarse voice,
  unpleasantly high-pitched and dictatorialsounding. She felt as if someone
  had kicked her in the stomach. She had heard that voice before, in Carl
  Neilson's apartment; it had frightened her then, too.
  The big one had taken hold of her as though she were a naughty child, one
  hand around each arm, and the poker rattled impotent to the floor. He had
  sat her down in one of the two hard chairs that were beside the table, and
  held
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        105

 her with one hand around her throat while he walked around her and grabbed
 her arms from behind. "I got her," he said calmly. She recognized that
 voice, too. There was nowhere, nowhere in the world, where one could go
 and be safe.
  "We had trouble finding you, Jennifer, sweetheart-or whatever your
  fucking name is," said the big man. He gave her body a wrenching shake
  to emphasize his words. "You caused us a lot of grief."
  "Yes," said the other. "You made us nervous, running away like that. What
  did Neilson tell you about us? Or were you just there, watching?" She
  said nothing. The small one leaned forward and slapped her sharply across
  the face. "I asked you a question, you little bitch. What did Neilson
  tell you?"
  "I still can't figure out where in hell she was hiding," said the big
  one. He dug his fingers into her arms harder.
  "She was hiding, that's all-it doesn't matter," said the other one
  impatiently. "What matters is what she saw and what she told that fucking
  cop. What did you tell him, sweetheart? You might as well tell us, you
  know," he added softly. "Because if we don't get it from you, we'll get
  it from him anyway."
 She said nothing.
  "And how much Neilson told her. That matters. And what she told the cop.
  And that lawyer. We know she talked to that lawyer. That was stupid." The
  big one's fingers dug in harder. "What did Neilson tell you, and who did
  you tell it to, eh?"
  She knew that silence offered her protection; once she had spoken they
  would kill her as easily as they had killed Carl. She shook her head.
  Another slap. "And what is that supposed to mean?" The smaller one
  glanced around when he finished speaking, leaned down, and picked up the
  poker from the floor.
 "For chrissake," said the voice from behind her. "Don't
 106             MEDORA SALE

 hit her with that. You'll kill her. You may not care what she's been saying,
 but it matters to me."
  "Oh, I'm not going to hit her with it," he said and walked over to the
  stove. He removed the lid and set the poker inside. He walked slowly back
  and crouched down in front of her. Fear compounded with fury made the blood
  pound in her ears, and as soon as he seemed to be within range, she moved
  her right foot back and kicked. He grabbed the foot just before it landed
  and held it. At the same time his friend jerked her back with such ferocity
  that she thought her arms had been torn from their sockets. The smaller one
  began pulling off her socks, both pairs, one by one. "Kick me again," he
  said, "and I'll break your fucking toes. One by one."
  He walked over to the stove and removed the poker with his gloved hand.
  "Get her other foot, eh?" he said as he walked back, and before she could
  react, she was being held by one large arm around her body and the other
  grasping her left ankle. The little one picked up her right foot in one
  hand. "Okay, what did you tell that cop?" She shook her head again. "That's
  not an answer," he said and touched the end of the poker to the ball of her
  foot. She gasped.
  "That was just to show you that it's still hot," he said. "What did you
  tell the cop?"
 "Nothing," she said.
  He lifted her foot up to his chest level and slapped the poker across the
  sole, holding it there. She could hear and smell and feel the searing pain,
  and she screamed.
  "Hey, Annie!" A rough voice from outside intruded itself sharply and
  unexpectedly into the scene. "What in hell is going on in there? Are you
  all right?"
  "Hold her," said the big man, running to the front door. The smaller one
  stood there for a moment, indecisive, staring at the hot poker in his hand.
  While he was thinking, she jumped out of the chair, knocking it over,
  grabbed the table, and tipped it with a smash of breaking crockery in
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        107

 his direction. That slowed him another second or two while she ran for the
 back door. She had it open before he realized that it existed. By the time
 he had reached it, she was halfway across the field.
  She heard a shot, two shots, thick and muted-sounding, as she left the
  cabin. She ran even faster through the mud and melting snow. Then a crack
  of a rifle, and she felt a whistle rippling against the outside of her
  thigh. She kept running, trying to ignore the searing pain in her foot. As
  soon as she reached the woods, she fell into a crouch. Here under the trees
  she felt secure. This had been her playing ground for years, and she knew
  every contour of the ground, every stone and branch. She threw herself
  under a large pine growing in a hollow, wriggled under its branches to the
  far side, and kept crawling silently under the thicker and thicker
  undergrowth until she reached the stream at Its narrowest point. She had
  done this hundreds of times during her childhood, eluding imaginary
  pursuers. Without pausing to look behind her, she reached up and grabbed
  the largest branch hanging over the water, flung herself across and landed
  on the granite boulder on the other side. Winter frosts had destabilized it
  in some way, however, and it rocked crazily under her foot. She plunged
  forward, barely saving herself from a time-consuming and noisy fall with
  one bone-wrenching thud to her hand. She heard a click like a twig snapping
  and the boulder dropped with an enormous splash into the brook. Without
  thinking, she dove into her little cave behind the evergreens.
  The voices started up again, very loud in the sheltering woods.
 "What's happened?"
  "I think I got her all right. That's blood down there, isn't it? Anyway,
  she fell in the water."
  "Can't tell in this light. It might be mud. Doesn't matter, though-she
  won't last long in there," said the hoarse voice.
 She wriggled back to where the rock faces on either side
 108            MEDORA SALE

 of her widened and turned herself carefully around; then she curled herself
 up in the old pine needles and branches on the floor.
  She had discovered this little hiding place when she was nine. It had been
  a pie-shaped crevice some primeval cataclysm had cut in the granite of the
  Laurentian Shield, but one that a passing ice age had provided with most of
  a roof, by wedging a couple of chunks of granite into its opening to the
  sky. Every summer she had dragged small logs over to the open spaces to
  complete the roof, so that by the time she was twelve, she had created a
  snug little cave. The continual dropping of leaves and pine needles onto
  her handiwork had camouflaged it completely; with its shield of evergreens
  in front of the entrance, it had become invisible.
  Now that she felt relatively safe, she had a moment to assess her injuries.
  She touched her leg where the bullet had whistled by her and felt
  stickiness coat her fingers. Blood. She tried to ignore the cold and the
  fear and the pain, tried to push away the thought that, injured and
  bleeding, she could die in here. Her bolt-hole might well turn into a trap.
  She pulled her feet up as close to her body as they would come, and reached
  down to warm them with her cold hands. A stab of pain in her wrist reminded
  her that she had hurt it, too, as she had fallen on the bank, and tears of
  anger began to slip down her cheeks.
  The sounds made by her pursuers came from farther and farther, until all
  sound ebbed away, and she drifted timelessly in the soothing darkness. The
  terror of pursuit was replaced by a kaleidoscopic succession of bright and
  hectic dreams, dreams of endless icebergs and snowbanks and brooks filled
  with clear, bright ice water.
  Then, lifetimes later, her dreams were interrupted by muttering and cursing
  on the other side of the stream; that sound was replaced by a lot of
  heavy-footed crashing and thumping about very close by. "Annie," said
  another familiar voice, "for chrissake, if you're out there, say something.
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        109

 It's Robin. I won't hurt you, and I'm getting bloody cold standing here."
  She waited for a moment, trying to think what would be the clever thing
  to do. Awake and trembling with cold and misery, she called, "I'm here,
  in here," and stretched a hand out through the feathery concealing
  branches of the trees.
 CHAPTER 9

 He was close enough to her to touch the icy hand that appeared through the
 branches. He pushed them aside and shone the powerful beam of his
 flashlight into a narrow opening, some two feet wide and about four feet
 high. She was lying there on her side, apparently wedged between two rock
 faces. Automatically, he reached in to try to get her out.
  "Wait," she said weakly, as his hand closed around her wrist. "Let go.
  Let me do it."
 "How in hell did you get in there?" he asked.
  "It's not that tight," she said, "especially back here." She was
  breathing rapidly, ejecting her words in little spates of sound.
  He focused the beam on her face. It was streaked with dirt and blood; in
  the white light, her skin was gray and her eyes hollow and sunken. She
  blinked under the scrutiny. "How badly are you hurt?" he asked. She shook
  her head helplessly. "We have to get you out of there," he said, his
  voice efficient and matter-of-fact. "Can you help?" He said it as if it
  didn't matter much one way or the other whether she could or couldn't,
  although he was daunted by the prospect of trying to drag a helpless but
  sentient being out of there.
  There was a long and frightening silence. just as he was about to reach
  in for her, however, she spoke, coolly and rationally. "I've sprained my
  left wrist, I think-it seems to be swollen. Not a great idea to pull me
  out by that hand."
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       ill

 She paused again for breath. "I've hurt my leg, and I've lost some blood.
 Walking might be-" She stopped. "And I haven't any shoes or socks."
  "Or coat or hat or gloves," he added, gently. "You have to stop going out
  without a coat. Okay, can you raise your shoulders a little? Then I can
  pull you out." She nodded and tried to heave herself up, levering herself
  with her left elbow. She lurched sideways and sank down again; she took
  a deep breath and repeated the movement. This time she managed to stay
  up; he stuffed the flashlight in his pocket, reached in and grasped her
  by the armpits. He pulled steadily until she was out except for her legs.
  "Now," he said, 4'reach up and grab me behind the neck." She rolled
  slightly toward him and placed her right arm on his shoulder. Her grip
  was alarmingly feeble. He shifted his hold until he was carrying her like
  a tired child off to bed. "Just one more question," he said. Her head
  rolled against his chest, and he was afraid she was going to faint. "How
  do we get to the cabin without wading through that damned river?"
  "Up there," she said, with no indication of direction, "to the road. Not
  far," she added, and lost consciousness.

 At least he knew what direction the road ought to be in, and he began to
 stumble along, following the stream bed upward. It might not have been
 far, but the ground underfoot was uneven and studded with large rocks that
 sprang up invisible under his feet. After banging her legs against a tree,
 he draped her over his shoulder, took out his flashlight again, and
 started to scramble up the small hill to the road. She seemed to drift in
 and out of consciousness; unaware, he hoped, of how roughly he was
 handling her. Back on the road, he shifted her back into his arms; her
 eyes fluttered open, and she began to shiver violently. Snow was drifting
 softly onto her face, and she buried it in the waterproof cloth of his
 parka. If he didn't get her inside soon, be reck-
  112            MEDORA SALE

 oned, she wouldn't make it after all. He wondered how long she had been
 lying out there in the cold, and lengthened his stride until he reached
 the graveled parking area. Cursing his own carefulness that had insisted
 on closing the door when he first came in, he shifted her weight onto his
 upraised knee and turned the knob.
  The lingering warmth from the fire in the stove had heated up the cabin
  again. He vaguely remembered a batteredlooking couch to the left of the
  door, turned, and cracked his shins against it, and then set her down
  gingerly on her back. Once he had use of his arms again, the flashlight
  found him two oil lamps, neatly trimmed and polished clean, up on a shelf
  beside a wall-mounted match holder. As soon as they were lit, the cabin
  seemed to blaze with light, and he saw that the stickiness on his hands
  was blood. He hastily wiped them on his handkerchief and turned his
  attention to the girl again. She was shivering with cold, or fear, or
  shock, her eyes anxiously following his movements. The blood had
  originated from the stiffening mess on her jeans, obviously. He looked
  around for something sharp, picked up a paring knife from the counter by
  the wood stove, and carefully enlarged the ragged tear in her jeans and
  then in the dark-colored long underwear beneath. "What happened to your
  leg?" he asked.
  "I must have been shot," she said. "As I ran away. It was strange. I
  didn't feel anything. I heard it, I heard it go by. The shot."
  As far as he could tell, the bullet had torn away some skin and flesh on
  the side of her thigh but had not penetrated any farther. He ripped the
  cloth of her jeans back more, found a couple of clean-looking dish towels
  hanging from a bar, and wrapped them around the wound.
  "Where are the blankets?" he asked impatiently. "Blankets, Annie. You
  need blankets. You're cold."
 "Up there," she said. Her voice seemed dry and faint.
 For the first time, he noticed a ladder fastened to a rafter
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        113

 beside the back wall. In two steps he was at the top, and shining his
 light into a room whose existence he had not suspected. It was a tiny
 bedroom tucked in under the eaves. It contained a narrow wooden built-in
 bed with two large drawers under it and very little else, except for a few
 boxes. An empty duffel bag lay crumpled on the floor right in front of
 him. He snatched a couple of blankets from the bed, opened the drawers and
 tumbled as much of their contents into the duffel bag as he could, and
 hurried back down the ladder to check on her again. Her eyes were closed,
 but the lids fluttered sporadically. He straightened out the two blankets
 to make a double thickness and placed them gently on top of her.
  Somewhere in the pile of things he had rescued from the drawers he had
  seen neatly folded socks, he was sure, and he rooted around in the duffel
  bag until he found them. He moved one of the lamps so that he could see
  what he was doing and uncovered her bare and agonizingly cold feet. He
  slipped a sock onto one foot and then picked up the other. And gagged.
  That oozing filthy mess was beyond him. He put the second sock on top of
  the first and wrapped the blanket around her legs again.
  She stirred, and he turned to look at her. "I'm thirsty," she said. "Very
  thirsty."
  He looked around frantically for water, hoping he didn't have to return
  to the goddamn stream-which was probably polluted anyway. But on the
  floor, next to the back door, there was a plastic jug of spring water.
  He filled a cup and held it to her lips. She drank a mouthful and let her
  head drop back. "We have to leave," she said. "They know I'm here. They
  think I'm dead, but they aren't sure, and so they'll be back."
  "You're right," he said. "Don't worry." He searched the cabin once more
  with his flashlight. The beam picked out a pair of hiking boots and a
  large leather purse with a shoulder strap. Those looked useful. He
  grabbed them,
 114             MEDORA SALE

 along with the duffel bag and jug of water, and slung them into the trunk of
 his car. He opened the rear door, ran back in, blew out the lamps, picked up
 Annie, tucking the blankets around her as firmly as he could, and laid her
 carefully down on the backseat of the car.

 He thought of nothing but getting away from the cabin until he neared the
 intersection between the township road and the highway. At that point, far
 enough back from the main road to keep them from being noticed by casual
 traffic, he pulled over to consider what to do next. "Annie," he said.
 "Annie! Are you awake?"
 She moaned slightly, and muttered.
  He flicked on the overhead light and turned to look at her. "Who knew about
  this place?" he asked. "Which of your friends?"
  She swallowed and licked her lips. "No one," she said at last.
  "There has to have been someone," he said incredulously. "Didn't Neilson
  know?"
  "No one," she repeated. "Espe-especially not Neilson." Talking seemed to
  cost her more and more effort. "How did you-" Her voice trailed off.
 "Hennessy," said Lucas. "Your lawyer."
  "He knew. No one else. No one." She paused, and when she answered again,
  her voice was stronger. "I haven't been up here for five years. Joe looked
  after it after Daddy died. He wouldn't have told anyone."
  Joe. That would be the body in the snow, thought Lucas grimly. He wondered
  if she knew that he was dead. "Was Joe local?" he asked, and winced when he
  realized he was already using the past tense.
  She didn't notice. "Yes," she said, drawing in a ragged breath.
 Which meant that to get any information from Joe, you
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        115

 had to know who he was and where to find him. Which meant that you already
 knew where you were going. And only Hennessy knew that. Except that Hennessy
 had told him-but he hadn't passed it on to anyone. Had he? He had told
 Patterson he was going to check out her cottage. But hadn't mentioned where
 it was, he was sure of that. And otherwise the location had only been
 spelled out in his report. The report that he had dutifully filed before
 lunch. And someone who had access to his report had gone up that afternoon.
 Or had told someone else about it-who had gone up that afternoon. Which
 would mean that someone who had access to Baldwin's files was passing
 information on-probably to the same friends who had found Carl Neilson no
 longer useful and had disposed of him. "Shit!" he said, and pounded his fist
 against the steering wheel. The girl behind him stirred and muttered.
  He started the car up again. Now that he had put it all into words, the
  only surprise was that he hadn't thought of it before. It was the logical,
  if unpalatable, solution. Now where to? First of all, Annie needed help.
  And if he took her to a hospital with a gunshot wound, the incident would
  be reported, and the report would land on Baldwin's desk. He had a
  first-aid kit in the trunk. He wasn't sure how risky trying to look after
  her himself was going to be, but he certainly knew how risky it would be to
  let other people get their hands on her. All he needed now was a quiet
  motel where no one would pay any attention to them.

 "I'm not being grim," said Sanders, pushing the candle to one side to get a
 better look at Harriet's face. "And I haven't been glaring at you. In fact,
 I'm not in a bad mood at all. just thinking."
  "Thinking!" said Harriet. "I hate to imagine what you're thinking about.
  Strangling someone, I suppose. I can see it in your eyes-they're narrow and
  glittering with blood
 116            MEDORA SALE

 lust." She pointed an accusing finger across the table and then converted
 the gesture into a grab for the wine bottle that sat between them.
  "Shut up, will you, Harriet?" He caught her wrist with one hand and
  extracted the wine bottle from her with the other. "Something to drink,
  madam?" he added, and poured some into her glass and then into his. "And
  I wasn't considering strangling someone-only trying to figure out why
  Matt Baldwin's case was dumped in my lap this afternoon. It's not like
  Matt to relinquish his hold on anything."
 "Maybe the man is sick," said Harriet. "It must happen."
  Sanders shook his head. "I was specifically told that illness was not the
  reason. Nor incompetence, no matter how justifiable."
  "Meow," said Harriet. "I'm shocked, John. It's not like you to be catty
  about someone. Besides me, of course. And you only do that to my face,
  as far as I know."
  "Absolutely," said Sanders. "Pure gallantry once your back is turned,
  that's me. But wait until you meet Baldy. He brings cattiness out in the
  gentlest people. My recurrent nightmare is that Baldy will be promoted
  over me someday and I'll have to work for him. When I think of that, I
  break out in a cold sweat and start making lists of alternate careers."
 "What's wrong with him?" asked Harriet.
  Sanders held up his left hand and began counting points off on his
  fingers. "He's stupid, a self-satisfied ass, that's one. He's a pompous
  twit or a cringing, ass-licking jerk, depending on who he's talking to,
  that's two. He knows nothing and expects the people working with him to
  cover for his mistakes and let him take the credit when things work out.
  That's three. And he has a foul and irrational temper that makes me look
  like a cross between a saint and the sunshine fairy."
  "Which is four," said Harriet. "I get your drift. You don't like the man.
  What case is it, anyway?"
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       117

  "Murder that happened while we were away. A guy who owns a lot of property
  around the city-"
  "Carl Neilson," said Harriet quietly. "Lydia Neilson's husband."
  "My God," said Sanders. "Do you know her? Baldwin claims he doesn't want
  the case because he knows Lydia Neilson. He probably met her once."
  Harriet got up and walked across the room over to the CD player. She
  shuffled through a pile of discs in silence until she finally arrived at
  one and slipped it into the player. The delicate sounds of baroque music
  played on a classical guitar stirred around the edges of the room. "Yes,"
  she said. "I know her-or to be more accurate, I used to know her. I haven't
  seen her for about four years. She's probably changed."
 "Was she married to Neilson then?" asked Sanders.
  Harriet nodded. She walked back to the table and sat down. She picked up
  her glass, as if to drink, and then put it down again, too hard, and
  spilled a few drops of wine on the mat. "I didn't know her before she
  married Carl Neilson."
  "What's wrong with her?" asked Sanders. He imprisoned her hand before she
  could start fiddling with something else.
  "Wrong with her? Oh, nothing. She's very nice. Bright and interesting.
  Knows a lot about music and art. She didor was doing-art history in
  university when she married him. That's how I got to know her. Through,
  uh-" Harriet stopped dead.
  "Your artist friend without the name," said Sanders. "You don't have to
  avoid any mention of him just because of me. I don't expect to meet a woman
  of thirty who has never laid eyes on a man before."
  Harriet smiled uncertainly. "I realize that. But I have trouble-"
  "Talking about him. Given. But we weren't. We were talking about Lydia
  Neilson, who knows a lot about art
 118             MEDORA SALE

 and music and is very nice and about whom you also have trouble talking."
  She shook her head. "Only because of what happened. Which was strange and
  embarrassing. And because of your job. I like Lydia, and-"
  "And five years ago she told you she wanted to murder her husband. To gun
  him down in his own hotel, preferably on an afternoon in March, which is
  her favorite month, with such-and-such kind of pistol, and so on. Is that
  it? Even if she did, she probably wouldn't have waited five years to do
  it. As evidence it's pretty lousy."
  Harriet had started to giggle alarmingly. "For God's sake, stop. Before
  I choke on my wine. No, she never told me she wanted to kill him, honest,
  Officer. But she did tell me she wanted to leave him. She was having an
  affair with someone-I don't know who-and she was planning on taking the
  child and running off into the sunset. And then, suddenly, I don't exist.
  She doesn't call me for those girlish chats. When I call her, she says
  she can't-doesn't want to-talk to me. She must have decided that leaving
  him would be too disruptive and was trying to convince herself that the
  whole episode never happened. And since she had told me she loved this
  guy, whoever he was, I just reminded her of her folly."
  "Or maybe she figured it would be too expensive. Leaving Neilson. He was
  very rich, I gather."
  "It's hard to say. Money didn't seem that important to her. It must have
  at one time, or she wouldn't have married him, but not when I knew her.
  It sounds corny, but I guess she'd figured out there were more important
  things in life." She broke off and looked over at him intently. "She was
  afraid of Neilson, you know. I suppose the bastard was violent. But
  Lydia's a very quiet, gentle sort of creature. I doubt if she'd kill
  anyone. I mean, if he threatened her child, she might pick up an heirloom
  shotgun and let him have it. Both barrels. She was a fierce mother. But
  then she would
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       119

 have called the police and explained what she had done and why. You see, she
 would have felt perfectly justified."
  Sanders appeared unconcerned with Lydia Neilson's maternal urges. "Did you
  get to know Neilson?" he asked.
  She shook her head. "Never. Met him once or twice, that's all. I knew some
  architects who worked for him. General public opinion seems to be that the
  man was a son of a bitch. With a genius for cheating people out of what he
  owed them. Whoever killed him did the world a favor."
  "Could be, but we're not allowed to work on that premise. Actually, the
  thing that interests me is not your friendor erstwhile friend-Lydia and
  whether she is likely to have done him in. I had really been sitting here
  looking at that wine and wondering about the champagne in Neilson's hotel
  room."
  "Champagne?" Harriet looked puzzled. "With his money, he could bloody well
  afford champagne. What's strange about it?"
  "There was a girl in the room when or just before he was killed. Someone he
  probably had up to the room fairly often, if I have pieced together what
  they found at the scene accurately."
  "So he bought his little piece of fluff a bottle of champagne. It's a sad
  but old story, John. You must have heard of men doing that sort of thing.
  Even if you never do."
  "Did you want champagne? And does that make you my little piece of fluff?"
  He ducked the blow. "But that wasn't it. He used to order up a bottle of
  house red for the little piece of fluff-"
  "Cheap as well as thieving and vicious." Harriet shook her head sadly.
  "And besides, Harriet. When do you open bottles of champagne if you are
  meeting someone for an afternoon of passion? Or sadomasochistic fun and
  games, if you're right about him. Before? Or after?"
 "I would have thought before, wouldn't you? In most
 120            MEDORA SALE

 cases. A glass or two before, to bring the atmosphere up to party level,
 and then a glass of flat champagne afterwardin the case of Carl Neilson,
 to wash away the taste. Aargb. I could never see how Lydia could have
 married him. He was so slimy looking."
  "Exactly. And the bottle of cheap red rotgut had been opened. The bed
  bore unmistakable signs of having been used for an afternoon of-passion,
  S-M games, whatever. Which means-"
  "The girl was gone, and he was waiting for someone else."
  Sanders nodded. "Our only problem is we don't know who."
  "That's easy," said Harriet. Sanders looked up quickly. "He was closing
  a deal of some sort. That's the other reason for ordering champagne. I
  mean, besides weddings and christenings and birthdays and such. Which
  don't somehow seem to apply. To validate some sort of business deal or
  project that just finished or, conversely, is off to a glorious start."
 "What kind?"
  "I don't know. That's your job. Except he probably wasn't launching a
  ship."

 Lucas took another minor road, this one heading northwest. He wanted to
 put at least a hundred miles between them and that cabin, and headed
 toward an area Just populated enough, he hoped, to have motels open in the
 off-season. For three hours he drove into the black and starless night,
 until his exhausted brain began to see menacing visions rise up in his
 headlights; hydro-poles swayed and danced to the hypnotic music of the
 road as he approached them. A particularly talented one stepped neatly in
 front of the car. He swerved back into his lane; his heavy eyes snapped
 open, and his heart pounded from the shock. He was no longer
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       121

 fit to drive, but if he stopped to grab some sleep, she would never last
 through the cold spring night once the heater was turned off. He pushed
 grimly on.
  Over the next hill what he was looking for loomed up on his right-a place
  that looked cheap, seedy, anonymous, and open for business. A place where
  the management wouldn't inquire too closely about its guests. He parked the
  car away from the office, walked noisily in, and smashed his hand down on
  the bell on the counter. Nothing. He smashed it down again, and again, and
  again. A voice muttered in the background, and the door behind the
  reception area opened wide enough to allow a head to peer around it.
  "Yeah?" it said, and looked suspiciously at him. The head disappeared, the
  door opened wider, and the entire man appeared, rumpled and dirty-looking.
  A thin line of dried spittle had caked on the side of his face, trailing
  down to his unshaven chin.
  "Hey, buddy," Lucas asked with a leer, "you gotta room? A double? And not
  too close to anybody else, if you know what I mean."
  "Listen, Jack, there are twenty-eight empty rooms out there." His voice was
  as unpleasant as his face. "Take your goddamn pick. How far away do you
  want to be?"
  "Aw, come on," said Lucas. "Don't get sore. We just got married, that's
  all, and my girl-I mean, my wife-she's kind of shy, like."
  "I'll put you at the end," he said sourly, reaching for a key. "The wife's
  not gonna like it," he added. "It means farther to walk when she makes up
  the rooms, and she'll be pretty damned sore about it, but if that's what
  you want . . ." He paused artistically. "It'll be fifty bucks."
  The sign outside promised double rooms for forty, but Lucas pulled out some
  bills and dropped a fifty on the counter.
  "Thanks," he snarled, grabbing the cash with a scowl. "Sign here."
 122             MEDORA SALE

 He carried Annie in, half-awake and muttering incoherent protests, set her
 down carefully on the bed and went back for the first-aid kit. He fetched
 some clean towels from the bathroom and then stopped to look down at her,
 uncertain how to begin. She lay with her eyes shut, clutching her swollen
 wrist. That he could deal with, he thought. Sprained wrists are like
 sprained ankles. He wrapped an elastic bandage around it and activated a
 cold pack, which he fastened on clumsily with another towel.
  Next he tried to cut the bloodstained jeans off her body with the tiny
  scissors from the kit. It didn't work. He cursed quietly and set about
  taking them off instead. "You'll be more comfortable without those
  jeans," he said firmly. She paid no attention. He struggled with the
  stiff button, won, and began easing them, together with her torn and
  bloodied long underwear, over her hips. She was thin-her hipbones
  protruded sharply on either side of her concave stomachand was wearing
  plain white cotton panties instead of the black lace he was somehow
  expecting. He quickly covered the mess on her thigh with a thick gauze
  pad. All the time he was working on her, she remained white-faced,
  expressionless, immobile. Except for her hand. Her nails bit into the
  flesh of the palm of her right hand as he went doggedly on.
  The burn took more courage than he possessed. He picked bits of dirt,
  pine needles, and broken leaves from its edges and then looked to see
  what was in his kit. There was a tiny container of antibiotic ointment.
  He looked at the tube and then at that wound. He couldn't spread anything
  on that burned and dirty mess, and so he ripped open another gauze pad
  and squirted most of the gooey substance on it. As he placed the pad
  gingerly on the wound and wrapped more gauze around her foot, he could
  feel the shock that went through her body.
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        123

  He searched the kit for the codeine pills he knew were there. "Take these,"
  he said. "And I'm sorry I'm not very good at this sort of thing." She
  swallowed them, and let her head fall back on the pillows again. He raised
  her up, yanked back the blankets, and eased her into bed.
 She fell into an uneasy slumber almost at once.
  The double bed that she was occupying dominated the room. He looked around
  for some place to stretch out; his aching body screamed for a few hours'
  sleep. There was only thin cold carpet laid over the concrete floor. In
  desperation, he tried lying cautiously beside her, keeping well away from
  her side of the bed, but she tossed her head restlessly and cried out in
  her sleep as his weight pulled the blanket down against her injuries. He
  got up again, dizzy with exhaustion, found an extra blanket, and settled
  himself into a plastic armchair, with his feet propped up on a corner of
  the bed.
 CHAPTER 10

 At 7:00 A.M., Rob Lucas stirred himself out of an uneasy sleep. He
 struggled awkwardly out of the chair and went to inspect his patient. She
 was breathing slowly and deeply, lying on her side, her hair spread on the
 pillow in a mass of tangled curls. If it hadn't been for the cumbersome
 bandage on the wrist that was flung up on the pillow beside her face, he
 would not have believed that any of this had happened. That and his own
 exhaustion. He had an irrational impulse to wake her up, to throw her out
 of bed, and make her admit that she felt perfectly healthy. Common sense
 intervened. He found his razor and toothbrush and headed for the shower.
  Hot water and a sense of being clean again restored him to something
  closer to equanimity; he pulled the armchair over to the window and sat
  down to mull over his position. Problem one: in four or five hours, they
  were going to expect him back with his witness. And two: the woman lying
  on the bed right behind him should probably be in the hospital.
  Preferably in the city. But three: to look at it all in an organized way,
  her life would be in danger if he brought her back. End of discussion.
  They'd stay out here. He shook his head, baffled. You're crazy, Robert,
  he said to himself. You don't know what you're doing. Because if you
  don't turn up this afternoon, there's going to be a disciplinary hearing,
  and there goes your job. Which, on the whole, you like. At least some of
  the time. But if he turned
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       125

 around, he knew he would see the frail, battered body of little Jennifer
 Wilson lying on that cold concrete floor. "Screw the job," he muttered,
 and rubbed his tired eyes.
  He would temporize, he decided at last. This morning he would call in
  with some plausible excuse for not returning to the city and for not
  having found Annie. Something that would keep them happy for a day or so
  and put off the moment of decision for him.
  He considered her again. She appeared to be sleeping soundly enough for
  him to go out for food and coffee. As he headed for the truck stop across
  the highway, he reflected that he was probably the worst person in the
  world to take charge of an injured person. Healthy himself, he had no
  patience with the ill. He couldn't even imagine how she must be feeling.
  But he was better than someone who was trying to kill her. He could at
  least keep her quiet, fed, and full of painkillers.
  The restaurant was bright with morning sunshine; its beams lit up the
  torn leatherette benches and the worn tiled floor with cruel precision.
  It smelled of coffee, burned bacon, and disinfectant. Only one booth
  seemed to be occupied-by a couple of men in overalls talking quietly over
  egg-stained plates-and the room echoed with his footsteps as he crossed
  it. Eating breakfast in there was not to be thought of. The smell caught
  unpleasantly in his throat; and he was too restless to sit around and
  wait. "Give us a coffee, eh," he said to the sleepy-eyed waitress behind
  the counter. "And coffee, orange Juice, and toast for two, to go."
  Never had such a simple meal taken so long to prepare. He turned his back
  to the counter, cradling his mug of coffee in his hands and staring
  across the highway at the room where he had left the sleeping girl.
  Finally there was a slap as a bag hit the counter behind him. "That'll
  be five dollars and fifty cents," said the waitress flatly. He dropped
  a five and a one on the counter, grabbed the bag, and walked across the
  room. As he crossed through the broad
 126            MEDORA SALE

 entrance passage, the bright red of a soft-drink machine stopped him. He
 dumped all his change in it and added three cans to the bag.
  Annie woke up at the sound of the closing door. In one swift motion, he
  picked her up and carried her into the bathroom, leaving a hot damp
  washcloth and towel within reach on the edge of the tub, in case she
  wanted to wash. He couldn't tell from her expression if she was
  embarrassed, or resentful, or simply too miserable to care at this
  invasion of her privacy. She didn't protest; in fact, she didn't speak.
  After he settled her back in bed, she surprised him by consurning her
  share of the tinny orange juice, the coffee, and most of his toast as
  well as her own. He opened one of the cans of soft drinks, and left it
  on the bedside table.
  "How do you feel?" he asked finally. He had been avoiding the question,
  afraid of what her answer might be.
 "Not bad," she said. "Thirsty. But I'm not cold anymore."
 "Does it hurt?" he asked.
  She grimaced. "My foot is-" She seemed to look for words and be unable
  to find them. "Yes. It does. And my wrist is throbbing. But otherwise I'm
  okay. just tired."
  He got her a fresh glass of water and shook two more painkillers out of
  the tube in his first-aid kit. She took them silently, rolled over on her
  side, and appeared to slip easily back into slumber.
  Now he had to put some sort of plan into action before Baldy got alarmed.
  He couldn't risk doing it from here. She was asleep again, and he looked
  down at her, frowning with indecision. Leaving her alone seemed
  heartless, but she'd be a lot more uncomfortable if he dragged her around
  the countryside with him. Finally he took out his book and wrote her a
  note, in block capitals, clear and noticeable, explaining tersely that
  he had to go out, that he would be back, and that she was to stay where
  she was. "If things get bad," he added after some thought, "don't be a
  fool. Call the motel office. Lift the phone and dial zero. They
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       127

 will get a doctor. Take care. Robin." Last of all, he dropped into the motel
 office, where he paid for another day, told the manager's bedraggled wife to
 stay out of the room, and traded in their used towels for clean ones.
  Lucas gave one more worried look at Annie as he dropped off the towels
  before climbing into the car. He stared at a road map, trying to think. If
  he was going to be anonymous, the first problem, clearly, was stashing this
  car. He started the engine and headed back in the direction they had come
  from.
  Eighty miles and an hour and thirty minutes closer to Annie's cabin, he was
  standing by the side of the highway outside a moderately large town,
  hitching a ride. A red pickup approached, slowed, and stopped a little way
  ahead of him. He limped artistically up to it and climbed in. "Thanks," he
  said. "You going into Deerton?"
  "Umf," muttered the driver. "Hurt yourself?" he added after a while,
  pointing vaguely in the direction of Lucas's lower limbs.
  "Skidded into the ditch up that road back there," said Lucas, almost as
  laconically. "Twisted my ankle."
 "There's a hospital," said the driver. "In Deerton."
  "For a twisted ankle? Naw. It's okay. Is there a car rental place in town?"
  The driver grunted, and the two subsided into silence.
  In fifteen minutes he was in possession of a new midsize four-door rental
  car, sober blue in color. In five more, he was standing near the entrance
  to the New Maple Leaf Grill, on the phone to the city, getting put through
  to Homicide.
  "Inspector Baldwin isn't answering," said an irritating voice.
  "Then for chrissake get me Sergeant Patterson," snapped Lucas. "This isn't
  a goddamn social call."
  Patterson answered at once. "Jesus, Rob, where in hell have you been?" he
  asked irritably. "We were-"
 128             MEDORA SALE

  "Been? I'm up in the bloody north woods, that's where I am. Right now. I
  left this morning."
  "The hell you did," said Patterson. "We've had the troops out since ten
  o'clock last night looking for you. Baldwin decided he wanted to talk to
  you. Then he couldn't find you, and the shit really hit the fan. Where were
  you.
  "It's none of your goddamn business, Patterson," he snapped. "I was off
  duty. Where I was is my businesspersonal business, as it happens-and the
  department can keep its nose out of my affairs. I am not the goddamn
  chief-I'm a lousy sergeant, and the department can run without me.
  Everything I was doing is in my reports or on my desk. Go look." He paused
  to take a breath. "And where in hell is Baldwin?"
  "Okay, okay, don't get sore. He's walking in the door right now," said
  Patterson. "Just a minute."
  "Don't say 'it," said Lucas, as soon as he heard his boss's familiar voice.
  "Patterson just told me. Look, I'm up here in Deerton. I skidded out on a
  patch of ice this morning, and my goddamn car is in the bloody ditch."
  "Oh," said Baldwin. He sounded confused. "Are you all right?"
  91 No, I'm not all right, damn it. I broke my fucking ankle and I wrecked
  my shoulder and cracked my collarbone. I can't even use crutches. I am
  stuck in this goddamn hospital bed, and they tell me I'll be here for
  weeks. I just called to tell you that, as of now, I'm on sick leave for at
  least two weeks, maybe three. And I never got anywhere near that girl or
  her bloody cottage, so you can send someone else or ask the goddamn locals
  to look for her. They don't seem to do anything else around here. You'll
  find how to get to it on my desk. Look-I gotta go. The fucking doctors are
  coming back. I'll call if I ever find out when I'm getting out of here."
  And he hung up, fast, before Baldwin had a chance to think of anything to
  say. The owner of the New Maple Leaf Grill looked up incuriously, his damp
  cloth in his hand,
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        129

 pausing in his attack on the counter in front of him. He considered the
 large, healthy man who had been describing his pathetic injuries and shook
 his head in disappointment. He had heard a lot of strange stories told into
 that phone, and this one was a pallid effort compared to some.

 Lucas got back into the rental car and headed out to a shopping center on
 the highway. The weather had changed suddenly in the past few hours;
 yesterday's brilliant spring sunshine had given way to flat gray clouds; a
 chill wind was blowing sheets of old newspapers and greasy hamburger
 containers around the parking lot. He shivered and zipped up his jacket. The
 automatic gesture made him consider the question of clothing for Annie. He
 looked around him. In addition to the supermarket he was standing in front
 of, there was a hardware store, a drugstore, a women's clothing store, and
 a bank. He suddenly thought about all those stupid bastards he had tracked
 down because of the paper trail of credit card slips they had left behind
 them and headed for the bank.
  Thirty minutes later, he opened the car door and pitched in a bag
  containing a couple of lightweight track suits, size large, and three
  flannelette nightgowns, J*ust in case. Flannelette didn't fit his image of
  the girl, but then he had no idea what she habitually slept in.
  Realistically, he supposed that she was more likely to prefer the white
  cotton she was wearing to black lace. The groceries sitting back there were
  just as randomly chosen: fruit, various kinds of biscuits and crackers,
  lots of odd cans and bottles of things to drink, some yogurt, and cheese.
  Whenever he went searching for food in the refrigerators of the women he
  knew, that was what he found, and he had to assume that all women in their
  twenties lived on this sort of thing. He himself could exist on take-out
  food from the restaurant across the road from the motel. That was something
  that six years on the
 130             MEDORA SALE

 police force had done for him; it had made him appreciate availability
 over quality in the food he ate.
  As he drove back to the motel, he was conscious of a sense of nervous
  dread, the feeling he used to have as a child coming back from camp or
  visits away from home. When the taxi turned the corner onto his street,
  he would close his eyes in terror, sure that his comfortable house and
  his beautiful, impatient mother and his terrier, Bart, would be gone,
  replaced by a blackened, burned-out ruin, and everyone would be dead. And
  one time when he returned, it had happened. Only Mummy was gone, not
  dead, and the house was for sale, not burned to the ground. But this
  time, at least, there seemed to be no devastation. The motel sulked
  quietly under the gray sky. The management seemed to have finished
  whatever it did for the day to earn its keep, and the place was deserted.
  He pulled up with automatic caution in front of another unit, walked
  back, inserted the key without a noise and pushed the door open gently.
  Annie was lying much as he left her, breathing quietly, asleep.
  She opened her eyes at the sound when he closed the door. "How are you?"
  he asked, a shade too heartily.
  "Where were you?" she answered. Her voice sounded cracked and dry, but
  her eyes were accusing. "I was frightened. Someone knocked on the door,
  and you had disappeared. I didn't know what to do."
  He carried the water glass into the bathroom to dump it out. "I was
  shopping," he said conversationally. He brought the glass back and
  refilled it from the jug. "Drink it," he said. "All of it." He put his
  hand behind her shoulders and lifted her up a little. "I got you a track
  suit," he said. "Extra large. Not that you are, of course," he added.
  "But I thought it would be easier for us to get you into it. If it were
  too big, I mean."
 She almost smiled.
  "And while you're in the bathroom," he said, "I'll try to straighten out
  the bed. It's a pity I was never in the army.
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        131

 1 think I'd probably be a little handier at all of this." And he picked
 her up again.
  An hour later Annie was asleep, drugged against the pain, looking pale
  but reasonably healthy. He paced back and forth, trying to pretend she
  wasn't there. If they had to stay in this stifling room much longer, he
  would come to hate her. He brought his map in from the car and spread it
  out on the battered little table. His finger drew a circle around the
  motel. He didn't want to spend his time carting her around the
  countryside, but he had to find a place where he could sleep, too. He
  considered the possibilities. None of them looked that promising. He
  shrugged. One more night wouldn't kill him; he'd make his mind up
  tomorrow.

 The afternoon was wearing away to a gray and miserable conclusion when
 Inspector Baldwin slammed down his telephone and jumped to his feet. He
 walked twice to the door of his office and then back to his desk again,
 in an agony of indecision. Finally he threw himself out into the corridor,
 roaring for Eric Patterson.
  "He's not here," said Kelleher. "He'll be back later this afternoon. He
  had a whole list of people he said you wanted him to see. Now that Lucas
  is out of the picture." Kelleher looked at his watch. "Actually, he
  should be back soon. I'll tell him you wanted to see him."
  "Don't bother. What did Lucas say to Patterson when he called in? Where
  in hell was he calling from?"
 "The hospital at Deerton, sit. Or that's what I understood."
  "Bullshit. They've bloody well never heard of him at the hospital in
  Deerton," said Baldwin. "He isn't there. I'll suspend him, that's what.
  I'm taking this up with-"
  Kelleher looked up from the pile of material in front of him. "Not
  necessarily," he said, calmly interrupting Baldwin. "Just because they
  haven't heard about him at the switchboard doesn't mean he isn't there.
  It takes a bit of
 132            MEDORA SALE

 time for information to filter through. Do you want me to try and find
 out? We could call the locals and get them to check it out."
 "Don't bother. I'll look after it myself," said Baldwin.

 Lucas had spent the rest of the afternoon trying not to be in the motel
 room. He had wandered into the snowy woods behind the complex, finding
 occasional isolated paths. Each one of them seemed to end in a filthy
 garbage dump or pile of rotting car metal and broken down refrigerators,
 and his irritation had intensified. On the other hand, Annie seemed to be
 recovering rapidly, he thought, with a certain amount of pride. She was
 even gratifyingly hungry. And that presented the problem of what in hell
 he was going to do with her when she was better. Not keep her here. His
 nerves couldn't take it. And as he walked into the restaurant for dinner,
 he realized his digestion wouldn't take much more of this particular
 location, either. Tomorrow he was going to have to decide. That night he
 took one of her pillows, settled himself more carefully into the horrible
 armchair, and fell into a sleep of total exhaustion.
         CHAPTER 11

 Rob looked down at Annie Hunter in the cool light of early morning and
 felt a sense of satisfaction. She didn't look half bad today. Well enough
 to be moved to a classier motel, even. One with two beds in each room and
 a bit of space. Her breathing was a little fast, maybe, and her color a
 little gray, but surely that was the effect of expectations. Today, he was
 expecting her to be better; yesterday, he had expected her to be a lot
 worse.
  She was still stirring restlessly in her sleep when he returned from the
  restaurant with breakfast. The sound of the door woke her, and she cried
  out nervously.
  "Hey," he said. "It's just me. Come on, let's get you into the bathroom."
  She felt warm to his touch as he picked her up.
  She looked a little better once she had washed, he thought. But after
  taking a few sips of orange juice and a bite of toast, she put the glass
  and the paper package down on the table beside her. "I'll finish it
  later," she said. "I'm not very hungry right now." His expostulations
  were interrupted by a knock on the door, and once again he chased away
  the manager's wife with her laundry cart, handing her some used towels
  and collecting clean linen in exchange.

 Ed Dubinsky was leaning against the open door of elevator three, holding
 it immobile, waiting for John Sanders to fin-
  134            MEDORA SALE

 ish reading the directory and figure out where they were going. He yawned.
 "Fourth and fifth," said Sanders.
 "Which?"
  Sanders shrugged. "Take your pick." Dubinsky pushed both buttons.
  It was a glittering, new, high-speed elevator, designed to reach the
  twenty-seventh floor at rocket speed, and it seemed to resent the briefness
  of its trip. It lurched to a reluctant halt on the fourth floor. Dubinsky
  held the door open again. "How does this grab you?" he said.
  Sanders looked out. The door opened onto a wide hall with an understated
  black glossy reception desk manned by a pale, glossy receptionist. "It'll
  do," he said. Dubinsky let go the door and slid rapidly out after his
  partner. Their feet sank into the carpet; their sleeves brushed against the
  pots of plants that filled up that awful blank space between elevators.
  "NorthSea/Baltic Enterprises are doing all right, I'd say," Sanders
  remarked sourly.
  "Or they owe a helluva lot of money to someone," added Dubinsky.
  The glossy receptionist was not pleased to receive another visit from the
  police. She would see if anyone could speak to them.
  Out of their shortlist of possible interviewees, it seemed that the person
  with the most free time on his hands at the moment was the bookkeeper. They
  were willing to see him first, Sanders admitted, if that made the
  receptionist's life any easier, and they were ushered into a
  glass-and-fiberboard hamster cage badly disguised as a room. The bookkeeper
  was sitting at a desk, bare except for a new-looking IBM PS2its screen
  blank for the moment at least-reading a battered paperback thriller that
  had sold three million copies several years ago. He was dark-eyed,
  thin-faced, and hungry-looking, and when he dropped his book down on the
  desk and stood up, the two police officers towered over him. He sat down
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       13S

 again hastily, pointing at the two chairs on the other side of the desk
 as he went.
  "You are Randolph West, assistant financial officer of NorthSea/Baltic
  Enterprises?" Sanders remained on his feet, and Dubinsky, with a sigh,
  followed suit.
  "Jesus, is that what they call me?" The thin face broke into a foxy
  smile, like a dachshund grinning. "I suppose it is. Randy West. I do the
  books. That's all-I'm not an accountant. I just try to keep everything
  straight until the professionals come in. And they do. Frequently." He
  paused to catch the atmosphere of the meeting. "And if we're going to
  talk, why don't you sit down? Otherwise I'll get a crick in my neck." His
  voice squeaked, as if he had a case of laryngitis he was trying to
  ignore; his accent reminded Sanders forcefully of the kids who stole and
  bullied and fought their way out of his old neighborhood. Like him.
  Sanders pushed back one of the chairs and sat down.
  "Doing the books here doesn't seem to involve a whole lot of work," said
  Sanders in a noncommittal voice. "Is that all you do?"
  Randy looked over at him in astonishment. "Where in hell have you guys
  been lately?" he asked. "On Mars?"
 Sanders shook his head. "On leave."
  "Ah. That explains it. See this desk?" Neither one responded. "Empty. See
  those computers out there, with no one sitting in front of them? Locked."
  Sanders looked out the glass wall to his right. "Things do look quiet out
  there," he observed. "Mostly."
  "Oh, you mean that guy. He's not one of ours. He's from the solicitor
  general's office. An accountant. And a computer whiz. He's going through
  our computer files. A week ago-the day after the boss died-these guys
  came in and sealed up everything. Walked out with all my books, all the
  financial records they could carry, and left shit-face, the ball-less
  wonder out there, to plow through the rest."
 136            MEDORA SALE

  Sanders turned to his partner. "Did we know about this?" he snapped.
  Dubinsky paused for a moment. "Yeah, well, we knew that the company was
  being investigated as a result of-"
 "The fire," said Randy gloomily. "The fucking fire."
  "That's right, a fire," said Dubinsky. "In a town house built by a
  construction company owned by NorthSea/Baltic. In which a woman and, I
  think, a couple of kids were killed." Randy nodded in reluctant
  agreement. "The timing can't have had anything to do with Neilson's
  death, though. They'd been in front of a judge for days arguing over the
  court order."
  "That's right," said Randy again. "And now there are all kinds of things
  that have to be done because Mr. Neilson died, and no one can do them.
  But they don't think of that, do they? I mean, it doesn't matter to them
  what happens to a whole company that employs hundreds of people just
  because some lazy bastard in some subsidiary that Mr. Neilson bought
  didn't check over the specs for wiring carefully enough."
  "Is that what happened?" asked Sanders. His face was expressionless.
 "Sure. What else?"
  "What happened where?" said a barely cordial voice from behind Sanders.
  Sanders turned slowly to look at the man who had just entered the office.
  He was neat and compact, dressed in banker's gray and oozing prosperity.
  Sanders had run into him before; in court on rare occasions-his practice
  did not ordinarily extend to criminal law-but more frequently at
  headquarters, where he dropped in on his pal Matt Baldwin from time to
  time. His voice grated harshly on Sanders's ears, as it always did, and
  raised his hackles. "We were curious about the peace and calm around
  here, Mr. Fielding. I'd forgotten about the investigation."
 "Had you, indeed." Marty Fielding's incredulity quivered
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        137

 in his voice. "But given the absence of documentation, I doubt that you'll
 be able to get much help from this department." Randy shrugged his shoulders
 and opened his paperback again.

 Carl Neilson's secretary had been reduced to a state of sulky
 ineffectualness by her employer's death. She was sitting at a word
 processor, staring at a voluminous pile of opened mail beside her, and
 buffing her nails. A small black-andgold sign on her desk informed the world
 that her name was Miss S. Cavanaugh.
 "I trust we're not interrupting you," said Sanders.
  Her ear was deaf to sarcasm. "Oh, no," she said. "That's impossible.
  Because I really don't know what I should be doing. There's all this mail
  that Mr. Fielding told me to answer." She flung a venomous look in his
  direction. "But I don't know what I'm supposed to say."
  "For chrissake, woman," said Fielding, "you were his goddamn private
  secretary-or administrative assistant or whatever else in hell he called
  you. You answered all his mail, didn't you?"
 "Not quite all.,,
  "Well, leave those letters for Mrs. Neilson-no, better leave them for me,
  and answer the rest."
  "When you two have settled all that," said Sanders, flashing his
  identification in her face, "we would like to go over Mr. Neilson's office.
  Is it locked?" She nodded sulkily. "Including his desk. Is it locked?" The
  secretary reached into her top drawer, pulled out a set of keys on a chain
  and flung them down on the desk in front of the two police officers. "Is
  this the appointment diary you kept for him?" She shoved it in their
  direction and picked up the first letter on the pile.
  Carl Neilson didn't seem to leave the clutter of his existence lying about
  in his office. Sanders looked around the
 138             MEDORA SALE

 large, tidy room and shook his head. "Have we already walked off with
 everything in here?"
  Dubinsky shook his head. "Patterson sent a couple of constables down to
  do an inventory. Said there was nothing particularly notable in here for
  anyone to walk off with."
  "Well, there wouldn't be, would there? Not after every goddamn thing of
  interest was seized by court order before we arrived."
 "Yeah, well, he pointed that out."
  Sanders pulled open the desk drawers one after another. They were almost
  empty. The deep bottom drawer was bereft of files. The middle drawer
  contained a small assortment of different sizes of notepaper. In the top
  drawer he found drawing instruments, rulers, pencils, drafting pens, and
  colored felt-tipped pens. The wide, flat drawer in the middle of the desk
  contained a large pad of squared drafting paper, a diary, a passport, and
  a folder wrapped around two plane tickets for Tampa, Florida.
  Sanders picked up the tickets and the passport and carried them to the
  door. "Hey, you," he snapped. "Miss Cavanaugh. What are these for?"
  "They're plane tickets," she said crossly. "What do you think they're
  for? I picked them up for Mr. Neilson the day before he died."
  Sanders ignored the turn of the worm. "No one mentioned that Mr. Neilson
  was planning on taking a trip."
  "Well, really," said Miss Cavanaugh in tones of exasperation. "Why would
  we? He traveled all the time. Especially down to Florida. Some months he
  was hardly ever here. Anyway, this wasn't a business trip or anything
  like that. He was taking his son for the March break."
  "And he needed a passport? To travel to the States? Since when?"
 "Mr. Neilson had an accent," said the secretary, picking
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       139

 up the next piece of mail on her desk. As if that answered the question.
 "What?"
  "He had an accent. And so the customs and immigration people were always
  stopping him. It's easier to carry a passport than to spend all your time
  explaining who you are."
  "And when was Mr. Neilson planning on leaving for Florida with his son
  and his passport?" asked Sanders.
  Miss Cavanaugh shrugged her silk-clad shoulders. "Around six, I think.
  The day he, uh, died. It's on the ticket."
 "Was he planning to go home first? Get his stuff?"
  She looked at him with scorn. "Certainly not. Mr. Neilson never carried
  luggage." Clearly, in Miss Cavanaugh's world, only peasants like Sanders
  carried luggage. "He kept everything he needed in his condo in Florida.
  He used to take a briefcase with him, that's all. And I'd put everything
  in it that needed attention."
  "And that's what you did on March the seventh. The day he died."
  The secretary paused a moment. "Yeah. Sure. That's what I did.,,
  Sanders stared hard at her, considering that pause. Her face remained
  sulkily impassive. "Could you open the safe, Miss Cavanaugh?"
  "It's open," she said. "The auditors opened it. There's nothing in it."
  "Dubinsky!" yelled Sanders over his shoulder. "Look in the safe." There
  was a momentary pause, filled with the soft rustle of feet over
  broadloom.
 "It's empty," said his partner.
 "What did he usually keep in there?"
  "Not much. Cash sometimes, if he was closing a deal, or negotiable
  securities if we had them lying around. Or important papers. He never
  used it to store valuable stuff. That all went to the bank."
 140            MEDORA SALE

 :'He wouldn't have kept his will in there?"
  'That would be in Mr. Fielding's office," she replied stiffly.
 "Damn," said Sanders. "Has Fielding left?" She nodded. You got his address
 there?"
  Instead of pulling her Rolodex over and looking up his address, she gave
  him another astonished look. There was apparently no limit to the ignorance
  of the police. "It's on the sixth floor," she said. "Suite six-oh-five."

 Fielding was containing his joy at the sight of Sanders pretty effectively.
 "Yes?" he said, drawling out the word insultingly.
  "Simple matter, Mr. Fielding. I would like to know the provisions of Mr.
  Neilson's will. In outline, for the moment."
  Fielding looked bored. "I doubt if it'll give you much to go on. Basically
  he split his estate between his wife and his son. The wife holds the son's
  share in trust until he reaches twenty-one. If she dies at the same time,
  or close to the same time as her husband, her sister becomes the child's
  guardian, with a compensatory sum for her troubles."
 :,Like?"
  'Five hundred thousand, I think. Not much when you consider the size of the
  estate. She would manage things for him with the assistance of two other
  trustees until he reached twenty-one. It's a very safe, conservative will.
  I don't encourage my clients to have wills that are guaranteed to be
  contested."
 "Did Mr. Neilson have any enemies?"
  "I've been through all this, you know. You can look it up. Rivals, yes.
  Enemies, no. Good day, Inspector."

 "Now where?" said Dubinsky. "It's almost lunchtime."
 "For chrissake, Ed, it's nowhere near lunchtime. You try-          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       141

 ing to give me a heart attack? We've got a lot to do this morning."
 "Just trying to keep you moving. Where to?"
 "Thornhill. I want to meet the grieving widow."

 Lydia Neilson had been sitting in her comfortable, cluttered study,
 dressed in tweed slacks and a cashmere sweater, in front of a pleasant
 fire, when the two men came in. She fussed gently, ordering coffee,
 removing magazines from chair seats, and in general settling them in as
 though they were refugees who needed reassurance and comforting.
  "Yes, I knew about Carl's will." She stared into the fire as she spoke.
  "We discussed it at some length. Rather heatedly, I must admit. He wanted
  to leave everything to Mark, but Marty Fielding convinced him not to. My
  husband was a rather authoritarian sort of male, you know. Thought that
  Mark would look after his mother-poor child." She glanced over at
  Sanders. "Actually the real battle was over Alice. My sister. Carl wanted
  his mother-who hates children and hasn't been very well-to be Mark's
  guardian. And if she couldn't manage the responsibilities, then Marty
  Fielding. Can you imagine? Do you know him? He'd park him in a boarding
  school for the winter and a camp for the summer and never let him out."
  Tears sprang up in her eyes, and Sanders remembered what Harriet had said
  about Lydia's maternal instincts. "I won that one. Alice's only
  disqualification was that she's rather hard up. I said if he left her
  some money, she wouldn't be. Eventually he saw it my way. I mean, he
  wanted what was best for Mark. He really was fond of him."
  "I gather he was going to take him to Florida for the March break."
  Lydia Neilson was now sitting erect and looking at Sanders with an
  expression of horror on her face. "To Florida!
 142            MEDORA SALE

 You're crazy. He wasn't taking Mark to Florida. Not out of the country. Not
 without me."
 "There were two tickets-"
  "That doesn't mean anything. He went down there all the time. He owned a
  development firm down in Tampa. A subsidiary of NorthSea. He was probably
  taking someone from the office-or that, uh, some friend-with him. He never
  said anything about taking Mark."
  Sanders eased away from the topic. "What private papers did your husband
  keep at home?" he asked.
  "Private papers?" Lydia Neilson's eyes slipped away from Sanders's face
  again, and she returned to her contemplation of the fire. "Not much,
  really. He had a safe here. I had to get the manufacturer to come in and
  open it in case there was something important in it."
 "Was there?"
 She looked up, startled.
 "Anything important in it?"
  "Oh, things like life insurance policies. You're welcome to look at it. I
  don't know what you consider to be important. It's in his study."
  Carl Neilson's study resembled his office. The light and expensive
  furniture in it was almost lost in the sweeping space. There were few
  books, fewer comfortable chairs, and a general air of chill Joylessness in
  the surroundings. Lydia Neilson walked across the room and opened a door
  into a closet. "It's in here," she said, standing aside.
  The door to the safe was swinging open. Dubinsky reached in, pulled out a
  tiny pile of documents and handed them to Sanders: house insurance, an
  insurance policy taken out on the life of Mrs. Neilson, a warranty on a
  recently installed furnace, and underneath it, a key to a safe-deposit box.
  Sanders took it and held it up in front of Lydia Neilson.
  "I don't know," she said. "I thought it was the key for our safe-deposit
  box in our local bank, but I found that in
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       143

 his desk drawer. I looked in that one. I don't know what used to be in it,
 but when I checked, it had been cleared out. I have no idea which box that
 would be."
  "Take it, Ed, will you? We'll have to try to track it down." She shook
  her head helplessly. "Did your husband have any enemies?" Sanders added
  casually, handing her back the insurance policies.
  Lydia Neilson looked at him for a long time and then sighed. She walked
  over to her husband's desk, set down the policies, opened the top drawer,
  pulled out two small, cheap envelopes, and handed them to Sanders. They
  were addressed to Carl Neilson at the Thornhill house, and each contained
  a single sheet of lined yellow paper with a few lines of writing on it.
  The script was unformed and messylooking, and the words were chilling:
  "Your lawyer can protect you in court, Neilson," the first one said, "but
  he won't help you once you step outside." The second was messier and more
  chilling: "A wife for a wife, Neilson. I'm sorry you only have one child.
  That doesn't seem fair, does it? You owe me two children. How well will
  your house burn?" They were unsigned.
  "How long have you known about these?" asked Sanders abruptly.
  "I knew that the man whose house had burned downyou know about that, I
  suppose-had threatened Carl. He told me to be extra careful about Mark.
  But I always am. I didn't know specifically about these particular
  letters until yesterday, when the man came to open the safe. They were
  in there. They're sad, aren't they?" Her eyes filled up with tears, and
  she turned her face away. "I'm sorry, but every time I think about them,
  they make me cry. That poor man."
  "You never mentioned to anyone that your husband had received threats?
  That poor man might be the person who killed him," said Sanders.
  "I guess he might," she replied. "I didn't say anything because I really
  didn't think the threats were anything more
 144            MEDORA SALE

 than the cries of a very unhappy man. You can't blame him for hating Carl.
 And I didn't want to sic the police on him. He's suffered enough already."
  "Jesus," said Sanders. "There's turning the other cheek if I ever saw it."
  He slipped the letters in his pocket.
  She paid no attention. "Two children," she said, shaking her head. "They
  were just eight months old and three, you know. It was horrible."
 "And his wife," said Sanders.
 "And his wife."

 "We need to track that man down," said Sanders as they drove away.
  "Can't be too hard," said Dubinsky. "His picture was plastered all over the
  papers, television, you name it. Shouldn't take more than a couple of
  hours. Do you think he shot Neilson?"
  "How do I know?" said Sanders. "He probably hated him enough. But would he
  know enough about him to track him down to the hotel?"
  "Sure," said Dubinsky. "There were lots of articles in the paper about
  other buildings that Neilson owned or built. just to make the people who
  lived in them feel secure. You know, 'Developer of fatal firetrap
  subdivision renovates famous downtown hotel.' That sort of thing. Neilson
  was probably about to be in big financial trouble. Would you want to move
  into one of his buildings?"

 That day there was not even a pretense of anything for Rob Lucas to do. He
 walked around the woods again, checking back on Annie every thirty minutes
 or so, trying to convince himself that all she needed was more rest and
 she'd be fine. By six, he was dejected, tired, and cold. He picked up a
 grilled cheese sandwich to go and came back for the eve-
           SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       145

 ning. Annie's eyes were bright and her cheeks pink. "Hi," he said. "I have
 a disgusting grilled cheese sandwich here for you."
 She shook her head silently.
  "In that case," he said with false heartiness, "you can try some of the
  other delicacies." He opened the back window and took in the yogurt and a
  can of ginger ale, set them down beside her with a spoon and some melba
  toast. "There," he said triumphantly. "Dinner. Eat some of it."
 "I can't," she said. "I just can't."
  He looked sharply at her. All that bright color didn't look very healthy
  anymore. "Well, then," he said, "have something to drink."
  She took a minute swallow of the ginger ale and dropped her head back on
  the pillow. Lucas reached over and placed a hand on her forehead. It was
  burning; he felt her neck, her hands, her forearms. He walked over to the
  window and stared out into the gray parking lot. At last, he turned back to
  her, his decision made. "We're getting out of here."
  Tears sprang up in Annie's eyes. "Why?" she said at last. "I can't do it,"
  she added. "I can't move around anymore. I don't care if they kill me,
  Robin. I don't care anymore. just let me stay here and rest."
  "To hell with that!" he exploded. "I haven't dragged you all over hell's
  half acre to have you fold up and die on me. Damn you, you're going to pull
  yourself together! And shut up." He stalked into the bathroom and began to
  throw things into his bag. He picked up the sack of groceries, grabbed the
  unopened tins and bottles, and tumbled them back in. In minutes he had the
  trunk filled with their possessions. He came back in, wrapped Annie in the
  blankets he had brought from the cabin, picked up the pillow he had brought
  along with them, and settled her into the backseat again. "Watch your
  foot," he snarled, still unreasonably angry. "Don't let it hit the side of
  the car." And he pulled out.
 Less than a minute down the road, he was stopped by a
 146             MEDORA SALE

 panicky and uncontrolled voice from the backseat. "The codeine. It's still
 beside the bed. I can't-I'll never manage without it."
  He swung around in a U-turn and headed furiously back to the motel. He had
  also forgotten to leave the room key. He patted his pocket to check that it
  was there and touched a plastic vial, just where he had put it. "I have
  them," he said, "in my pocket." His exploring fingers hit the room key in
  the same pocket. They were almost back at the motel. Might as well leave
  the key where someone could find it.
  He slowed down and put on his turn indicator. As his hands began to swing
  the steering wheel toward the parking lot, he saw the crowd: two cruisers
  with flashing red lights and two unmarked cars, obviously containing more
  law, all converging on the space in front of their old room. He flicked off
  the indicator, put his foot back on the accelerator, and drove quietly past
  the scene at something very close to the speed limit.
  "Where are we going?" asked Annie. Her voice slurred drunkenly.
  He pulled over to the shoulder and turned to look carefully at her. "How do
  you feel?" he asked. "And for chrissake, don't tell me fine-you look like
  hell."
  "Worse," she whispered. "I'm sorry, butHer voice
 drifted off.
 He started the car again. "Let's go," he said to himself.
 "Where?"
  "To visit an old friend of mine who ought to be able to help you," said
  Lucas with an assurance he certainly didn't feel. "Get some sleep. It's a
  fair distance from here."
  "Oh," she said, and sank back into her half-conscious feverish haze.

 The fastest way to Mike Chalmers's house would be to go down to the
 expressway, drive east forty or fifty miles and
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       147

 head back north again, but Lucas was reluctant to take such a well-traveled
 road. He braked, turned left, and headed north. If he remembered this neck
 of the woods accurately, there was a lousy little secondary road that would
 take him there more or less directly, passing through thirty miles of dreary
 scrub forest and rock on its way. At least along there-in the isolated
 silence of early spring-if some other vehicle tried to hang on to his tall,
 he'd notice. He pushed the car five cautious miles into the darkness without
 meeting anything but one startled deer who hustled out of his way. just
 beyond the deer crossing a small road snaked off to the right into nowhere.
 It had no name, no number, no road signs along it at all. The only
 indication that it might go somewhere of any significance lay in the
 indisputable fact that at least once in its long life it had been paved.
 With a silent prayer, he swung onto it, picking up speed, screeching and
 bouncing around the unbanked curves and over the steep hills, muttering
 apologies to Annie every time the car gave a sickening lurch sideways. He
 was beginning to feel doubts about his fantastic brain wave. He wasn't at
 all sure-now that he had had time to think about it-that Mike would or could
 help him, but the alternative wasn't good. In fact, there wasn't an
 alternative. He reckoned that any hospital that looked at her would insist
 on keeping her at least overnight for observation. And by that time, judging
 by the speed with which things had been happening, half the world would know
 where she was.
  He crested a slight rise in the absolute darkness and down in front of him
  a pool of light signaled that he had finally reached a town. He slowed down
  for the intersection where this little road angled in to meet the main
  street, searching for a road sign that would announce where he was. There
  wasn't one. He had arrived here-wherever they were-by the unmarked back
  door. He stopped and looked carefully around him. The shabby gas station
  and slick grocery store that faced each other at the corner looked vaguely
  familiar.
 148            MEDORA SALE

 He cruised slowly down the street; it was garishly lit and empty. Here and
 there a cardboard coffee cup or a brightly colored paper bag from the
 local take-away blew in front of him in the cold wind. Drugstores,
 hamburger joints, paint stores. It could be any town in North America
 north of Florida and south of the Bering Strait. Until at last his eye
 picked it out. A faded sign on the aged hardware store boasted the name
 of the town-Cedar Hill. He passed the commercial block and started
 searching for street signs.
  He turned the corner down the peaceful little road where Mike Chalmers
  had his veterinary hospital, eased gently up the street, and pulled into
  the driveway with a surge of relief. Warm light glowed through the
  curtains in the Chalmerses' living room. They were home and still up. He
  jumped out of the car and in seconds was pounding on the front door.
  A shadow passed across the milky glass panel, an outside light flipped
  on, and Mike Chalmers's stocky frame filled the doorway. He peered into
  the darkness and then stepped back, startled. "Rob? Well I'll be damned.
  It's-"
  Lucas cut short the traditional noises of surprise. "Look, Mike-sorry to
  barge in like this, but I brought you an emergency. I need your help."
  He gestured in the direction of the car. "She's in there."
 "Accident? Badly hurt?" He nodded. "A car?"
 "No," he said. "Shot and-"
 "Jesus," he said in disgust, "Bastards. How big is she?"
  Lucas blinked in surprise. "Not that big. Maybe a hundred and ten
  pounds-I don't know exactly."
  "That's big enough," he said, raising one golden eyebrow. "Okay, carry
  her in by the door on the other side of the garage-I'll open it. I think
  we'd better take her straight into the operating room. No point in moving
  her back and forth, not a dog that size. I'll meet you there."
 Before he could correct Chalmers's misapprehension, his
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        149

 friend had disappeared. He shrugged and went back to get Annie out of the
 backseat.
  She was lying on her side with her knees tucked up in the cramped space. He
  opened the door on the driver's side. The pillow he had jammed in the
  corner for her fell half out, and her head turned with a slight spasmodic
  jerk. He reached in, got his arm under her torso and pulled her gently out.
  She stirred and muttered as he lifted her up. "Where are we?" she asked.
  "Getting you some help," he said. I hope, he added silently.
  Not even draped with a blanket that covered her completely did Annie look
  like a large dog, he decided. But what the hell. It was too late now. He
  carried her in the open door to the hospital, turning her carefully to
  avoid hitting her feet on the frame and heading down the short corridor
  between the waiting room and the hospital. Two dogs barked sleepily in
  another room, a swinging door opened, and Mike Chalmers was standing there,
  drying his hands on a piece of paper towel. He stared at the bundle in
  Lucas's arms. Lucas went past him through the swinging doors and laid her
  down on a steel table in the middle of the room. She moaned slightly, and
  he uncovered her head.
  "Jesus Christ, Rob," said Chalmers in a despairing voice. "What in hell do
  you think you're doing?"
  "Mike, wait. Before you say anything, let me explain. Please." He grabbed
  him urgently by the arm. "Come out here."
  "For chrissake, Rob, use your head. You can't leave her alone on that table
  in the state she's in!" he snapped. "Keep a hand on her." He took a step
  nearer. "Okay, now what is this?"
  Lucas glanced uneasily down at her. Her condition had worsened considerably
  in the past hour or two. He had no idea whether she was conscious enough to
  hear or to
 150             MEDORA SALE

 understand what she heard; but he hated talking about her as if she were a
 piece of soft sculpture someone had tossed on the table. Most of what he had
 to say-the death of Jennifer Wilson, the way every move he made, every piece
 of information he collected, seemed to be known to the people who were
 pursuing her-would terrify her. But Mike was giving him no choice, and he
 whispered the whole tale into his ear.
  " Couldn't you do something to help her? She lost blood from a wound in her
  leg. And maybe it's infected. She seems to be a lot worse now than she was
  yesterday. And I've already carted her forty miles cross-country to get to
  you."
  64 Jesus," said Chalmers, and ran his hand over his short red hair in
  perplexity. "This is one hell of a mess. You do realize what'll happen to
  me if I get caught, don't you? I mean, that will be the end. The
  authorities take this sort of thing very seriously." As he was speaking, he
  walked over to the table, pulled the blanket down to her waist, and looked
  at her. He reached up and turned on the powerful overhead light. "Let's get
  this goddamn chunk of filthy wool off her-didn't anyone ever tell you about
  septic wounds?so I can see what we're up against," he said. "I'll raise her
  up and you get rid of it." Lucas carried the blankets over to the corner,
  caught Chalmers's eye, and took them out to the corridor before dropping
  them on the floor. "Now, what's wrong, as far as you know?"
  "She was shot in the leg and burned her foot-it looks godawful, let me tell
  you. I almost puked when I saw it. And maybe she sprained her wrist."
  Chalmers walked over to the sink at the wall and began to wash his hands
  again. "You realize that she's probably already picked up God knows what in
  the way of infections-not counting on what she'll get from us." He lifted
  her right arm and explored it with gentle fingers, ending up feeling for a
  pulse and checking it. Then he picked up the swollen arm and felt down to
  the wrist. "This has to be X-
            SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       151

 rayed," he said, almost to himself, "but it can wait until later. Which
 foot?" Lucas pointed silently. Chalmers picked it up and looked at the
 stained bandage.
  "It's bad," said Lucas. "Really nasty. She walked on it after it was
  burned."
 "Ran, actually," a hoarse voice croaked faintly.
  "Good heavens," said Chalmers. "I'm not used to comments from the patients.
  How did you burn it?"
 "With a hot poker," she said, and fell silent.
  Chalmers raised an eyebrow at his friend, who nodded. "That will need to be
  cleaned up some," he said. "And now for the gunshot wound. Which is where?"
  he asked.
 Lucas pointed at her left thigh.
  "How badly is she hurt?" asked Lucas, when the leg was exposed.
  "Just a minute," grunted Chalmers, working swiftly and systematically to
  ease off the bandage and swab away the accumulated dried blood and dirt on
  her leg.
  "This is probably the least of her worries, I would say," he replied at
  last, as he finished cleaning up the edges of the wound. "It's shallow, and
  it looks clean. It'll probably leave a messy scar, but there's not much I
  can do about that now. It looks as if the bullet just tore the skin and did
  relatively superficial damage to the muscle tissue. That foot and the wrist
  are more worrisome, I think. And her general condition. When did this all
  happen?"
  "I'm not sure," said Lucas. "What's today-Friday? Wednesday. In the
  afternoon. It was after seven when I started searching for her."
 "It was between four and five," said the small voice again.
  "it doesn't matter. Are you allergic to anything?" he asked. "Novocaine,
  stuff like that? Penicillin or penicillinrelated drugs?" She shook her
  head. "Good. You know, Rob, I might just get hooked on having patients who
  can answer questions. It's very handy." He turned to a shelf of vials on
  the wall and looked them over, selected one, opened
 152            MEDORA SALE

 a drawer and took out a neatly packaged hypodermic needle.
  "How do you know how much to give her?" asked Lucas nervously.
  "Well, she looks to be somewhere in between a German shepherd and a Saint
  Bernard, wouldn't you say?" asked Chalmers with a wink.

 An hour and a half later Lucas carried Annie into the waiting room and put
 her carefully down on the couch. Her thigh and foot were neatly bandaged,
 and her arm was in plaster from just below the elbow to the hand, leaving
 only her fin gers exposed. Chalmers had banished him from the operating
 area some time before, and had been working quietly away in there on his
 own. Lucas pulled up a chair and sat down looking at her with worry carved
 across his face. She looked cold. He got up again and spread his coat over
 her bare legs. She made an attempt to open her eyes, failed, and lapsed
 into sleep.
  Chalmers appeared a few minutes later and beckoned him over to the chairs
  on the other side of the room. "Sorry to throw you out, old man, but I
  didn't want you distracting me by passing out," he whispered. "Or
  breathing into her open wounds. The conditions in there weren't exactly
  ideal." He frowned. "She's in fair shape, I would say. The wrist is
  broken. A classic Colles' fracture-the radius and the ulna." He pointed
  to the bones on his own wrist as he talked. "Comes from falling forward
  onto it with great force. It'll take several weeks for it to heal, and,
  Rob, she should have it looked at again by a competent orthopedic man.
  I only know about this kind of fracture because Christy did the same
  thing skating. I cleaned up that hole in her leg-it should be okay. just
  keep an eye on it."
 :'How do I keep an eye on it?" he asked, panic-stricken.
 'I'll tell you in a minute. The worst injury is that foot.
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       153

 It's a nasty second-degree burn, badly blistered; not too extensive in area,
 but she did a hell of a lot of damage to it running around on it afterward."
 He shook his head. "With some luck and care, the body will be able to deal
 with it. But it's infected. I'll give you a pile of fresh dressings-look
 after it, eh? And if it doesn't start healing, you're going to have to take
 her to a hospital, no matter what the situation is." He lowered his voice
 even more. "There's no point in trying to save her life one way by letting
 her die in misery from septic wounds."
 "Is that likely?"
  "I don't know. I've given her a healthy dose of penicillin. I'll give you
  some more for her to take for the next ten days. Otherwise, just make her
  stay off it until it's clearly healing-and I mean that absolutely. That
  foot is not to touch the floor. And pray, that's all."
  "Thanks, Mike," he said and stood up. "God, what a feeble thing to say, but
  I mean it. She really is in dangerI meant that, too. And whoever is after
  her-"
 "Doesn't she know who it is?"
  Lucas shook his head. "This guy who was killed may have had mob
  connections. That means she's probably never seen the person sent out to
  get rid of her. Anyway, someone connected with it has a direct line into
  our communications. So don't mention that we were here, eh? Even if the
  local cops turn up to ask nice innocent-sounding questions."
  "That's the least of your worries, old pal." He ran his fingers through his
  hair again. "If this gets out, I'll be charged with practicing medicine
  without a license. Believe me, Rob, you're just an old school friend. I
  haven't laid eyes on you for three years-not since we bumped into each
  other at the horse show. Before that I hadn't seen you since we worked
  together at the track. In fact, I was wondering what you were up to these
  days. Okay?" He got wearily to his feet. "Stay with her. I'll be right
  back."
 IS4             MEDORA SALE

  Chalmers appeared in a few minutes carrying two pill containers. "Hi,"
  he said to Annie, who was opening her eyes again. "How do you feel?"
  "Not bad," she said, forming the words with difficulty. "Thirsty."
  "Good girl. You need to drink lots. Get her some water, you idiot," he
  said to Lucas, nodding in the direction of the water cooler in the
  corner. As he talked, he opened up the vials and removed the paper labels
  that were curled up inside them. "There," he said. "The capsules are
  antibiotics-three a day, every eight hours without fall. The white pills
  are painkillers, one every four hours if necessary. Do you think you can
  remember that?" He handed the two containers to Lucas, who was crumpling
  up the tiny paper cup that Chalmers supplied with his cooler. "I don't
  like to send you out with pill containers with my name and handwriting
  all over them-but I'll give you some plain labels to write the
  instructions on if you like."
  "Don't worry. Capsules three a day, pills every four hours for pain. What
  kind of animal were these for?" he asked suspiciously.
  Chalmers laughed. "Some quack prescribed the capsules for Christy when
  she had the flu, )ust in case she had strep throat. She didn't, and so
  she didn't take them. She doesn't like pills. And the painkillers were
  mine-I got kicked by a horse. Jesus, did that hurt. I took one and found
  out I couldn't stay awake, so I stuffed them in the medicine cabinet.
  They're safe enough, just a bit strong."
  "Okay, young lady," he said, walking over to her and picking up her good
  hand. "You have to take good care of yourself, do you understand?"
  "You don't have to call her young lady, you know," said Lucas, irritated
  at his patronizing tone. "She has a name."
  Chalmers held up his hand. "I don't want to know it," he said. "It's
  better for both of us if I don't. You're down on my records as Tara's
  Bridget of DerrynaFlan-a nice big
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        15S

 Irish wolfhound-and that'll account for the supplies I used. We'll leave it
 at that. Anyway, don't touch that foot to the floor until it heals, drink
 lots of liquids no matter how you feel, get lots of rest. Take those
 painkillers so you can sleep-and be a good girl, Bridget. Most of all, don't
 chew that cast off, even if it gets itchy." He got a very small and remote
 smile from her at last.
  "You think she'll be okay?" asked Lucas as they walked away from her again.
  "And no bullshit."
  "I don't know," he said. He sounded tired and discouraged. "Maybe. I hope
  so. In the short run, she's made it so far, in spite of shock and all that.
  She seems to be sturdy. She yours?" he added casually.
  "God, no," said Lucas, startled. "She was private property of the murder
  victim, as far as I can tell-bought and paid for. My interest in her is
  purely professional. She's a witness."
  Chalmers looked thoughtfully over at her, stretched out asleep on the fake
  leather of his waiting room couch and then at his watch. "You two better
  get out of here and find a place to spend the night. I'd ask you to stay,
  but-"
  "Not a chance," said Lucas. "Someone might happen to remember that you're
  a friend of mine."
  Chalmers nodded. "Just a minute. She should be okay on her own for now.
  Come here with me."
  Lucas followed him through to the house. "Where's Christy?"
  "She's visiting one of her sisters for a couple of days. The kids are off
  school this week, and they're driving her crazy. This way they can play
  with their vile cousins. And speaking of my wife's relations," he said,
  leading his friend into a large bedroom with an unmade double bed in the
  middle of it, "you were lucky to find me in. I was up at another
  sister-in-law's cottage today, checking it over for them. I just got back.
  They left for Mexico a couple of days ago. For a month. Lucky bastards,
  eh?" He rummaged in a
 156            MEDORA SALE

 drawer and came up with a pair of yellow track pants. "That cottage is a
 hell of a worry in the winter. My brotherin-law has it done up like some
 kind of royal ski resort, and these sons of bitches with snowmobiles are
 all over the place, looking for places to break into. Of course, he just
 built it, and he put in enough security to hold back an invasion." He
 tossed the pants on the bed and turned back to the drawer. "Anyway, they
 stocked it up this winter with enough food to last a year, I swear. Most
 of it will just get thrown out, too. But do you know where the stupid oaf
 keeps the key? On a nail under this hideous sign that says The Buchanans,
 with little gnomes or something carved in the corners. Anyone could get
 in." He pulled out another drawer and tossed things around inside. "The
 area's pretty deserted. Now that there isn't much snow, nobody goes
 prowling around there. It's on the Wanitake Lake Road, right at the very
 end. You get a choice of driving into a tree or down my brother-in-law's
 little private road." He discovered a top that matched the sweatpants. "I
 was tempted to stay there for a while, actually. It's unbelievably
 isolated, like I said, and completely winterized." He handed Lucas the two
 pieces of clothing. "Put those on her. They're soft and comfortable, and
 they're clean. Remember what I said. Everything I said. Lots of luck."
  On that slightly ambiguous note, they went to collect Annie and put her
  back into the car.
  "Where are we going?" she asked again, very faintly this time.
  "To a nice cottage on a very remote lake," Lucas answered. "Where nobody
  knows where we are. It's going to take us a while to get there, and the
  road in probably isn't very good, so try to sleep."
         CHAPTER 12

 Occasionally in later years a stray sound or scent would trigger some
 unexpected train of thought that hurtled Rob Lucas back to those weeks in
 early spring. And in the halflife of memory, the days all had a bright,
 feverish clarity, as though he, too, had seen them filtered through pain
 and delirium, and the sun never ceased to pour its brilliance down on the
 pine woods and bare birches and ice-rimmed lake. From the time he had
 carried Annie Hunter into the cottage until the day he left, the deserted
 landscape had changed from winter to the promise of summer, yet for him
 the entire episode took place on one long, silent sun-filled day. It was
 very dark at the end of the Wanitake Lake Road. He left the car outside
 a suburban-looking garage, took his flashlight, and went to find the key.
 There was the name, carved with flourishes on a pale varnished board
 fastened to a post. His fingers ran lightly across the bottom of the
 smooth surface, found a hole, reached in and pulled out the key to a
 high-security lock. He shone his light over the back of the cottage. There
 were acres of dark rounded sidingthe fake log-cabin look that he didn't
 much care for-but no door. He followed what he assumed to be a path beside
 the cabin-down a slope, through patches of snow and leaves and pine
 needles and over small treacherous stones. The corner of the building sat
 on bare rock, smooth granite that appeared to sweep cleanly down to the
 lake. He scrambled up it and found himself standing on a broad deck. The
 158             MEDORA SALE

 air was still and cold; it smelled of winter still, of pine and snow. The
 almost total silence was broken only by the soft night murmur of lapping
 water. At least part of the lake must have thawed. He ran his light over
 an expanse of metallic security shutters that covered most of the walls
 from roof to deck, but there was no way through them by key from the
 outside. He turned the corner. More decking, more shutters. At the end,
 he dropped off the decking by swinging under a rail and landed a
 considerable distance below in the middle of a patch of prickly juniper
 bushes. Swearing, he scrambled up a steep and pathless slope until he
 reached the point where the building contours coincided with the land
 again, and of course, there it was. A path ahead of him, a concrete pad,
 neat and free of obstruction, a broad concrete step, and a door.
  A rush of stale, cold, inhospitable air hit him as he turned the key in
  the lock and thrust the door open. So much for winterized cottages, he
  thought grimly, reached for and found a switch beside the door. It
  flooded the room with discreetly indirect light and revealed a kitchen.
  A clean and useful-looking kitchen. Fastened to the refrigerator with a
  magnet was a large piece of paper headed "Mike." He stepped over to look
  at it. "The thermostat is on the wall across from the counter," it
  started out. He looked to his right. There was a broad counter jutting
  out from the outside wall that divided off the kitchen from the rest of
  the building. On the wall across from it was the familiar round shape of
  a standard thermostat. He turned it up to above seventy-Annie needed
  warmth-and returned to the instructions.
  "The hot water heater switch is beside the laundry room door, marked."
  There was an arrow pointing to the left. He followed it to a door, found
  the switch and turned it on. "There is a fire laid; use it by all means.
  It's the least we can offer you! More wood in back. Lots of beer, wine,
  etc., in the laundry room. I hope you and Christy manage
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       1S9

 to get up for a weekend or two. Leave the kids behind! You'll have more fun.
  "The food in the freezer is left over from skiing. It has to be used before
  summer, so anything you don't eat, we'll be throwing out when we get back.
  You can take your garbage home with you or leave it at the dump. Map in
  drawer by refrigerator. Rest of keys are in the laundry room. Be sure to
  lock shutters before you go, please. (And could you give Muffin her shots
  before we get back? Thanks.) Love, Susie."
  He walked through the rest of the structure, finding and flicking on light
  switches. He was in a great barn of a room, divided between dining and
  living areas by a giant freestanding stone fireplace whose rough-tiled
  hearth spread far into both rooms. The walls were covered with vast
  expanses of drapery, corresponding to the steel shutters outside. In the
  living room, two couches faced each other at right angles to the fireplace,
  one a single bed, dressed up with a brightly colored rug and fancy
  cushions, the other having the square, lumpish quality of something that
  would convert into a double bed. Warmth began to ooze up from every corner.
  He turned on a couple of lamps that crouched on small tables, pulled out
  the sofa bed, turned off the intrusive overhead light, and went to fetch
  Annie.

 Susie Buchanan, who was obviously a woman of infinite kindness and sterling
 character, had left both beds in the living room made up. He set Annie
 carefully down on the sofa bed. Her eyes fluttered open and then shut again.
 After a rapid search, he found a pile of pillows, neatly encased in clean
 linen, inside a large painted box that defined one end of the single bed;
 inside the matching box at the other end, he discovered two eiderdowns. His
 search for a bathroom took him into a master bedroom, countrified but
 sumptuous, behind the living room. Its adjoining bathroom was-
  160            MEDORA SALE

 except for the cedar-lined walls and ceiling-not countrified at all.
 Merely sumptuous. He considered putting Annie into the splendour of the
 master suite and rejected the idea. In the living room he could sleep on
 the single bed at her feet, and she would be near him; he wouldn't be
 tempted to spend all night getting up to make sure she was alive. He
 settled her for the night, trying not to notice her vague and unfocused
 eyes, and collapsed, exhausted, into the smaller bed.
  He was dragged from heavy sleep by a husky voice; in an instant he was
  crouched on the floor, taut and alert. The sound stopped. He held his
  breath, listening for some indication of where it had come from, reaching
  one hand out, slow and silent, to find his weapon. He heard the voice
  again, close enough to make him jump. He sighed and sat up. It was Annie.
  He pulled himself up off the floor and glanced at the clock-4:10. He
  turned on a light.
  Annie's face was flushed, and her eyes glittered in the lamplight. He put
  his hand on her forehead. It was hot, frighteningly hot. Her lips were
  bright with irritation, cracked and painful-looking, like a dried up,
  muddy riverbed, baking under the sun. Liquid was his first pamcstricken
  thought. He tried to remember back to illnesses in his childhood. Surely
  there had been a time when his mother had sat by his bed when he was
  feverish. What in hell had she done? Nothing. It had been Mariana, of
  course, who had sat by his bed. His nanny, small and pretty, who rocked
  him and spoiled him. He remembered that cracked little soprano voice
  singing to him in Spanish to take his mind off the pain and misery of an
  earache. And glasses of orange juice mixed with soda water and ice, very
  cold and diluted. And more ice that bobbed musically about in a bowl with
  water, in which she dipped a cloth and cooled his forehead. He pulled on
  his discarded clothing and raced into the kitchen. There was frozen
  orange juice in the refrigerator and ice. He threw the Juice container
  into the microwave oven and began searching for soda water.
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       161

  "Who are you?" she said, staring at him when he returned with a glass of
  watered-down orange juice and a bowl of ice water. "Leave me alone." She
  made a feeble pushing gesture with her hands. "I don't want you around
  tonight." She turned her head away. "I'm cold," she added. And he noticed
  that she had begun to shiver.
  "It's me. Robin." She stared up at the ceiling. "Can you hear me, Annie?
  I've been here all the time."
  "Not Annie," she said. "Don't call me that. Not Annie." She rocked her head
  back and forth.
  He tried to straighten out her bedclothes and get the eiderdown over her.
  She shivered and then pushed the coverings away. "If you're not Annie, then
  who are you?" he asked, curious in spite of his alarm.
  She stared at him, unseeing. He dropped a face cloth into the ice water,
  wrung it out and placed it on her forehead. She sighed. He lifted her head
  and put the glass to her lips. Some of it seemed to go into her mouth. He
  sponged her burning cheeks with the cold cloth.
  "I am no one," she said suddenly. He wrung out the cloth again in the ice
  water and pressed it to her forehead. Still staring, she clutched him
  awkwardly on the wrist with her good arm. "I come from nowhere." She shook
  his arm for emphasis. "I come from nowhere. I am no one." Her voice drifted
  off. He propped her up again and poured a little more liquid into her
  mouth. She seemed to find swallowing difficult. "I am no one," she
  muttered. "I come from nowhere." Suddenly her eyes flew wide open again and
  she clutched his arm once more. "I have no soul."
  "What?" he said, startled in spite of himself. This went beyond anything he
  could imagine-having a weird philosophical discussion with a delirious
  hooker at four in the morning. Her hand relaxed its grip, and he forced
  some more juice into her mouth. She coughed and swallowed and subsided into
  silence again. He looked around him for a radio; if he was going to be
  sitting there all night, he wanted
 162             MEDORA SALE

 something less spooky to listen to than her demented ramblings. Like
 music-any kind of music. He put her hand, which had somehow found itself
 caught in his, down beside her and went to see.
  Of course there was a radio. Tucked into a corner of the dining room was an
  expensive stereo system. As he turned on the receiver, it all suddenly made
  sense to him, and he laughed. Music. That was it. He had forgotten she was
  a singer, too. And in her feverish state she was running through Lulu.
  Because it was Lulu who had no soul. Not Annie. He fiddled with the dial
  until he got a country and western station and a girl singer breathily
  telling him her woes. That was reassuringly normal. Annie was mixing her-
  self up with Lulu. He walked back over to the bed and looked down at her.
  She was quiet for the moment, sleeping again, he hoped. He pulled a chair
  over to the bed, dipped the cloth into the ice water, and went back to
  sponging her face and shoulders.

 When he woke up, he was still seated on the chair but twisted around and
 half lying on the bed beside Annie. The room was still plunged in profound
 darkness, except for a trickle of light escaping from the bathroom. Annie
 was stirring restlessly; that meant she was asleep. He knew her well enough
 now to realize that, awake, she lay as still as a mouse that suspects there
 is an owl nearby. Only in sleep did her body reveal its misery. He got up
 awkwardly, stretched, and slipped into the bathroom to throw some water on
 his face and check the time.
  Light was pouring into the room through the windows set high up against the
  ceiling. He looked at his watch. 7:45. He turned on the shower, stepped
  into the elaborate oval tub, and tried to restore himself to normal with a
  rush of cold water. By the time the water coming through the
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        163

 pipes was hot, he was wide-awake and starving. He remembered Annie, jumped
 guiltily out of the shower, and set out to do what he could with her.
  He pulled the curtains back to wake her up. The room was still plunged in
  deepest gloom, and he remembered the shutters. Every expanse of glass wide
  enough to admit a body was covered with steel shutters. He turned on a
  light and began looking. The French doors were locked at floor level; in
  the laundry room, as promised, he found a board of keys, removed the one
  marked Windows, and set to work in the dining room. The key fitted, the
  glass slid back, and his hand touched cold steel. He searched around the
  frame looking for a device to raise them, found a switch, and turned it on.
  There was an unhappy whine of machinery; nothing happened. He looked again.
  Another lock fastened the shutters into the floor. And, sure enough, back
  in the laundry room, there was another key marked Shutters. In five minutes
  the huge room was flooded with light. He stepped outside to investigate his
  surroundings in daylight.
  The sun was blinding after the darkness of the room. It poured down on the
  granite, bleaching it to a pinkish offwhite; it glittered off the chunks of
  ice that slid across the water of the lake. Then he shivered in the chill
  air, remembered Annie, stepped back inside, and pulled the window shut. Her
  eyes were open, looking fixedly at him.

 "Would your friend Lydia murder her husband if she suspected he was going to
 run off and take the boy?" asked Sanders. The couple at the next table
 turned their heads, startled, caught his cold glare, and, embarrassed,
 returned to their steaks.
  "Wait a minute," said Harriet. "First of all, let's stop calling her my
  friend. I haven't spoken to her for four years.
 164             MEDORA SALE

 And what happens if I said yes, she would? Or no, she wouldn't? That's a
 hell of a question to dump on someone between salad and dessert." She
 frowned. "Was he?"
  "I don't know." Sanders shook his head. "He told his secretary he needed
  two tickets for Florida because he was taking his son with him. But he
  could have been lying. For all we know, he was taking a girlfriend. He
  didn't mention the trip to his wife." He looked across the table. "I did,
  of course. And if I'm not wrong, I gave her quite a shock."
  "If you gave her a shock, then she hadn't known what he was going to do.
  And that means that she didn't-" Harriet nibbled her lower lip. "Unless the
  shock was that you knew about it, of course."
  "You're getting cynical, Harriet," said Sanders. "Hanging around me too
  much."
  "Don't flatter yourself, John. My cynicism comes from having survived the
  world for this long." She stared thoughtfully across the cherry-red
  tablecloth, seeing nothing. The waiter's hand crossed her sight line, and
  she looked down. "Why in hell did I order apple pie?"
  "Because it's that sort of place-and I told you to. This is probably the
  first instance since our relationship began that you have done something
  because I told you to. Don't knock it. The pie is good."
  "Mmm," she said vaguely, and ate a mouthful. "Did Lydia kill him?"
  "It wouldn't surprise me. But then, nothing much surprises me these days.
  Except for your extremely mellow state of mind," he added, reaching over
  and touching her cheek lightly with his fingertips.
  "Pay no attention to it." Harriet caught his hand, dropped a light kiss on
  it, and returned it to his side of the table. "I'm still suffering from
  post-holiday euphoria."
  "But other people hated the man as well. Did you hear about the fire in
  Markham? It was the night after we left for the coast. A woman and two kids
  were killed. Well,
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       165

 Neilson owned that development. His company built the house. Of
 substandard materials. The husband survived because he worked night shift.
 Anyway, he threatened to kill Neilson and to burn down his house-wife,
 child, and all."
  "Did he? I mean, kill Neilson. Obviously he hasn't burned down Neilson's
  house, or we would have heard."
  "I don't know." Sanders shook his head. "Lydia Neilson gave him to us,
  saying she feels terribly sorry for him. Handing over his threatening
  letters with sweet reluctance. You know-Gee, Officer, I hate to do this
  to the poor guy, such an unhappy man, but here they are, waiting for you,
  encased in plastic to preserve fingerprints, if any."
 :'She didn't," said Harriet. "Not Lydia."
  'Well, not quite. But she dredged him up in one hell of a hurry once we
  started talking about her kid."
  "I told you she was hysterical on the subject of that child. Otherwise
  she's quite a rational woman." Harriet toyed with the crust of her pie
  for a moment. "Motherhood does strange things to people-I see it all the
  time in my friends."
  "Anyway, to get back to your question," interrupted Sanders, alarmed at
  the direction the conversation was taking. "As soon as we find the man,
  we'll ask him. He didn't try to conceal his identity. The letters were
  handwritten; he referred to himself quite clearly. He didn't sign them,
  but he didn't start with 'Dear Carl,' either. If he killed Neilson, he'll
  probably tell us."
 "Where is he?"
 "How the hell should I know?"
 Harriet put down her fork and looked gravely at him.
  "Okay," said Sanders irritably, "he's probably with relatives somewhere.
  We'll find him soon enough."
  "What's going on with you, John?" Harriet pushed aside her plate and
  settled her elbows on the table, leaning toward him. "You're uncommonly
  prickly tonight. The case getting on your nerves?"
 166             MEDORA SALE

  "I don't know." He stood up abruptly. "Come on, let's get out of here. I
  feel like walking."
  Sanders put his arm around Harriet and steered her through the
  Saturday-night crowds on Danforth Avenue. Lovers, late-night shoppers,
  families wheeling bundled-up, sleepy babies all swirled around them as they
  walked in the direction of Harriet's apartment. "The case can damn well
  look after itself at this point. I'm more worried about- Do you remember
  Rob Lucas?"
 "Rob Lucas. Rings a faint bell, but I can't place him."
  "You've met him. He was part of my group for a while. Big blond guy with a
  broken nose."
  "The gorgeous one! With that English public-school-boy face. I remember
  him. Didn't remember his name."
  Sanders looked down at her in disbelief. "Public-schoolboy? The Harriet
  Jeffries system for classifying physical types is beyond someone as
  dull-witted as I am. Well, gorgeous or not, he's disappeared."
 "What do you mean, disappeared?"
  "Just that. Disappeared. He had a line on a witness he'd misplaced and went
  tearing off to interview her out in the middle of nowhere, someplace
  between Haliburton and Bancroft, and the next we hear, he's been in a car
  accident on the way up there and they've taken him to a Deerton hospital,
  which should be miles out of his way. We got this from him-he called in.
  But when Matt calls Deerton to ask how Lucas is, they've never heard of
  him. When they check the cabin where the witness was living, they find a
  corpse. Murdered, rifle bullet. No witness, no Lucas. But the cabin looks
  as if a war was held in it, and the witness's car has been smashed to
  pieces. And now Baldwin's instituted a province-wide search. The owner of
  a motel somewhere east of Bancroft reported that a highly suspicious
  character bearing a striking resemblance to Lucas was staying at his place,
  but when they got there, he'd gone again."
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        167

  "That's it? Has something happened to him?" she added hesitantly.
  "Well, he rented a car in Deerton, which is I don't know how many miles
  west of the cabin, and took a pile of money out of his bank account. That
  sounds as if he planned out what he was doing. We should be able to find
  that car, but it's disappeared, too. They found a sweater belonging to
  him in the cabin, by the way. He was there."
 "Why would he want to disappear?"
  Sanders shook his head. "Or take his missing witness with him. Because
  the man who rented the motel room had a girl in the room. She had black
  hair and slept all the time."
 :,you mean that she was drugged?"
  'It's hard to believe." Sanders sounded as if he was finding it only too
  easy. "Lucas is an odd guy in some ways, but not like that. I can't
  imagine him kidnapping a witness-which is what it looks like. And I can't
  figure why, once he found her, he didn't bring her down here."
  "Maybe he decided he didn't want to," said Harriet as they turned the
  corner onto her street. "Maybe he's one of those weird guys who likes to
  collect his women safely under lock and key. Maybe he has a whole lot of
  strange girls stashed away somewhere."
  "Jesus, Harriet, if that's the best you can do, then shut up. I can think
  up things like that without your help. Anyway, I can't imagine anything
  worse than having a room full of vicious broads like you, all locked up,
  ready to murder me once my back was turned. Rob is too bright for
  something like that."
  "Why, thank you, Officer," said Harriet sweetly. "I appreciate the
  compliment. Are you coming up?" she asked, reaching into her pocket for
  her key. "I must show you this collection of helpless males I keep in the
  basement. A nuisance to look after, but sweet. Do come in, Officer."
  Reaching around her with both arms, Sanders took the key, opened the
  door, picked her up, and carried her awk-
   168            MEDORA SALE

 wardly into the hall. "Never mind," he said huskily, as he kicked the door
 shut. "I can still win arguments by brute, stupid force." He set her down
 gently, turned her around, bent down, and kissed her with a desperation
 that startled her.
         CHAPTER 13

 John Sanders had wasted the better part of Monday morning reading through
 material compiled before he had taken over the investigation: maddeningly
 incomplete reports; vague statements from witnesses that should have been
 checked before now and found wanting. The writer of the threatening letters
 to Carl Neilson, whom he had expected to trace instantly, was still missing.
 Dubinsky was off pursuing his favorite daily occupation-harassing the
 auditors from the solicitor general's office, reminding them yet again that
 homicide was at least as important as fraud.
  "Nothing." His partner's voice interrupted a highly complex sketch he was
  adding to a sheet of paper with a threeline interview statement on it.
  Dubinsky dropped his coat over a chair. "But I think I've convinced them
  that if they don't start looking into some of his other business enter-
  prises, I'm going to start breaking shinbones. They're obsessed with that
  goddamn development that caught fire. The boss man got himself 'a promising
  line of inquiry,' he said. Anyway, one of the other guys is going to start
  in on the two restaurants this afternoon. I suggested La Celestina."
 "Why?"
  "I dunno. I have a few not-so-good memories about that place. I wouldn't
  mind seeing it up to its elbows in shit."
 Sanders yawned and pushed aside the paper he was scrib- 170             MEDORA SALE

 bling on. "Speaking of the restaurant, I want to talk to the pimp.55
  "Was that any particular pimp you wanted?" asked Dubinsky. "Because there
  are a hell of lot them around."
  "The one who was tried for the murder of the hooker in the restaurant.
  Neilson's restaurant. The one who got off. Maybe he knows something, off
  the record. Say, about Neilson, that he didn't bother mentioning to us or
  to the i udge."
  "The La Celestina pimp. Sounds kind of neat, doesn't it? I'll see what can
  be done." Dubinsky reached for his phone and punched in some numbers. There
  was a long pause, punctuated by low-voiced murmurs. "No shit," he said at
  last, his voice flat. "That's a real bitch. Who got him?" After a further
  pause he muttered what could possibly be construed as thanks and hung up.
  "The pimp's dead. Someone took his head off with a mortar or a guided
  missile or something. Hardly enough left of him to identify. In Peelthat's
  why we never got it. They wrote it off finally to turf battles." He sighed.
  "They were so damned glad to get rid of him, they didn't exactly bust their
  asses to find out who did it."
  "What the hell-you can't win them all. If we can't get the pimp, let's go
  take a look at the restaurant," said Sanders.
  No one had intended the restaurant La Celestina, as the sign outside called
  it, to be seen in the harsh light of Monday morning. The vacuum cleaners
  were still being run over the stained red carpeting; the deep red curtains
  were pulled back to allow the sun to fight its way in through the dirty
  windows. A waitress was moving slowly from table to table, covering each
  with a white and then a bright red tablecloth that clashed violently with
  the rug and the curtains. It was eleven. By noon, no doubt, it would be too
  dimly lit to notice such infelicities. Cooking smells drifted in from the
  double doors leading to the kitchen.
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       171

  "We're not open yet," said the waitress, in a voice that was neither
  hostile nor friendly. She yawned. "You should be able to get something in
  thirty minutes or so. Except that Monday morning the chef is always late
  with the specials. But we can do you a sandwich or something."
  Sanders raised a hand to stop the sleepy flow. "This place have a manager?"
  he asked.
  She nodded in the direction of a smaller door in the back, marked Exit and
  Washrooms. "Through there. At the end."
  The manager's door proclaimed him to be a Mr. Horvath; the tall, thin,
  balding, and hollow-eyed man inside greeted them without surprise. He
  glanced at Sanders's identification and pointed at two empty chairs in the
  crowded room. "I wondered when you guys would turn up," he said. His voice
  was as hollow and gloomy as his eyes.
 "Why is that, Mr. Horvath?" asked Dubinsky genially.
  "Why? Because someone shot Mr. Neilson, that's why," snapped the manager.
  "On top of everything else. I've been expecting to be up to my ears in
  police for the last week."
  "Sorry to disappoint you," said Sanders. "We had other fish to fry. They
  said you were the manager-"
 "I am the manager," said Horvath sourly.
  "How much did you see of Mr. Neilson on a day-to-day basis? How much
  control did he exert?"
  "Not much and a lot," said Horvath. "Meaning, he wasn't hanging around
  every day tasting the soup or anything like that. Jesus, I've worked for
  owners who thought they knew something about food." He shook his head.
  "It's godawful. Chefs get mad and quit. No, Mr. Neilson used the place for
  entertaining. I guess his wife didn't like parties much, and we're a big
  operation. We can handle a party of two hundred or more without any trouble
  if we close the dining room. We can put sixty upstairs and run the dining
  room with a few days' notice."
 "So otherwise he left you to manage things on your own."
 1 72            MEDORA SALE

  "Well, sort of. I do what you'd expect. Inventory, ordering, beverage
  control, food cost. But then everything is done over again, in a way. The
  bookkeeper-"
 "Is that West?"
  "Yeah. You know him? Randy. He comes in every night, tallies the cash,
  picks up the printouts I work from, and checks it all. I guess. Banks it
  and reports to Mr. Neilson. Stupid."
 "Unless he didn't trust you."
  "So let him fire me. Or audit me. Who knows why he did it? Owners are
  weird. I asked him once. He said he believed in double-checking
  everything."
 "When did you see him last?"
  Horvath scratched his earlobe. "Dunno. Two weeks before he died? He had
  a lot on his mind. The investigation and everything. Too busy for us.
  Anyway," he said, standing up, "You want to know anything else, come back
  after lunch. I got work to do."
  "Interesting," said Sanders, as they walked back into the dining room.
  The curtains were drawn; the soft lights were on. "The place looks almost
  worth eating in."
  Dubinsky yawned. "Not my kind of food. Besides, where are the girls? You
  could at least have asked about trafficking, rake-offs-all the good
  stuff."
 "Softly, Ed. This is just a start."
  4' Can I get you guys anything?" said the sleepy waitress. By now the
  tables were supplied with napkins and cutlery, and more staff lounged
  around chatting.
 "Just a little information," said Sanders.
  "Jesus, I shoulda known," she said. "One look at you, and I shoulda
  known. Am I out of it today. We've been expecting you guys. So?"
  "Tell me about how things work around here," said Sanders. "Money-that
  sort of thing."
  "That little prick Randy does the money," said the waitress. "Except on
  his days off, when I do it-or Mr. Horvath.
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       173

 And he skims tips, Randy does. I know. The day I catch him at it, I skim
 his balls off."
 "You don't care for Mr. West?"
  "I like that. Yeah, I don't care for Mr. West. He can't keep his greasy
  hands off the girls--or the boys, I wouldn't be surprised. And mean as
  hell if you do anything about it. One girl bashed him across the ear with
  a tray, and he went straight to Mr. Neilson and had her fired."
 "Were they friends? West and Neilson?"
  "I wouldn't describe them as friends. Being as Randy's a miserable little
  ass-licking son of a bitch when Mr. Neilson's around. Or was around.
  Maybe he got on better with the other owner."
 "Which other owner is that?" asked Sanders cautiously.
  "I don't know his name. I only know there's another owner because I heard
  him once when I was in the washroom. They were holed up in Horvath's
  office, and he was mad-saying something about as an owner, he had a right
  to know what was going on." She shrugged. "Places like this, it's hard
  to find out who owns what."
  "Tell your friends at the solicitor general's office that we need some
  more information about this place," Sanders growled to his partner as
  they walked back outside. "Before all the witnesses die of old age."

 For three more nights the fever had raged. Each morning Rob Lucas looked
 at Annie, appalled at the responsibility he had cavalierly taken on
 himself, and decided it was time to throw in the towel and take her to a
 hospital. But each night as he sat up with her in the dim light of one
 small lamp, he was haunted by visions of Jennifer Wilson's dead body, by
 memories of the chaos and destruction at the cabin, and he changed his
 mind. Looking after her consumed every hour of the day. He coped badly
 with changing her dressings, and worse with trying to keep her warm,
 174            MEDORA SALE

 clean, and dry. He had discovered extra bed linen and a washer-dryer in the
 laundry room, and conscientiously changed her sweat-soaked sheets each
 morning. Every night he lowered the shutters, in case somehow someone
 tracked them to Lake Wanitake. In that time she did not speak an
 intelligible word, didn't appear to know he was there. He sat by her anyway,
 afraid that if he turned his back, death might catch her alone in that big
 room. When she seemed to be awake, she stared out at the water or up at the
 woodpaneled ceiling. Otherwise she slept, fitfully and restlessly, moaning
 in her sleep, or worse still, lost again in a delirious trance, she raved at
 him with an intensity of fear and despair that appalled him. She screamed to
 some invisible hordes of devils to leave her alone, she grasped his arm and
 demanded his name, and from time to time she returned to Lulu: "I do not
 know; I am no one; I believe in nothing." His constant preoccupation was a
 never-ending fight to keep her from dehydrating; for hours he held her in
 his arms and forced liquids down her throat. Some she swallowed, some
 spilled, some she coughed up again. He carefully mopped her face and began
 to despair.
  On the fourth morning he woke up with a start, his heart pounding, and
  lifted his head in alarm. He was stretched out on Annie's bed; she was on
  her side next to him, her arm in its awkward plaster casing flung high
  against the stuffed back of the couch. She was breathing deeply and
  regularly, the slow, even breathing of those who sleep soundly. The small
  lamp remained burning in the corner, but beyond the steel casing on the
  windows he could hear a bird singing. It was morning. The last thing he
  remembered was forcing a painkiller and an antibiotic capsule down Annie's
  throat at midnight and making her drink something. He slipped off the bed
  and walked into the bathroom. The sun was pouring through the windows. He
  looked at his watch. It was seven minutes past nine.
 They had slept for nine hours. Nine hours without inter-          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       17S

 ruption. He looked at his four-day growth of beard in the mirror and
 grinned. To hell with shaving, to hell with spit and polish, to hell with
 greasy hamburgers and cold, scummy coffee. He wasn't a cop-he was a man who
 had just tilted with the windmills and won. He stripped and showered for the
 first time in days, got himself some clean clothes, and moved quietly back
 into the living room to have a look at his rescued maiden.
  She was sleeping quietly, looking pale and thin and very sick, but the
  taint of fever and madness that had been a physical pr esence hovering over
  her was gone. She was a person again.
  He opened the two sets of French doors in the dining room, unlocked the
  shutters, closed the doors again, and flipped on the raise switch. Green,
  woodsy light filled the cottage, and he went into the kitchen to make
  himself some coffee-some real coffee. And some breakfast instead of the
  crackers and cans of soup he had been living on. He was famished. He moved
  his down jacket from the freezer lid, lifted it, and discovered a treasure
  hoard. There were coffee beans, packages of bacon, loaves of bread of all
  kinds and descriptions, plastic bags filled with Danishes. Susie was a
  woman who knew how to live. And to shop.
  Between microwave and oven, stove top and toaster, he had Danishes warming,
  bacon thawed and now frying, bread toasting, and freshly ground coffee
  dripping through its filter. He was searching through the refrigerator,
  looking for interesting ]am, when he heard his name. Startled, he snapped
  upright, so rapidly that he hit his head.
  "Robin-are you there?" This time the voice sounded worried.
  "Sure," he said, rubbing his head. He reached over and turned down the heat
  under the bacon before heading around the fireplace and over to the bed.
  "Of course I'm here. How are you feeling?"
 "Can you help me into the bathroom?" she asked. Her
 176             MEDORA SALE

 voice sounded husky and unused. "I'm not sure I can make it on my own."
  "I am," he said, reaching down and picking her up for what seemed like the
  hundredth time at least. And each time she had felt lighter and lighter.
  "Sure you couldn't make it, that is. Don't even try. Not yet." He got her
  into the bathroom and turned to go. "I'll get you a clean nightgown. I
  didn't like to wake you up earlier," he said, and left, suddenly
  embarrassed. He hovered nervously outside the door, listening for a thump
  as she crashed to the floor, wondering if she hated being dependent on
  someone like him, a stranger, hostile, someone with no connection to her at
  all except the accidental one of his Job.
  After a decent interval he knocked, walked in firmly, and reached down to
  take off her rumpled nightgown. She looked up at him, startled. "No point
  in getting prudish," he said. "I've been changing your clothes and trying
  to give you sponge baths for three days now. Sorry, but Mike said it was
  important to keep you clean and dry. You sweated a lot sometimes."
 "Three days?" she said weakly.
  He nodded, grabbed a clean washcloth, and rinsed it in hot water. "You want
  to wash your face?" he said, holding it out to her. "And maybe eventually
  I can even organize brushing your teeth. And your hair." She buried her
  face in the hot, damp cloth, handed it back, and began to try to pull off
  her nightgown. In one rapid gesture, he had it over her head and the clean
  one dropped in its place; then he picked her up again, and carried her back
  to bed. "I'm cooking breakfast," he said unnecessarily. The room was filled
  with the odor of bacon. "Would you like something?"
  "I'd love some coffee," she said. "It smells-I don't know-nice and
  ordinary."
  "One coffee coming up. How about orange juice? And some toast?"
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        177

 She put down her coffee mug and leaned heavily back on the pillows Lucas had
 arranged behind her. "I'm tired," she said. "But I guess I'm okay."
  "Good," he said, setting his plate down on the coffee table and picking up
  a glass of water. "Drink this. You got very dehydrated." He laughed
  nervously. "I thought you meant to dry up on me."
  4'1 knew I was dying," she said quietly. "And I didn't give a damn. I felt
  so awful ... and so tired. And you kept shoving things down my throat.
  Instead of just leaving me . . ."
  He waited for her to finish what she was saying, but she turned her head
  and looked at the blank windows, silent again. He got up and began the slow
  routine of unlocking all the shutters and raising them. The strong spring
  sun flooded the room, and Annie dropped her head back as far as it would
  go. In a minute she was asleep again.

 Inspector John Sanders walked into the room, took off his gray, pin-striped
 suit Jacket and draped it with elaborate care over the back of his chair.
 His face was white; his features frozen, thin-lipped, immobile. He sat down
 with the same care that he had expended over his suit Jacket and grabbed for
 a file. He opened it and inspected the first page it contained. Five minutes
 later he was still staring at the first page.
  "You want a coffee?" said Sergeant Ed Dubinsky, who up to this point had
  been pretending to ignore him.
 "No," said Sanders.
  "So what in hell happened up there?" asked Dubinsky. "Before you have a
  heart attack and can't tell me."
  "It's going over to internal affairs." Sanders glanced up for a moment and
  then returned to his file.
 178             MEDORA SALE

  "Turn the page," said Dubinsky. "Then tell me what's going to internal
  affairs."
  Sanders closed the folder sheepishly and looked over at his partner.
  "Lucas. Dragging us all upstairs was Baldwin's idea. Everybody else was
  happy to wait until we found the stupid idiot and asked him what in hell he
  thought he was doing. But Baldwin thinks Lucas was on the take, got himself
  mixed up with Neilson's murderers, and is getting out while the getting is
  good. He claims he's been suspicious of Lucas from the very beginning, that
  Lucas kept turning up where he wasn't expected-looking into aspects of the
  investigation he wasn't supposed to be worrying about."
 "Could be," said Dubinsky with his usual skepticism.
  "I dunno," said Sanders, running his hands through his hair. "He never
  struck me as the type. Which doesn't mean a thing. Those pretty, clean-cut
  types can get away with murder." Sanders winced. Harriet's cry of
  "gorgeous" was still ringing in his ear. "Baldwin says he was chasing that
  witness so he could get rid of her."
  "Or somebody was," said Dubinsky. "Anyway, what difference does it make?
  They can't do much until they find him."
  "They're stepping up the search. I hadn't realized until today how much
  Matt hated him."
  "So what else is new?" said Dubinsky, yawning. "But I wouldn't worry about
  Lucas. He's not as stupid as you think. He'll be all right. Anyway, you
  want to hear what I got from the auditors?" Sanders leaned back in his
  chair and closed his eyes. "Their reason for concentrating on Neilson's
  land development deals is that they were sent in there on account of the
  fire and those people being killed. That good enough for you? Anyway, it's
  slow because everything he did was very complicated. Got it? It took them
  fortyfive minutes to explain those two things to me. But what they're
  pretty sure of-it'll take weeks before they pin down the proof,
  understand-is that Neilson was expecting the roof
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        179

 to fall in on him and was moving every asset he had out of the country, out
 of reach of Canadian courts."
 "You mean, he was going to leave the country for good?"
  "They wouldn't say, of course. But that's what it looks like. And with two
  plane tickets-"
  61 Take the kid with him." Sanders sat up and opened his eyes again.
  "Bingo!" Dubinsky leaned back in turn. "And something else. While you were
  farting around up there, raising your blood pressure for no good reason,
  Collins and McNeill tracked down that safe-deposit box key. I told the
  manager we'd be there at two. That gives us time for lunch."

 The manager of the large downtown bank where Carl Neilson had his
 safe-deposit box did not like police on the premises. He was waiting at the
 door; he pushed them through the public areas as if they were plague
 carriers, hustled them into a private room and into the box almost before
 they could identify themselves.
  Instead of cash reserves, negotiable bonds, whatever it was that Sanders
  had expected to see, only two items occupled the space. A standard business
  envelope and, under it, an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven brown manila one.
  Both were unmarked and unsealed. Sanders picked up the smaller envelope and
  looked inside. It contained one strip of developed black-and-white
  negatives, 3Smm. From the larger envelope he pulled out six black-and-white
  prints, eight by ten in size, set them on the table, and picked up the top
  one. And drew his breath in through his teeth in a muted whistle. "Pay
  dirt, Ed," he muttered softly. "You better get the car. We're off."

 The house in Thornhill slumbered in the strong spring sunshine, clean,
 innocent, and rich-looking. They surprised
 180            MEDORA SALE

 Lydia Neilson on her way out to the stable, turned her around and back
 into the house. She led them into the study, smiling politely and
 automatically, but as she turned to gesture them into chairs, Dubinsky
 pulled the manila envelope out of a large plastic bag. Mrs. Neilson paled
 and sat down abruptly.
  "Mrs. Neilson," said Sanders briskly, "while going through a safe-deposit
  box rented by your husband-"
  "Where did he keep them?" she asked. Her voice was hoarse.
 "At his downtown bank."
 "Yonge and Bloor?"
 "No, right downtown."
  "I didn't know he had another bank," she said. Her shoulders sagged, and
  her face settled into a mask of absolute misery.
  Dubinsky took out the top photograph and handed it to Sanders. "We found
  this and other photographs of you-"
  He held out the picture, but she shook her head vehemently and wrapped
  her arms protectively around her body.
  "I've seen them," she said. "I don't ever want to see them again. They're
  disgusting-absolutely disgusting."
  "Is that you in the photograph?" asked Sanders. "You might want to
  consider for a moment before-"
  4COh, yes, it's me. But I didn't-" She stumbled, searching for words. "It
  was a setup. I never went in for Carl's sick games. And I would never,
  never, never have done anything like that with a child present. That was
  pure Carl, that touch. He knew how I felt about child pornography."
 "What do you mean-a setup?" asked Dubinsky.
  Lydia Neilson's fingers were digging into her upper arms as she clutched
  herself more and more tightly. She stared down at the carpet. "A setup.
  The kind of thing Carl was good at. That's why people hated him." She
  looked up a moment, surprised. "Or admired him, too, I suppose. Anyway,
  I was ready to leave him. He was disgusting-but that
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       181

 doesn't matter here. I fell in love with someone-a normal human being-and
 Carl opened a letter from him and discovered I was going to leave. He
 didn't give a damn about me, not really, but he was furious that I meant
 to take Mark with me. Mark was his son, you see. His property. He never
 told me about all of this until later, by the way. Anyway, it was my
 birthday, and he threw a big party for me, a costume party at La
 Celestina-that's one of his businesses. I'd never been there before. It
 was hot and smoky and filled with people I didn't know. I remember being
 very thirsty and feeling very strange, and someone taking me somewhere to
 lie down. I don't remember anything else until I woke up in the hotel with
 my lover in bed with me and someone taking our picture. Both of us felt
 like hell. Carl came in right after that with a couple of guys and that
 pile of pictures. I threw up when I saw them."
  Sanders looked at the top picture. Lydia Neilson was lying on a double
  bed, naked, with one man on top of her, and a second man reaching out for
  her while being fondled by a boy who looked no more than ten. Her eyes
  were shut and her face was slack. Unconscious? Possibly, he thought. "Is
  one of these men your boyfriend?" he asked abruptly.
  She shook her head. "The idea was that Carl would go into court and say
  that not only did I have a lover but I went to parties where I-" She
  stopped in momentary confusion. "Parties like that. He said if I ever
  tried to leave, or had anything to do with my friend or any of his
  friends again, he would divorce me and produce these pictures in
  evidence-including the one they had just taken-and I would never see Mark
  again. He said the two men in the pictures would swear that I-that this
  wasn't the first time. My friend got dressed and left, and I've never
  seen or heard from him since." Tears began running down her face. "You
  can't believe how happy I was when that policeman told me Carl was dead.
  I felt guilty, because he was a human being and afraid of dying and
  deserved to live his life, but
 182            MEDORA SALE

 I was happy. No one was going to be able to take Mark away from me now.
 That was all I could think of." Lydia Neilson unwrapped her arms and
 fished in her pocket for a handkerchief. "Someone like me killed him,
 Inspector, some desperate person, and I feel so sorry for him, because
 you'll catch him, whoever he is, and all he was doing was trying to save
 himself from being destroyed by my husband."
  "You mean, you don't care who killed him?" asked Sanders quietly.
  "Not particularly. And don't look at me like that. I didn't kill him. I
  couldn't put Mark at risk-what would he do with his mother in prison? No,
  I couldn't do that. Besides, I've never killed anything in my life. But
  someone did, and Carl deserved it."

 "The problem with Mrs. Neilson," said Dubinsky, yawning and taking the top
 off his coffee, "as I said yesterday, is that although she has motive
 written all over her, motive she admits to, we can't place her anywhere
 near the scene. It's a long way from her house to the hotel. The house-
 keeper didn't see the car go out, and none of the neighbors saw her
 driving to or from the house."
 "No one saw her out riding, either," said Sanders.
  "Okay, no one saw her out riding. But there is someone who was right
  there while that bastard Neilson was still bleeding all over the carpet,
  and that's Rob Lucas's mystery witness who has disappeared, with or
  without Lucas. Has it ever occurred to you that she might have taken her
  little twenty-two and popped a couple of tiny bullets through his brain
  as well?"
  "Yeah, it's occurred to me. From time to time. Stupid thoughts like that
  are always occurring to me at four in the morning. But you know what
  really occurred to me while I was listening to Mrs. Neilson? That her
  husband was a vindictive, blackmailing son of a bitch by nature. Maybe
  we
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       183

 should concentrate on his business partners for a day or so-if we can find
 out who they are. He probably did the same sort of thing to them. Anything
 new from the auditors?"
  "Come off it," said Dubinsky with pain in his voice. "I i ust got in."
  "Christ! They've probably been working since dawn. Call them." Sanders
  turned back to his desk and began his morning paper shuffle once again.

 It was after lunch before Dubinsky turned up again, looking sleek and well
 fed. "Okay," he said. "Here's what we've got. The guy who's been looking
 at Neilson's restaurant and hotel business says that for the last two or
 three weeks before he died there was a serious hemorrhage."
 "What does he mean, hemorrhage?"
  "Well, there's a hell of a lot of money coming in to the restaurant, for
  instance. Much too much. I asked him if It could be drugs and girls, and
  he said he hadn't the slightest idea. Neilson had it covered in his
  books, sort of. Then the money disappears. Not just the extra cash, but
  all the money. And now the books for the restaurant wouldn't stand up to
  a five-minute scrutiny, he said. So I asked this guy who Neilson was
  trying to fool, and he said it wasn't the auditors. And it wasn't the tax
  people. Maybe some very gullible business partners for a very short
  period of time. Because pretty soon even they would figure it all out.
  In a week or so, at the rate he was going, there wasn't going to be
  enough cash in that business to pay the cook."
  "What about the guys sniffing around the premises? Anything new?"
  Dubinsky shook his head. "They're still looking. The place is getting too
  respectable. But they're still digging."
  "So as far as Neilson's death goes, we're back where we started."
 184            MEDORA SALE

  "I don't know about that. Try this on. Randy West's been inside. He
  served five years of a fifteen-year sentence for embezzlement. Got out
  five-six years ago and has worked for NorthSea/Baltic ever since. I found
  that so interesting, I made an appointment with Mr. West at the
  restaurant for a little talk. You're welcome to come along if you want:
  five-thirty."

 They were met at the door by Horvath in a dinner jacket. Its neat and
 severe lines made him look gloomier than ever. Before he managed even the
 briefest of good-evenings, Sanders had him backed over to the relative
 privacy of the coatcheck counter. "Do you remember a birthday party that
 Mr. Neilson gave for his wife here? One of those two-hundredpeople,
 close-the-dining-room kind. Costume."
  Horvath wiped the surprise caused by their sudden entrance off his face
  and restored his features to their habitual melancholic impassivity. "For
  Mrs. Neilson? You're sure?" Sanders nodded. "It must have been before my
  time. I've never met Mrs. Neilson. I heard she didn't like going out
  much. I didn't know she'd ever been here."
  "Do you get a rake-off on the girls?" asked Sanders casually.
  Horvath stiffened. "Look," he said, leaning one long thin finger on
  Sanders's chest, "I don't run places like that. Understand? You can bring
  your family here. Your mother. Dinner. Dancing if you want. No girls. No
  funny stuff. The bar is run clean; the staff is clean. I watch these
  things." His face was growing pink with agitation. Sanders gently put
  aside the hand that stabbed at him. "Okay," Horvath said, as if conceding
  some great point, "when Mr. Neilson bought the place it had a lousy
  reputation. And there was a lot going on for a couple, three years. That
  was one reason he hired me. We got a new bartender; I put Addle there,"
  and he paused to nod at the sleepy-eyed waitress, "in charge
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        18S

 of the dining room. We redecorated, updated the kitchen, everything. This is
 a clean place." The unaccustomed color began to recede from his face. "You
 saw for yourself. The money, inventory, everything-it's all checked three
 times. Me, Randy, Mr. Neilson. We all did it."
 "But you don't actually count the money in the till."
  He shook his head. "That's Randy's job. Except on his days off, Addle does
  it. That's usually Sunday and Monday, when business is light. Not much
  money comes through here, though. Mostly credit cards." He pulled together
  his cloak of professionalism. "What can we do for you this evening? It will
  be getting busy pretty soon, so-"
  "Just a cup of coffee and some quiet corner where we can talk to Mr. West.
  He's expecting us."
  Randy West sat in Horvath's crowded office surrounded by piles of paper,
  rapidly entering data into the computer on the desk. He looked up wearily
  as they all crowded in: Horvath, Sanders, Dubinsky, and Addie with two cups
  of coffee. She set them down on the desk, gave West a poisonous glare, and
  swept out, dragging Horvath in her wake.
  "So what's your scam here?" asked Dubinsky genially. "Besides screwing the
  waitresses out of their tip money. Maybe we should warn you that the books
  from this place smell like last week's stew-you might want to start working
  on a good line for the boys from the solicitor general's office."
  Randy West pulled himself upright, quivering with virtue. "What do you
  mean, scam," he said. "Listen, I got no scam, okay? What do you think I am,
  some kind of genius? I just enter figures, check the math, count the bills.
  That's all. Mr. Neilson set up the system for this place with the chef and
  Horvath. I just do the numbers."
  "You know what I think you are, Randy? I think you're someone who embezzled
  half a mil out of a parts manufacturer over three years and never got
  caught until the owner died. That's smart, Randy. You're good. I have
  trouble
 186             MEDORA SALE

 imagining you running a clean operation with all that talent."
  "Okay, so I did. So I got caught. I did five years for that, and I'm
  out."
  "Did Mr. Neilson know about your talents, Randy? And how you used them?"
  "Sure he did." West was looking pale. He kept flipping a pencil in his
  fingers, pushing it down on a stack of computer printout, and flipping
  it again. It made a soft, irritating sound. "You can't keep something
  like that from someone. Mr. Neilson was willing to give me a chance.
  Jesus! I don't know what I'm going to do now. No one else is going to
  hire me to do this kind of work. I was really grateful-but I put in a
  hell of a lot of hours for him. Working nights and all."
 "What did Neilson have on you?" asked Sanders quietly.
 "What do you mean?"
  "He must have had something on you, just to make sure you stayed in line.
  To keep your fingers out of the cash. He liked having things on people,
  didn't he, Randy? He was that sort of guy."
  West smiled, a big open smile, and swallowed hard. "You guys are great
  kidders, eh? Real sense of humor. You don't need to have something on a
  bookkeeper who's been in for embezzling. Think about it. I needed this
  Job. Real bad. And I dunno where you get this stuff about Mr. Neilson.
  I never heard any of it."
  "You remember Mrs. Neilson's birthday party, Randy? Maybe you helped Mr.
  Neilson organize it. It was here. Lots of people, lots of booze,
  everything. Costume party, wasn't it?"
  The big open smile returned to his face. "A birthday party for Mrs.
  Neilson?" He looked puzzled, very puzzled, and shook his head. "Gee, I
  don't remember anything about that. Mr. Neilson had parties here
  sometimes, but Mrs. Neilson never came. I don't even know what she looks
  like. She's one of these real quiet ladies, I guess. Homey type."
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        187

  "Where does the cash go after you've finished counting it?" snapped
  Sanders.
  "To the bank," said West, opening his eyes in candid innocence. "Oh, you
  mean after that. Well, strictly speaking, Mr. Neilson didn't own the place.
  It's owned by a corporation. NorthSea owns fifty percent of the corpora-
  tion. Anyway, I deposit the receipts in a special NorthSea account, the
  bills get paid out of that, and the auditors make sure the corporation gets
  what it's supposed to get."
 "Who owns the other fifty percent?"
  The smile came out again. "Who knows? Could have been Mr. Neilson under
  another company name. He had pretty smart accountants-very good at setting
  up things to minimize taxes and stuff like that. All legal, of course. But
  very complicated."
  "Then who is the guy who came here to talk to you, who seems to think he
  owns part of the place?" By now, Sanders's voice was very soft.
  "Are you kidding? There's no one like that. Who told you that? You find him
  for me. I'd like a good laugh right now. Look, I got to get this done
  before the evening rush starts. If you don't mind."
  "We'll be back, Mr. West," said Dubinsky, rising to his full height and
  leaning over the little bookkeeper. "You could just try to remember the
  name of your friend who thinks he owns the place. Because next time we
  come, we could be feeling a little less patient than we are now." His voice
  was gently caressing.
  Randy West started entering figures with furious haste onto the numeric
  keypad.

 Annie had slept most of Tuesday and Wednesday, waking to eat, a little more
 each time, and obediently drinking whatever liquids Rob thrust at her. Her
 conversation was limited to monosyllables; either she was too weak to talk
 188            MEDORA SALE

 or she had no taste for it. Once he had helped guard a witness who spoke
 only Arabic, sitting, the two of them, in a hotel room, one shift on, one
 off, for four days. That had been bad. This was worse. Then he had been
 able to watch television, dreary as it could be sometimes, to pass the
 time. And he had felt that the man would have talked to him if he could
 have. Now he could only pace around the echoing room. When she was
 sleeping, he ventured outside in the sun, shaking himself like a bear come
 out of hibernation, stretching and stamping his feet and taking great
 gulps of outdoor air. He was impatient for her to get better, to tell him
 exactly what had happened, but he felt a strong reluctance to pry.
  On Thursday he was awakened by a thumping sound, looked up, and saw her
  hopping across the room, leaning heavily on pieces of furniture and the
  wall as she maneuvered her way into the bathroom by herself. When she
  emerged again, he was leaning against the wall outside the door.
 "Tired?"
 "Not that tired. I can manage," she said irritably.
  "Why not let me help you back," he said, picking her up again and
  carrying her to her bed. She felt more solid, less likely to crack if he
  grabbed her too hard. And heavier. "How about some real breakfast this
  time?" he said, as he dropped her down.
 She nodded silently and turned to look out the window.
  After breakfast he went out into the woods and began to look for a
  suitable piece of timber. He found a pine branch, relatively straight,
  ripped green off its tree by some violent winter storm. He had already
  picked up a hunting knife and a whetstone from the garage; he settled
  himself in the sun on the deck and began to turn the branch into a usable
  cane. Stripped of its bark and sanded a little, it gleamed palely in the
  sun. He purloined a heavy-duty rubber tip from a leg of the barbecue and
  slipped it on. He sacrificed one of his cotton T-shirts to make a padded
  handgrip on
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        189

 the top, fastened on by four neatly placed tiny nails. He returned the
 tools to the garage, walked back into the cottage, and solemnly placed the
 cane at the foot of her bed.

 She stared at it. "It's for you," he said at last. "A cane. Crutches would
 have been better, I suppose, but they're harder to make."
  "Thank you," she said at last. "That's nice of you." Her voice was dull
  and unenthusiastic.
  He was nettled. He wasn't expecting long speeches of gratitude, but he
  had spent a hell of a long time making that thing. He reverted to
  silence. Two could play that game. He fetched the medical bag that Mike
  had put together for him and began the daily routine of changing her
  dressings. The gunshot wound was not beautiful-the scar was red, thick,
  and jagged-but it had almost healed; the skin around it looked clean and
  healthy. There was no point in replacing the dressing, he decided.
  The foot had always been a different story. Scarlet, inflamed, oozing,
  infected, for days it had looked unstoppable, intent on eating away her
  flesh. Only massive willpower had kept him from gagging whenever he
  uncovered it. But that day, as he carefully peeled the old bandage off,
  small areas of thin reddish new skin were visible around the edges of the
  wound. In his excitement he forgot his punctured self-esteem.
  "It's getting better," he said, as he cautiously placed a new pad where
  the old one had been and then bandaged over it. "A lot better. All of a
  sudden."
  She nodded. "Thank you for the cane," she said. "It will help."

 On Friday she sat up most of the morning. She had insisted on negotiating
 the potentially hazardous path to the bath-
  190            MEDORA SALE

 room entirely by herself, leaning on her pine cane, and the sense of
 independence it gave her seemed to have cheered her up. She still only spoke
 when he goaded her into it, and he was beginning to realize how very
 dependent on human conversation he was.
  In a celebratory mood, he opened a bottle of beer, some smoked oysters and
  other oddities he found in the Buchanans' well-stocked cupboards, and set
  out a small hors d'oeuvre plate on the bed before lunch. Annie was drinking
  fruit juice mixed with soda water-something she seemed to have acquired a
  taste for in her delirium-and looking soberly out at the lake. In the eight
  or nine days since they had arrived, the ice had almost disappeared, even
  from the shaded coves. The only trace of winter was the occasional patch of
  snow trapped under thick growth in the woods.
  "You know," he said. "People keep telling me you're a singer. Why don't you
  sing?"
 "What do you mean?" she asked.
  "Even my mother used to sing sometimes-under her breath, and not very well,
  but she sang. When she was happy, I suppose, or concentrating on
  something."
  "The only thing I concentrate on when I'm singing," said Annie coldly, "is
  singing."
  "I suppose I deserved that. So sing something. Concentrate."
  "What would you like?" she asked. As if he had suggested that she make him
  some lunch. "Opera? Pop? Folk moderne? Folk genuine? Folk artsy? English
  madrigal style? Lieder? Italian or French art song? Take your pick. If
  there's one thing I got, it's repertoire. I am not equally good at all of
  it, but you pays your money and you takes your chances."
  He shook his head. "Sing something you like-something you feel like
  singing," he said, and walked over to the window, in case she was put off
  by having him three feet away.
 "Then I shall sing 'Down by the Salley Gardens,' " she
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       191

 said. "Nothing fancy. It's Yeats, you know, and very pretty."
  She straightened up a bit, settled her shoulders, and sang, "Down." Her
  voice quavered, lost, and began searching for the note she started with,
  turned husky, and died away. He stared at the lake, burning with
  embarrassment, unable to face her. For chrissake, she was absolutely awful.
  He should have known better.
  "Sorry," she said calmly. "It's been a while. Wrong key. Drastically wrong
  key." This time "Down" was pitched higher-much higher. It grew and then
  faded softly, gathered strength, and the figure of the first line soared
  upward. He turned back in astonishment. Her voice, clear and rich, and yet
  totally unornamented, filled the room. He held his breath, terrified now
  that it could not last, that the hoarseness and quavery pitch would return.
  Almost without wanting to, he came closer and then crouched by the coffee
  table to bring himself down to her level. Here he realized that she didn't
  see him at all. She was singing to a huge audience somewhere out across the
  lake, and he looked down at the floor, making himself a part of that
  audience. She toyed lightly with every playful, heartbreaking word of the
  little song until, with a wry grimace, she came to "But I was young and
  foolish, and now . . ." She paused. --am full-" Her voice hoarsened,
  cracked and stopped again.
  He looked up, surprised. The tears that were supposed to end the song were
  pouring down her face. She shielded herself from his gaze with her right
  hand and clumsy, plastered, left wrist, sobbing now, helpless to control
  her grief. He got up and walked over to the bed, sat down beside her, and
  put an arm around her shoulders.
  "Don't touch me," she gasped, and then began to cry even harder.
  He got up again and headed for the bedroom, reached into his overnight bag,
  and extracted a large, clean linen
 192            MEDORA SALE

 handkerchief, elegant, expensive, monogrammed-another little offering from
 his stepmother. "Here," he said, once he was sitting down beside her again.
 "This works better than plaster of parls." He opened up the handkerchief and
 thrust it into her good hand. Now she buried her face in It, still sobbing.
  He waited for a minute, two minutes. "I don't know if it will help," he
  said. "But you have a magnificent voice. I was overwhelmed." It didn't seem
  to help. She continued to cry, each sob turning into a huge gasping intake
  of breath.
  He couldn't stand watching her so unhappy and comfortless, with no one to
  turn to but him-and he was clearly the last person she wanted to depend on.
  "Annie," he said helplessly, "Annie, darling, please-" and, astonished at
  himself even as he did it, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her
  against his chest. She stiffened and then let herself fall against him,
  burying her face in the harsh wool of his sweater. He wanted desperately to
  lift that unhappy face, to kiss the tears from her eyes and cheeks, to
  murmur mad things in her ears, and now it was his turn to hold himself
  still and in check. It was one thing to comfort a weeping woman who was
  sick and in distress-anyone could do that; it was quite another to
  transport a wounded, helpless creature forcibly to a remote spot in the
  woods and then to rain kisses on her. There were nasty terms for thatmany
  of them in the criminal code-and in his innocence or stupidity he had never
  thought this out. "Christ," he murmured into her tangle of black hair,
  "this is one hell of a complication."
  When had he fallen for her? Listening to her sing? Way before that, he
  realized. Before he nursed her through those dark nights or carried her
  away from her cabin or spent all those hours searching for her. It must
  have been when he thought she was dead and then saw the body of the real
  Jennifer Wilson-and suddenly he could see her gray eyes mocking him, could
  see her holding up the sleeve of his
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        193

 sweater and telling him he was beautiful. Don't kid yourself, Lucas, he said
 to himself. Ever since the day you met her, you've been pursuing her like
 some demented fool.
  The convulsive sobs began to ease, and he had to fight not to hold her
  tighter. He ran his right hand lightly over her hair, smoothing it back,
  allowing himself the luxury of resting his cheek against it for an instant.
  She began to straighten herself up, and he released her hastily. He turned
  away to hide his burning cheeks and said the first thing that came into his
  head. "Listening to you sing, it suddenly came to me why all those rich
  bastards, the bloated robber barons of this world, go batty over singers.
  Imagine having all that-"
  Annie blew her nose fiercely and turned to face him. Her nose was red, her
  eyes swollen, her face blotchy. Unlike his stepmother, who could cry at
  will-and did-and look both pathetic and elegant as she did it, she did not
  cry well. She hiccuped. "Was that supposed to be funny? Or just in
  appalling bad taste?" she snapped. It was almost the longest unprompted
  sentence he had heard from her since they had arrived at the cottage. "I'll
  have you know that I never ever sang for-" She couldn't bring out the name.
  Her eyes began to look watery again.
  "You're not going to believe me," said Lucas, furious at his
  thoughtlessness, "but I was thinking of Callas captivating the shipping
  king. I had forgotten all about Neilson. I find it very easy to forget
  him."
 "I find it pretty hard," she said bitterly.
  "I wouldn't have thought he was that memorable," said Lucas. "After all, if
  the relationship was purely business, he can't have been much of a personal
  loss." There was a nasty edge to his voice, and he had no trouble
  identifying it. jealousy.
  "My God, what do you think of me?" she said. "No, I know what you think of
  me. You've sure as hell told enough people. You think I'm a cheap, nasty
  little whore. You'd
 194            MEDORA SALE

 prefer me if I called myself a hooker and went out and picked up anybody on
 the street, wouldn't you? That would appeal to your goddamn perverted
 masculine vision of women, wouldn't it? Then I could have been the
 prostitute with the heart of gold. As it is, you think I'm a cheap whore
 with pretensions-the kind that calls herself an artiste or a model or
 something. Only in my case it's a singer, isn't it? You were surprised that
 I can sing, weren't you? I saw ityou were bloody astonished. You couldn't
 have been more surprised if that chipmunk out there had started singing
 Puccini. Admit it-you were surprised." The thought of his reaction brought
 a grin to her face in the midst of the blotchy cheeks and scarlet nose.
  He blushed, hating himself. "Okay, I admit it-I was surprised. I didn't ask
  you to sing to trap you, though, if that's what you think. I was just
  trying to make conversation. Honest." He stopped for a moment. "And I'm
  sorry it made you unhappy. Believe me, I'd never have asked you to do it if
  I had thought it would make you unhappy."
  She looked at him oddly for a moment and then shook her head. "It wasn't
  your fault. I shouldn't have sung that song. It runs too close to the bone.
  And besides, it reminds me of my mother. And the old days, before things
  got so ... complicated." She fell back on the pillows. "I'm tired," she
  said. "I'd like to be left alone, if you don't mind. Can't you ever leave
  me bloody well alone?"
  He grabbed his jacket and went out by the kitchen door, followed a small
  path through the woods down to the smooth granite that edged the lake. He
  sat down and stared into the water. At last he picked up a small rock and
  threw it, hard, into the smooth surface. A gull came gliding around the
  point, looking rather hopeful. "I'm going crazy," he said to it. "Locked up
  here with a nutty woman. Whom I am falling madly in love with against my
  will, and she hates me. No wonder I'm going crazy." The gull was either
  uninterested or on her side. It gave him a distinctly cold look
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        195

 and reversed its direction. "To hell with you, too," said Lucas vehemently
 and threw another rock into the water, this one right off its port wing.
 It squawked, shook its feathers, and flew off to the east.
  Rob Lucas sat on the smooth, cold granite and stared into the icy lake.
  His mind darted about in a multitude of directions: love, desire,
  suspicions of complicity in murder, haunting melodies. He was doomed to
  have that song in his head for days. He stood up with a sigh-he seemed
  to be doing a lot of sighing lately-and turned to go back to the cottage.
  He couldn't stay out here forever. He'd die of exposure. And besides, he
  was hungry.
  One step, though, and he halted. Bouncing over the lake, from its far
  western end, he heard a sound so foreign to this deserted place that it
  took him a second or two to identify it. But no more than that. It was
  the sound of a noisy internal combustion engine. A car with a faulty muf-
  fler or a motorcycle.
         CHAPTER 14

 A panic-stricken voice calling Rob's name sent him racing back up the path
 toward the cottage. The kitchen door was swinging open. He caught it by the
 edge, using it to propel himself inside.
  Annie stood in the kitchen, one hand on the counter, the other clutching
  her makeshift cane, in nightgown and bare feet, her face gray with terror.
  "There's a car coming."
  "It's okay," he said. "I heard it. Go back to bed. As fast as you can." He
  closed and bolted the door, pulled the curtains over the horizontal slits
  up near the ceiling that acted as windows, and turned off the light. "Turn
  on the lamp beside the bed," he called. "I need it to see what I'm doing."
  Then with speed born of practice, he lowered and locked the shutters on all
  the French doors. The engine noise faded away; a delusion, he knew. Those
  shutters were partially soundproof. He looked around. Light seeped in from
  the master bedroom. It, too, had broad window slits placed high on the
  wall; he yanked its lined curtains closed.
  He raced into the bathroom. Once again he could hear the sound, closer now.
  This bathroom had no curtains. Susie must have felt that the window had
  been placed too high for privacy to be a problem. Lucas had less faith. He
  grabbed all the towels, face cloths, bath mats and toiletries he could
  carry and dumped them on the bed. One more glance assured him that the room
  looked at least temporar-
           SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        197

 ily unused. He went out and closed the door. He had never used the other
 bathroom between the master suite and the kitchen. He shut that door as
 well. The noise of the engine was now very loud. That should be- "Dammit!"
 he muttered. The laundry. He ran back into the kitchen, into the laundry
 room. It had a rather ordinary window, covered with a mesh security grill,
 through which one could see the driveway and the garage. And be seen. He
 tumbled all the clean and dirty laundry into the basket and slipped out,
 shutting the door behind him. The engine noise was deafening now in the
 silence of spring. He walked back into the living room, dropped the basket
 of laundry, and sat down on the foot of Annie's bed.
  "You'd better turn out the light," he murmured. The engine noise stopped,
  and Lucas could hear Annie breathing like an exhausted sprinter. She leaned
  over and turned out the light. The darkness was almost complete. Lucas slid
  over to the couch he had been sleeping on and reached under the pillow for
  his pistol. He walked quietly back and set it down beside the lamp. He
  could feel, rather than hear, Annie crying beside him.
  "Move over," he whispered, and sat, one leg stretched out in front of him
  and the other on the floor, leaning against the sofa back. He put his arm
  tightly around Annie's shoulders. "Don't worry," he murmured in her ear.
  "We're pretty tightly locked in here."
 "What are they doing?" she whispered back.
 "Walking around the place. Looking for a way in."
 "Who are they?"
  "Small town hoods. Or maybe the police. But it doesn't matter, Annie. They
  can't get in."
 "They might have a key."
 "Won't help. The kitchen door is dead-bolted shut."
  "It's them," she said. She began to shake. "I know it's them."
 198            MEDORA SALE

  "Sh. If it is, they won't get anywhere near you. Sweetheart, I'm a cop. I'm
  armed. I'm even trained. I have to be good for something."
  A heavy thump interrupted him. "Shit!" said a loud voice. "Locked up
  tighter 'n a monkey's ass. Shoulda brought Glen's welding stuff-we coulda
  torched the place open."
  "For chrissake, don't be a fucking asshole. You wanna start a goddamn
  forest fire and have the whole fucking system coming down on us-helicopters
  and everything? Try the window."
  There was another loud thump. "Jesus. You got any more stupid ideas? Who in
  hell can get in that window? It's too fucking small."
 "Jimmy could."
  There was a pause. For thought, presumably. "Naw. That's dumb. You bring
  Jimmy out here and shove him through that window, the whole town knows in
  five minutes. That kid don't know how to shut up."
 "I thought your ma said someone was living here."
  "For chrissake, don't you ever listen? She was over cleaning out the
  MacDonald place and said she saw someone outside. That's all. So we can
  tell her no one's here. That should be good for twenty-five bucks. That's
  all we need. I mean, she's supposed to keep an eye on things, isn't she?
  Now she doesn't have to come out. Anyways, let's get the hell out of here.
  If Ma finds out . . ." The voices drifted off. The engine started again
  with an ear-pounding roar and began its long journey away from them.
  Rob Lucas realized that he was clutching Annie's shoulder so hard she must
  be in pain. He loosened his fingers and gently massaged the offended place.
 "Have they gone?" she whispered.
  "Oh, yes, they've gone. I doubt if they'll come back. And even if they
  did," he added, "I think we could buy them off with fifty bucks."
 "It was just kids." Her voice was tight and strange. "Just
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       199

 kids. And I was scared, Robin. I wanted a little dark closet to hide in."
 He shuddered and rubbed her shoulder again.
 "Robin," she went on, "there's just one thing-"
  "Mmm?" he murmured vaguely, giving most of his attention to the dying
  engine sounds.
 "What are we doing here?"
 "What did you say?"
  "I said, what are we doing here? Way out in the middle of nowhere, just
  the two of us? What are you doing looking after me?"
  He turned to try to see her expression in the darkness and failed.
  "If I'm a witness, why aren't there other cops around? Don't you get time
  off? And whose cottage is this?"
  "Have you been worrying about this since we got here?" he asked. "You
  should have said something."
  "No. Actually, it never even occurred to me until today. And then I began
  to wonder why they would send one cop off to look after a sick witness
  for a week or so without any relief. Why wasn't I in the hospital? I
  mean, you are a cop, aren't you? Not just one of those guys-"
 61
  -who likes to lock women up in private hidey-holes? Oh, Jesus, no, Annie.
  I'm not sure if I'm still a cop, either. And the reason we're alone is
  that no one knows where we are-except for a friend of mine who sort of
  lent us the cottage. It belongs to his wife's sister."
 "Then what in hell is going on?"
  "Listen to me, Annie. There's a reason for all of this. Remember when I
  dropped you off at the motel? Well, I filed a report, saying where you
  were. Okay? Standard procedure. Next thing I hear, your motel room has
  been entered forcibly and you are gone. I think I am chasing someone
  called Jennifer Wilson. I find out where she lives, file my report, and
  Jennifer Wilson is murdered."
 "Oh my God." Annie drew her breath in horror and

              i
 200             MEDORA SALE

 began to tremble again. "Jennifer? My roommate, Jennifer?"
 Lucas nodded. "I'm afraid so."
  "Because I used her name? I didn't mean to involve her. I was so scared
  that it was the first thing that came into my head." Her voice died away.
  He put both arms around her and held her. "It wasn't your fault. If
  anything, it was the fault of the woman next door. Some man came around
  asking questions, and she identified a bad description of you as Jennifer.
  Anyway, I finally found out who you were and the name of your lawyer. He
  told me you were at the cabin, I filed a report, did a few other things,
  and then drove up to talk to you. Someone got there before I did. I may be
  slow, but by this time even I have figured out that I am the connection.
  Someone is reading my reports and passing on the information to the people
  who killed Neilson. And they want to get rid of you because you saw them."
  She shook her head, still muffled in his sweater. "No, I didn't see them.
  I was hiding in the apartment. I heard them."
  "Heard them? Where in hell from? Not the coat closet. You would have had to
  move the body to get out. And the body wasn't moved."
  She shivered. "No, not the coat closet. I was in the linen cupboard in the
  bathroom. Behind the bath towels. It was a tight fit."
  "Well, I'll be damned," he said, with admiration. "It didn't occur to us
  anyone could get in there. You are a resourceful woman, Miss Hunter."
 "No, a skinny, terrified woman."
 "Could you recognize their voices again?"
  "Oh, yes. I'll never forget those voices. And I've heard them twice,
  remember. All that ear training, Sergeant. It comes in handy sometimes."
 "Well, to get back to my story, I may be a slow thinker,
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        201

 but it finally occurred to me-once I got my hands on youthat letting
 anyone know where you were might be worse for your health than me looking
 after you. So here we are. My superior officers are probably livid with
 rage. I phoned in and said that I was in the Deerton hospital with
 multiple fractures. They must have figured out by now that I'm not there.
 I expect I've been slung out of the force."
 "But why? Why have you done this? Why risk-"
  There was silence. "I'm not sure," he said finally and changed the topic.
  "Do you want me to raise the shutters?"
  "Oh, please don't. In case they come back." She reached over him,
  brushing her hair across his face, and turned on the small lamp beside
  him. "There. I hate talking about important things to someone I can't
  see. It's like fighting on the phone. Can't be done satisfactorily." Her
  voice had changed in a subtle way that he couldn't quite assess.
  Lucas's first impulse was to turn the light off again and hide his
  desperate need under cover of darkness. Blood was pounding through his
  arteries with uncontrollable violence; his face must be scarlet. Every
  breath was ragged and undisciplined. Annie sat up beside him, pulling her
  uninjured foot under the other leg, perched like an inquisitive child.
  "I think I'd better go," he said hoarsely, "and see if those kids did any
  damage to the place." He pushed himself up.
  Annie caught him by the arm. "Don't go," she said. "They didn't do
  anything. We would have heard if they had. Stay here and talk to me."
  His arm burned under her touch; desire coiled in him like a tightly wound
  spring. He laced his fingers together and sat straight, his back rigid,
  concentrating on two thoughts: you kidnapped her, Lucas; she is sick and
  injured. "Really, I better go out and check the place," he said again.
  He tried to move, but the hand on his arm seemed to fasten him to the
  spot. He could no more shake it off than tear off his own arm.
 He took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on some- 202            MEDORA SALE

 thing else this time. "Do you ever call yourself Anne?" he asked.
 "No," she said. "Never."
 "Why not?" he said desperately. "It's a very nice name."
  "That may be, but my name isn't Anne, so I don't. It'd be stupid to call
  myself that, wouldn't it? You don't call yourself Jason, do you? Or Frank?"
  She pulled her hand away from his arm in irritation.
  That was better. He could deal with his lust when she was feeling
  combative. "So-what is your name? Or are you really Annie? No, I'll bet
  it's Anna. I've known a couple of Annas. But they would have killed anyone
  who called them Annie."
  "No." There was a pause. "No one calls me by my real name. Well, my mother
  used to. My dad never liked it, though. He was the one who called me
  Annie."
  "So what is it? You have me intrigued. Very intrigued. All sorts of
  interesting possibilities are running through my brain: Augusta? Hermione?
  Cleopatra. How about Delilah?" His subconscious mind was beginning to do
  odd things to him.
  "Not that interesting. Although it is an odd name around here, I suppose.
  It's Irish-quite common, really. Grainne. Rhymes with Sonia, spelled
  G-r-a-i-n-n-e, but no one can remember how to spell it or pronounce it, so
  it's a drag sometimes."
  "Grainne," he said softly. "It's beautiful. Grainne," he repeated, drawing
  the syllables out.
  "Grainne Mary Dermot Hunter. That's me. My mother was Irish."
  "That seems evident," he said. She smiled and placed her hand on his arm
  again, poised as if to say something. His stomach lurched, and his
  precariously gained self-control fled. "I really must go out and check," he
  muttered, and pulled himself free of her. He swung his left leg off the
  couch and set his foot on the floor beside the other one.
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        203

  "Robin, what's the matter with you?" she asked, whether in malice or
  innocence he couldn't tell. "Are you angry?"
  "No. I am not angry. Far from it. Or not at you. At myself, maybe." He
  gripped the arm of the couch until his knuckles whitened. "For chrissake,
  Annie, just let me get out of here."
  Suddenly her eyes filled with tears again. "I'm sorry," she muttered. "I
  keep forgetting. You're stuck here because of me, and you must be going
  stir-crazy." She tried to laugh. "It'd be different if I was a gorgeous
  blonde, wouldn't it? Not just some-" Her voice died away and she turned her
  head.
  "Oh, my God," he said, twisting his torso around to face her.
  "Annie-Grainne-whoever you are, do you have any idea what you're up to? Do
  you enjoy teasing the hell out of me? Or are you just being incredibly
  stupid?" He grabbed her face, forcing her to look at him. "What color is
  your damned hair, anyway?"
  "My hair? It's nothing special. Not this color." She blinked the tears out
  of her eyes, blushing with embarrassment. "And I don't know what I'm up to.
  All I know is that sometimes you're absolutely wonderful, as if you like
  me, and then suddenly you treat me like a piece of dirt. I'm confused,
  Robin. I'm not very good at figuring men out. I've never had much to do
  with them, except as friends, you know. I always worked too hard-we all
  did-for going out and things like that, and anyway, lots of the guys I know
  are gay and so-"
  Lucas's bitter laughter cut her off. "Oh, Annie-" He turned his back to her
  again. "It's not confusing at all. I am an ordinary heterosexual male who
  has fallen in love with you, and I can hardly keep my hands off you, and
  I'm suffering hideous pangs of conscience and a sense of violated ethics."
  Her face turned scarlet. "Dammit, don't you see? If you could simply call
  a cab and waltz out of here, it would be different. I'd be plying you with
  champagne and
 204             MEDORA SALE

 soft music and chasing you all around the furniture, no doubt. But you can't
 chase a woman who can't run. You can't. And so-I think I'll go for a walk."
  "Wait," she said, breathlessly. "Don't I have a say in this? What if I
  didn't want to run? Wouldn't that make a difference?"
 "You did want to-I could tell. I can always tell."
 "Only because you looked at me like-"
  "Sh." He turned back to look at her again. "That was temporary insanity on
  my part. Occasioned, I fear, by jealousy. jealousy I had no right to." He
  began to stand up.
  Grainne Hunter caught the back of the couch to balance herself and
  stretched out her left arm in its awkward cast. "Wait," she cried again.
  There was desperation in her voice. "Robin, look at me. You can't do this.
  You can't say things like that and then just walk out. It isn't fair." He
  turned slowly back and found himself staring into her eyes. Sud-
 denly they filled with tears. "It's     isn't it) I've
                     just an excuse, got it backward. You don't want me,"
                     she said flatly. "I'm too covered in filth. Because
                     of-" Her voice shook with contempt and loathing for
                     herself, and her cheeks burned once more. "Damn it,"
                     she said, and let herself fall onto the pillow.
  "Oh, Annie," he murmured helplessly and sat down again. "What in hell am I
  supposed to do?" He lifted her gently by the shoulders and pulled her
  toward him; she turned her unhappy face in his direction. Without pausing
  to think, he kissed her eyes, letting the salt of her tears linger for a
  moment on his tongue, and then brushed her lips tentatively with his own.
  He felt a tremendous shudder run through her; her lips swelled and softened
  in response, and her body pressed against him, melting into his. He
  released himself gently for a moment. "I've never wanted anyone or anything
  more desperately in my entire life," he said, his voice uncertain. He
  looked up at some invisible censor hovering above him. "Dammit, I tried.
  You can't say
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        20S

 I didn't try." Giving up at last, he pushed her nightgown up, running his
 hands over her with ferocious hunger. She raised her right arm and ducked
 out of the voluminous garment, sliding it awkwardly over the cast. He
 lowered her gently back down and regarded her for a moment. It was the
 first time he had allowed himself to see her as anything but a collection
 of hurt places and surfaces that needed to be kept clean and dry. In that
 gentle side light, casting its shadows across the planes of her body, she
 was awesomely beautiful. He ran an exploratory finger lightly between her
 breasts and down across her concave belly before standing up abruptly.
  She lay back, watching him with solemn eyes as he pulled off his boots
  and heavy sweater and struggled impatiently with shirt buttons and belt
  buckle.
  As much as he wanted to prolong gentle preliminaries, to prove to her,
  somehow, that his affection would wait for months if need be, his
  gallantry was a dismal failure. He tossed his clothes on the floor and
  slipped down beside her quietly, suddenly afraid of her pallor and
  fragility and determined again to hold back. It was a foolish notion. At
  his first tentative touch, she turned to him, energized with a fierceness
  he could not hope to withstand. She pulled him to her; he abandoned
  thought, consideration, technique. They clung to each other like drowning
  swimmers for a few brief minutes until her low-pitched sobbing cry and
  final spasm carried him along with her, and it was over. Then, guiltily,
  he tried to ease his weight away, but she fastened her lips on his and
  wrapped her arms more tightly around him. He fell to the side, carrying
  her with him, and she slowly released her grip. It occurred to him,
  looking over at her as he searched with one hand and his feet for the
  eiderdown to pull over her, that he had probably never made love with
  less finesse and skill in his life, or with more passion.
  She lay curled against his side, her plaster cast lying across his chest
  like a bandolier, and her head on his shoulder. "I
 206            MEDORA SALE

 was right. You really are beautiful," she said. "Especially with your
 clothes off. Much too elegant-looking for me, I'm afraid," she added, with
 a small noise that he finally identified as a giggle.
  "Well," he said, "handsome is as handsome does, as someone said. And you
  can't have been that impressed. Next time, I won't be so anxious."
  "Impressed?" She paused for a moment and hid her face in his shoulder.
  "This is the only time in my life someone has made love to me because I
  wanted him to." Her voice was almost too soft to hear. "It was ... it was
  a ... a revelation. I really didn't know what it could be like."
  "Are you serious, Grainne?" he said, raising himself up on his elbow to
  look at her.
 She nodded.
  "Well, I wasn't just doing you a favor. I wanted you so desperately, I
  couldn't think. And since I pride myself on my sophistication and
  technique, that's a very embarrassing confession to make. Next time will be
  better-we'll have all the time in the world to think about each other."
  "But all I wanted was you," she said. Then, with a sly sideways look, she
  added, "And how does it feel to be a sex object, Sergeant? Loved for your
  beautiful body and golden hair?"
  He half sat and looked down at her. "You're not badlooking yourself," he
  said, and found his voice beginning to do odd things on him again. "A
  little scrawny, maybe, and a trifle beat-up looking, but otherwise, the
  most beautiful woman I ever saw in my life."
 "Except for my hair."
  "Except for your hair. I hate that color. How long is it going to take you
  to grow it out?"
  "It might look better when I wash it-maybe. You want to try? Oh, Robin, can
  we? You'll have to help me, or I'll get my bandages wet. It'd be easy if we
  had a flexible shower head."
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       207

 "I think there is one," he said. "In the other bathroom." And so there they
 were. In the bathroom, with the heat turned up, and Grainne sitting on the
 floor on two folded towels, with Lucas kneeling beside her, distracted and
 amused to the breaking point by their nudity and the situation, holding the
 shower head and staring at her massive quantity of hair as it spilled into
 the tub. "Now what?" he asked.
  "Get it wet, you idiot," she said laughing. "Didn't you ever wash your
  hair? It's not sex-specific, you know. It's just hair." She reached out
  with her right arm and poked him in the ribs. "To work."
  "Okay. Here goes. Don't blame me if I mess it up." He began to wet the ends
  very cautiously; then with added confidence he worked his way up to her
  scalp.
  "That feels marvelous," she murmured. "I feel as if my hair hasn't been
  washed in years. Now get the shampoo," she added in a brisker, more
  practical voice. "Don't skimp-I have a lot of hair."
  He set down the shower head, flipped open the cap, and squeezed a long,
  sticky pink ribbon of shampoo smelling of herbs and nut oil onto her wet
  hair. He considered it a moment and squeezed another smaller ribbon onto a
  different place. "You're sure you want me to-"
  "Robin, I can't do it with one hand. And it's too late now. Once you begin,
  you have to finish it properly."
  He started with a tentative circling motion on top of her head; not much
  happened. He took a courageous breath and plunged his fingers into her
  hair, rhythmically rubbing her scalp, creating mountains of foam, which he
  coaxed farther and farther along her hair until they diminished to a
  trickle and dried up.
  He squeezed out more shampoo, picked up the curling strands-almost
  waist-length and almost straight under the weight of the water-and let them
  run through his soapy hands. Grainne dropped her head back even farther
  over
 208            MEDORA SALE

 the edge of the tub, stretching out her long pale throat; he bent over and
 kissed her, a warm, lingering, damp kiss, moving his hands up to massage her
 scalp. "Is that enough?" he asked at last, piling the sudsy mass up on top
 of her head.
 "Enough?"
 "Washing. Do you think your hair's clean?"
  "My hair," she said, startled. "I'd forgotten about it for a moment. It
  should be. Now rinse the hell out of it."
  "Yes, ma'am," he said. He picked up the shower head and looked at her. "If
  you got in the tub, with your cast over the side, and your bandaged foot
  over the back, I could give you a shower. Let me lift you in." Without
  waiting for a reply, he picked her up, set her carefully in the tub, and
  began running the warm water all over her.
  She lay back, her eyes closed, passive, motionless, and devoid of
  expression. He began to wonder if she had fallen asleep. "Don't forget my
  hair," she murmured at last. "Or it'll get dried out and sticky."
  He turned the water onto the piled-up mass on top of her head, watching
  mesmerized as it fell down, curl by curl. He brought the spray close to her
  scalp, driving the thick suds out. But as the shampoo ran off in streams of
  water, so did her hair color. Up to a point. A well-defined point, about
  six inches down each dripping lock. "Jesus," he said. "Annie, all the color
  is washing out of your hair."
  "Oh, that," she said. "That's just the black goop I put on to cover the
  roots. It washes out."
  "Your hair's brown." He said this flatly, almost accusingly.
  "I know it's brown. It's my hair, after all." She opened her eyes wide,
  prepared for battle. "What's wrong with brown hair?"
  He ignored the question. "What are you going to do with it?"
 "Do with it? What do you mean?"
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        209

 "Are you going to dye it again?"
  "No, I hate it that color. When the roots are long enough, I'll cut off
  the black ends."
  "You mean, like now. The roots are long enough now, Annie. just a
  minute."
  Fifteen minutes later Grainne Hunter was sitting in the living room, on
  her bed, wrapped in an eiderdown, and staring at herself in a small hand
  mirror. What she saw was a pair of gray eyes surrounded by an
  undisciplined mass of damp, light brown hair. At that moment, Robin came
  in with a paper bag, containing an enormous pile of wet black hair. "What
  would you like me to do with it?" he asked.
  "Let's start a fire-a really big fire-and burn it," said Grainne. "The
  end of Carl Neilson." A shadow flickered across her face. "And then eat.
  I am absolutely starved. Aren't you?"
  He knelt by the bed and took her hands, the one halfencased in plaster
  of paris and the long, slender one, and kissed them each in turn. "You
  are so beautiful, and funny, and clever, and sexy, I can't stand it. But
  yes. A huge fire, and a monstrous meal. And champagne, if I can find any.
  Because, my darling, you are never going to get rid of me. And if you
  won't marry me, I shall become one of those bachelors in evening clothes
  who goes to all of your concerts and sends you bushels of flowers, until
  I gradually fade away into a little pile of devoted dust." He let go her
  left hand and placed a silencing finger on her lips. "Don't say anything.
  I don't want to ruin this day with arguments. Besides, I have to start
  a fire."
         CHAPTER 15

 The late-afternoon sun poured through the only west-facing window that Lucas
 had left unshuttered. Yesterday's scarealthough in retrospect rather
 anticlimactic-had been salutary. It had reminded him that the castle
 drawbridge was worse than useless if you couldn't get it raised before the
 enemy rode in. Not every vehicle coming down that road was going to give ten
 minutes warning time of its approach. Nevertheless, he had risked building
 another fire in the baronial fireplace. And here they luxuriated, Rob
 propped up against the side of the sofa bed, Grainne stretched out beside
 him, her head on his lap, watching the flames, drowsy with satisfied desire.
  "We can't stay here forever, I'm afraid," said Rob, leaning over to brush
  her cheek with his lips.
  She yawned. "Why not? I mean, at least until your friend's sister-in-law
  comes back. Does anyone mind? Or is the food running out?"
  "It's not a question of anyone minding. It's a question of anyone finding
  out where we are. These beautiful fires are producing smoke for all the
  world to see. Our friend's ma could get suspicious and send out the
  cavalry." He tried to sound lighthearted and amused. "I have to get in
  touch with Toronto and find out what's going on."
  Her reaction was even worse than he had feared. She stiffened in alarm; he
  could feel her trembling, even though
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        211

 her voice was almost steady. "Does that mean you're plannIng to take me back
 to the city?"
  "Listen to me, Grainne. It's all right. We won't show our faces until
  they're all in jail--everyone who's after you. And if that means never,
  then never. We can go anywhere, you know. London, Paris. We don't have to
  stay in North America." He leaned over again and playfully ran a finger
  down her nose. "How does Oxford sound? I was thinking of going to Oxford
  once. Or Italy or Germany? Surely there must be superb vocal coaches all
  through Europe."
  Grainne pushed herself up on her good elbow and stared at him. A peculiar
  look crossed her face. "You make it sound so ... so plausible," she said.
  "As if one could just throw a few things in a bag and take off for Florence
  or London or Salzburg."
  "What's wrong with that? One can. Do you have a passport? Somewhere in that
  mess of stuff I brought along?"
  "Yes, I have a passport," she said crossly. "Of course. Not here. It's in
  my safe-deposit box. That's not the problem. Robin, my pet-and you are a
  pet, you know-what would we live on? You can't count on getting jobs over
  there, you know. There are all kinds of restrictions." He opened his mouth
  to respond, and she cut him off ruthlessly. "And don't tell me fellowships.
  They're chancy and take months to apply for. You've been too isolated
  working for the police force. Stuck in your little ivory tower with a
  government job and a regular pay check. You have no idea what it's like
  being poor-really poor. So poor, you can't pay your rent, you've got no
  cash to buy groceries, and you have no idea when the next check is coming
  in. It's souldestroying. You simply don't understand the financial reali-
  ties of this world." The tension had begun to seep out of her muscles as
  she talked. She lay down again and then flopped over on her belly, her chin
  resting on her good
 212            MEDORA SALE

 arm. He reached over and started to rub her neck and her shoulders.
  " I have some money," he said cautiously to the back of her head. "In the
  bank, I mean. Apart from my salary."
  "And how long would that last?" Her voice was slightly choked and muffled
  from the effects of the massage. "Oh, Robin, that's sweet of you-and I'd
  love to throw in my couple of thousand, and we could take a holiday and
  go to Europe, but in the end we'd have to come back and-"
  He straightened up, releasing his hold on her, and scratched his ear. "It
  should be enough to live on. Or it was the last time I looked."
  "Exactly how much money are we talking about?" said Grainne sharply,
  raising her head and looking suspiciously at him.
  "Well, something over a million." He paused and then went on very
  rapidly. "To be precise, it was a million and a half when I was
  twenty-one-which was when I got itand I haven't spent any of it, so the
  interest keeps being reinvested. And my grandfather left me some as well.
  It's probably quite a lot now. I don't bother looking at the statements."
  By this time Rob Lucas's face was scarlet.
  "A million and a half dollars!" Grainne looked appalled. "We are talking
  about dollars, aren't we, not pesos or lire?" He nodded, still red and
  uncomfortable-looking. "Why not spend any of it? And why are you living
  like an ordinary mortal when you've got all that cash?"
  "Well, first of all, you know, it's not that much money. And I didn't
  spend it because my father set the trust fund up for me, and I was
  furious at him at the time. It sounds very childish, doesn't it?"
 She stared at him without answering.
  He went on doggedly. "My mother had just left him, and I assumed that it
  was his fault. And then a couple of years later he married a
  thirty-year-old leggy blonde who thinks
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       213

 it's cute and funny to try and seduce me-and that made me even more
 furious."
  Grainne considered this outpouring of information and settled on one
  portion of it. "Was it your father's fault?"
  "I don't suppose so. Not entirely, anyway. I think my mother was bored. She
  went off and had herself rejuvenated, and now she bops around the
  Mediterranean with beautiful young men, looking terrific and having a
  wonderful time. Or so she says when she calls. She's terrified that I'll
  come to visit her-she's trying to pass herself off as under forty."
 "And that would be difficult with you around?"
  "Sure. It would have made her ten or twelve when I was born. And in answer
  to the question you didn't ask, I'm twenty-eight years old and in excellent
  health. I have a university degree (Trinity College, history); I have no
  neuroses or peculiarities except the ones you have already noticed. But I
  do have too much money, if that's a problem. And this is the first time in
  my life that I've been grateful for it, because it means that we really can
  go away-far awayuntil this country is safe for you."
  "Whatever made you Join the police force?" she asked, her eyes wide in
  amazement. "Instead of traveling around Europe or whatever it is rich
  people do."
  He turned to stare into the fire in embarrassment. "Bloody-mindedness, I
  guess. Everyone was so damned sure that I would go to law school or into
  the diplomatic or something nice and prestigious like that. You know-my
  son, the ambassador to Tehran," he said bitterly. "Because I wasn't stupid
  and did well at school. I couldn't think of any career that would shake up
  my parents more. At least, any career that appealed to me. And it did. It
  was fascinating." He stopped and looked with some alarm at the expression
  on her face. "Does it bother you?" he asked. "That I have all that money,
  I mean."
 214            MEDORA SALE

  "Yes, I think it does. Now I'll always wonder if I fell for you because
  you're rich-"
  "Nonsense. You fell for me against sense and better judgment when you
  thought I was just a dumb sergeant in the police force. And when I said I
  was going to marry you, you had visions of yourself with a string of
  babies, struggling along on a policeman's salary-which isn't as bad as you
  think, by the way-and lamenting your lost singing career. Don't deny it-I
  saw it all running across your face. Now you find out I'm rich, and you
  decide that you can't have me because it would be immoral. Come on,
  Grainne. I'm still the same person. There could be strings of babies if you
  wanted, only we could afford a nanny. And that would mean you could still
  study. Money's not all bad. And having spent a lot of time and energy
  chasing you all over the countryside, I am not anxious to let you go." By
  now he was breathless.
  "But why do you have to get in touch with Toronto? As soon as they hear
  from you they'll start searching even harder for us. For me."
  "Look, Grainne, you don't want to have to leave. All right? I've nothing
  against living in Europe if we want to, in fact, nothing against living in
  Europe if we have to, but the best solution is to dispose of the people who
  are after you. Legally." He took a deep breath and grasped her hand. "You
  must know something, Grainne, something that can get them caught and
  convicted-otherwise they wouldn't be so anxious to find you. If we can get
  that information back to the department, to the right people at the
  department-"
  "Who is it?" she asked quietly. "The wrong person in the police
  department?"
  "I don't know," he said, with a certain desperation in his voice. "But
  there's only one person who saw all my reports, who insisted on knowing
  everything I knew almost before I knew it-and getting around him is going
  to be a hell of a problem. But it can be done, if you'll tell me what you
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       215

 know. Grainne, if you didn't see anything, then what did you hear?"
  "Only gunfire. And then their voices when they were searching the
  apartment. They were sure I was there because of that stupid perfume and
  everything, but they didn't find me."
 "What did they talk about?"
  "Just that. The fact that I was there, and then they crashed around
  swearing because they couldn't find me."
 "Men?"
  She shivered. "I think so. Both of them. Although one was fairly short.
  Still, he moved like a man, I think. I'm not positive, though."
 "I thought you said you didn't see them?"
  "Not there. I saw them at the cabin. Their faces were covered with ski
  masks, but the one with the loud voice was a really big guy-as big as
  you, maybe bigger. The other was smaller. Thin build, maybe five foot
  nine."
 "Not that small."
  She shook her head. "Only in comparison with the first one. And he was
  strong. They both were."
  How strong was strong, compared to Grainne? Not very, he concluded.
  Irrelevant detail. He was getting nowhere, fast. "And they didn't say
  anything you can remember?"
 "They wanted to know what I had told you."
  "Me? Did they mention me by name?" His mind raced through the other
  people who had known he had interviewed her, trying to come up with one
  who was five nine and wiry.
  "I can't remember. I can't remember if they said your name or just called
  you the cop who interviewed me." She rolled over and looked up at him
  with a worried frown. "Sorry."
  "That's okay." He smoothed her forehead with a gentle hand. "Did they say
  anything else?"
 She shook her head.
 216             MEDORA SALE

  "Well, how about Neilson? Maybe he said something. Was he expecting them to
  turn up?"
  She closed her eyes. When they opened again, they were suspiciously damp,
  but she was looking at him with steady calm. "Something was going on that
  afternoon."
 He opened his mouth to ask, and she raised a hand.
  "Let me just tell you what I can remember before you interrupt me. Now, it
  was something big. Because there was champagne in the refrigerator. I'd
  never seen him be that extravagant before. And he was in a wild mood,
  prancing around like a billy goat, pleased as hell with himself. He brought
  a huge wad of money out of his pocket right after he poured the wine and
  peeled off twenty-five hundred dollars in fifty- and hundred-dollar bills.
  He told me to put it toward my pension, and then he laughed like crazy. I
  shoved it in my skirt pocket, and he thought that was pretty funny, too."
  She paused for a moment, staring into the fire before recommencing. "And
  then he said that he was getting the last installment on his pension that
  afternoon as well, and he hoped that I would spend mine as happily as he
  was going to spend his. Which I took to mean that he had a very big deal
  closing that afternoon. Money affected him like that. He hadn't touched his
  wine, and already he-was higher than a kite. I think that was all, except
  that when they knocked on the door, he told me to hide in the bathroom. He
  didn't want them to know there was anyone in the apartment with him. The
  rest you know." She turned her head away to avoid his eyes.
  Lucas thought of the tangled bedclothes and the thick reddened lips of the
  corpse. What she had told him was far from all; he was profoundly grateful
  for that.
  "Why did he call it a pension?" he asked, hastening to break the thickening
  silence growing between them.
  Grainne's voice had become brittle; she propped her head up on her arm and
  stared ahead of her into the fire. "I don't know. I didn't think about it
  at the time, and I've
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       217

 been trying very hard not to think about it since. A pension. I assumed he
 was referring to the amount."
 "Could he have been giving you the golden handshake?"
  Her head swiveled in his direction; her eyes widened in surprise for a
  moment, and then she giggled suddenly. "Firing me? With two months' pay in
  lieu of notice? What a bizarre thought. I suppose he could have been.
  Farewell performance, lights out, and it's back to auditions on Monday?
  When you put it that way, it's quite possible."
  "It sounds as though he was expecting someone to turn up with a huge amount
  of money, and then he was planning to take off. Somewhere pleasant. But
  not, thank God, with you." He picked up her hands. "Grainne, let me ask
  this one thing-and then, I swear, I'll never mention it again. just tell me
  why you got involved with him. If you know."
 "You really want to know?"
 He nodded.
  "And you'd never mention it again?" Her voice was heavy with scorn. "It
  wouldn't be your favorite subject every time you're angry or irritated?"
 "I'm positive," he said calmly.
  "Well," she said, an edge of doubt creeping into her voice, "if you want me
  to talk about it, I suppose I'd better get it over with." She turned her
  head away from his gaze and then grabbed a blanket to pull defensively over
  her. "I certainly know why I did it," she said flatly. "I was broke, I owed
  two months' rent, and my father had died. As far as I could see, I was
  facing stark poverty, and there was no one, basically, to ask for help."
  "That's not true," said Lucas. "You weren't thinking clearly. There are an
  awful lot of people trying to help you." He raised his hand to prevent her
  from commenting. "No, just listen to me for a minute. I have a whole lot of
  messages for you, and what with one thing and another, I forgot to pass
  them on. But Mrs. Dubchek wants you back at the Faculty-she swears that
  there are grants just waiting for
 218            MEDORA SALE

 you to pick up. Your singing coach is devastated that you've disappeared
 and wants you to come back and start working again and stop worrying. Mr.
 Hennessy sounded as if he and his wife wanted to adopt you. I have a
 helluva lot of competition from other people wanting to look for you."
  Tears welled up once more in Grainne's eyes, and she shook her head. "I
  was scared. I was frightened that I'd end up waiting on tables or working
  in a store, too tired to practice or go to class, and I'd have thrown
  away years of work and hopes-everything. Anyway, Mrs. Neilson brought
  Carl to see a production of Lulu that I was in-"
  "In which you sang the lead," added Rob. "Brilliantly. I've been
  researching you."
  She blushed. "And there was a party afterward for the patrons-apparently
  Mrs. Neilson had donated a lot of money to the Faculty, and so they were
  invited, of course. I don't suppose Carl liked music that much, but he
  really went batty over the Lulu costume, including that horrible hair
  color. He asked me out to lunch and made me this incredible offer. It was
  like something out of a nineteenthcentury opera. I didn't know things
  like that still happened. Anyway, it seemed to be the answer to all my
  problems. Lots of money-by my standards, if not by yours-and limited
  demands on my time. What I didn't know," she added bitterly, "was that
  Carl Neilson's money poisoned everything it paid for. I couldn't sing,
  not while I was dependent on him. I tried to explain that to him," she
  added in an uncertain voice, "but he seemed to feel we had some sort of
  unbreakable contract, and he just kept sending Cassidythe chauffeur-to
  get me." She stopped and took a deep breath. "There's one other thing I
  want to do." She sat up, allowing the blanket to fall to her lap, and
  gestured impatiently over at a chair where Lucas had thrown her large
  leather purse. "Could you get me that?"
  Lucas walked over, picked up the purse, and handed it to her. She
  unzipped the wide opening and took out a
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        219

 smaller purse. From it she pulled a roll of bills. "There it is," she
 said. "I kept it because I was frightened, and I thought I might need it
 to get away again. But it paid for the motel room where I was almost
 caught, and for the groceries at the cabin, and look what happened there."
 She looked intently at him. "Do you swear you won't leave me up here?
 Because once I'm in the city I can look after myself. Swear?"
 He nodded, speechless.
  "Then throw it in the fire. It belongs with the hair. It's cursed, that
  money, and if I gave it away, it would just wreck the person I gave it
  to. Please."
  "With or without the elastic band?" he asked, taking the roll as coolly
  as if he frequently kindled fires with hundreddollar bills.
  "Without. That was mine." Her face cracked in a half smile. "Besides, it
  would smell."
  He took off the elastic band and tossed the money into the heart of the
  dying fire. It blazed up merrily for a moment or two and then died away.
  He reached for another log and covered the place where it had been.
  "Good-bye forever, Carl Neilson, you slimy, vicious bastard," said
  Grainne, staring into the blaze. Sitting there, unselfconsciously naked
  to the waist, she looked like a bizarrely ripe ten-year-old, performing
  some childish, solemn rite, and his heart ached in sympathy. She turned
  to Lucas, her face grave and composed. "And now you'll never know whether
  I made that beautiful and heartrending gesture because I really am a
  wonderful woman who doesn't give a damn about money, or whether I was
  just trying to impress the hell out of you because I found out you were
  rich."
  "Mercenary little bitch," he said, kneeling beside her and catching her
  in his arms. "Now that you are penniless and at my mercy, I shall take
  you to my castle in the country and lock you up with my other wives." He
  smothered her
 220            MEDORA SALE

 giggles with his lips. "I think," he said, as he came up for air, "that
 I'll close the shutters, raise the drawbridge, lower the portcullis, and
 shut out the world. We don't want to be disturbed, do we?"
 1i No," she murmured. "We don't."

 By ten o'clock Monday morning, Lucas had been up for four hours, trying
 to restore the cottage to the state of cleanliness and order that Susie
 would expect. At nine he had awakened Grainne, who showed signs of
 possessing an unlimited capacity for sleep, now that she was recovering,
 and they had eaten the last of the bacon and frozen waffles from the
 Buchanans' freezer. He had given Susie's list one last check in reverse,
 torn a page from his notebook, and written quite simply, "Dear Mr. and
 Mrs. Buchanan. Someday I will thank you in a better fashion. I hope this
 will reimburse you for everything we used. R.L." He had slipped it with
 five hundred dollars into an envelope he had found in a drawer.
  While he had been looking around for a place to set the envelope, Grainne
  had limped in from the bedroom, cautiously allowing her weight to settle
  on the heel of her injured foot. She had stopped in front of him, fully
  dressed, a hiking boot on one foot, heavy sock on the other, her cane
  clutched in her hand, and tears in her eyes. "I'm ready," she had said,
  in tones of one standing under the guillotine.
 "What's wrong?"
  "I don't want to leave. I've been so happy these last few days. I never
  knew I could-" The tears threatened to spill over. "Why do we have to go
  back now?"
  "Sit down," he had said quickly, afraid that the wave of sentimentality
  generated by her words would engulf him completely. "We have to. And
  that's why. So we can be happy. Everywhere. Not just here." He knelt on
  the floor
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        221

 to bring himself to her level and placed his hands on her knees. "Grainne,
 I'll go mad if I have to live with the thought that someone is- No. Let me
 say it this way. I want you to be able to stand on a stage anywhere without
 worrying that someone wants to kill you. If I don't succeed, then so be
 it-I'll hide you as well as anyone was ever hidden. But I have to try. God,
 that sounds melodramatic," he said bitterly. "But dammit, that's what it
 is." He stood up again. "I'll get the car started and then come and get
 you." And he rushed out. Once the car was warm, he came back in, gathered
 her up in his arms, and carried her out, just as he had carried her in so
 many ages before.
  And now he was looking for the least conspicuous route back to the city.
  The car and its license plates were bound to be on everyone's wish list;
  any passing local or provincial patrol car might notice them and have some
  dim memory that they were of interest. Grainne sat silent beside him, taut
  and apprehensive, staring out over the brown, muddy landscape of early
  spring.
  They crested a rise; there was a tiny hamlet in front of them with a shabby
  store and an outside telephone. "I think I had better make some phone
  calls," said Lucas.
 "Who to?" She looked ready to run at any moment.
  "I'm looking for another quiet, pleasant, and very safe place to stash you,
  my love," he said, as he slowed down and pulled over onto the concrete in
  front of the store. "So I don't have to worry about you." He smiled and
  dropped a kiss on her forehead before getting out. In two minutes he was
  back. "There," he said. "Easier than I expected."
 "Where are you taking me?" she asked fearfully.
  "Into the bosom of my family, so to speak. Than which there is no place
  safer, I assure you."
 "In Toronto?"
 "Where else?"
 "We'll never get that far. They'll be looking for us."
 222            MEDORA SALE

  "Very true. Which is why in an hour or so we will pick up another car
  which will discreetly transport us into the city. Don't worry."

 Ed Dubinsky picked up the telephone and identified himself with a yawn.
 "Yeah, that's right," he said and paused. "How long have they been there?"
 he asked. A certain alertness was beginning to creep into his voice. "No,"
 he said after a while, "leave them. We'll pick them up." He dropped the
 phone down again and turned to John Sanders. "That was Mr. Sigurdson from
 the hotel," he said. "He wants to know what to do with Carl Neilson's
 suitcases. They've been sitting there since the day he was murdered."
  "Jesus," muttered Sanders. "And no one mentioned them?"
  "Apparently not. Didn't think they were interesting enough, I guess. The
  chauffeur dropped them off with the deskman, and they're still there."
 "For chrissake, didn't someone interview the chauffeur?"
  "Must have," said Dubinsky. "All the help was interviewed first off. just
  a minute-I'll get it."
  cc Okay," said Dubinsky five minutes later. "The chauffeur was
  interviewed the day after Neilson was killed-"
 :,who byr
  'Pat Kelleher. Here it is: 'I drove Mr. Neilson to the office at
  ten-thirty, and we got there at eleven-fifteen. At twelve-thirty I drove
  him to lunch and picked him up again when he called. That was at one
  forty-five. I drove him to the Karlsbad Hotel. He didn't need me to come
  get him. I was supposed to pick up the kid from school instead. I often
  did this when Mrs. Neilson was busy.' And that's all there is. Not very
  informative, is it? And no mention of any suitcases."
  "I want to talk to that chauffeur. And send someone over to the hotel to
  find out what's in those damned suitcases."
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        223

 Sanders walked into the interview room and was met by a lazy stare from
 the tall man lounging by the table. "Joe Cassidy, Neilson's driver," said
 the constable tersely. "You want me here?"
  "Don't bother. Ed's on his way. Okay, Mr. Cassidy. What else happened the
  day Neilson died that you didn't bother putting in your statement?" He
  dropped the offending document on the table. "Besides the carful of
  suitcases."
  "Suitcases?" His voice quivered with contemptuous wonder. "What about
  them? Mrs. Howard packed the suitcases, like she always does-"
  "So Mr. Neilson did take luggage with him when he went to Florida?" asked
  Sanders with a touch of muted triumph. So much for Miss Cavanaugh. "Those
  were his suitcases?"
 "Huh? Yeah. Of course. And the kid's. He was going, too,"
 "Did Mrs. Neilson know about that?"
  He shrugged. "How should I know? She wasn't around when Liz-Mrs.
  Howard-was doing the packing. But she sure didn't act like he was going
  away for a week. So maybe she didn't. What the hell, she never knew what
  was going on. Talk about out of it." His gesture indicated just how far
  off the planet his boss's wife was, in his estimation. "Anyway, I put
  them in the car and gave them to Len-he was on the desk-after I dropped
  Mr. Neilson off. He was going to take a limo to the airport and I was
  supposed to bring the kid. From school."
  "So how come you never took the kid to the airport?" said Dubinsky.
 "They called me and told me not to."
 "Who called you?" asked Sanders.
  "I dunno. Someone from the office called on the car phone."
 "And you didn't check?"
 "Why the hell should I? Mr. Neilson was always changing
 224            MEDORA SALE

 his mind. And the call had to come from the office. No one else knew the car
 phone number. Mr. Neilson never gave it out to people. So I just went and
 got Mark at three-thirty and took him home. I never thought about those
 suitcases, though. I should've gone back and gotten them."
  "And why in hell didn't you admit all this to the officer who interviewed
  you?" asked Sanders, irritated. "It might have helped."
 "Why should I? He never asked."

 That hour was one of the most nerve-racking of Lucas's life. Twice they
 passed a patrol car and were unable to tell whether they had been noticed or
 not. Anxiety pressed at him to speed; fear nagged at him to slow down.
 Either course would draw attention to them, and he drove at a steady hundred
 kilometers an hour through the countryside, easing back to fifty without
 fail for every village. At last he came to the crossroad he was looking for.
 There she sat, in her new red Jaguar, a scarf over her head, buffing her
 nails with the air of one who has all the time in the world. He pulled up
 behind her. "Wait here," he said to Grainne, jumped out, and began to pull
 their luggage from the backseat.
  A tall, mink-coated vision in dark glasses and green boots stepped out of
  the jag. She waved cheerfully in their direction and opened the trunk. Rob
  Lucas slung his bag and Grainne's duffel bag in and slammed it shut,
  turning back to fetch her. He lifted her, protesting, out of the front
  seat. "Tricia, I'd like you to meet Grainne Hunter," he said, gravely
  presenting her. "Grainne, my stepmother. And I don't think we'd better hang
  around here much longer."
  "This is so exciting," said Tricia, as she put the car in gear and skidded
  off the shoulder at a ferocious pace. "I've never helped fugitives from
  justice before. What did you
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        22S

 do?" she asked, glancing over at Grainne, who was sitting beside her in
 the front seat.
  "She didn't do anything," said Rob, leaning forward between them. "She's
  just a witness. And if you don't slow down, we'll be stopped for
  speeding, and that'll be it as far as both of us are concerned." He
  slouched back down in the rear seat.
  "Well, all right. And someday you'll have to explain to me in words of
  one syllable why it is that a policeman and someone who is just a witness
  are hiding from the police. Because I really don't see it. But if you say
  so, sweetheart, it must be true. Robin," she said, turning to Grainne
  again, 66never tells lies. It's one of his most disagreeable characteris-
  tics. If you've been spending a lot of time with him lately, I suppose
  you've discovered that already. He's like what'shis-name, with the ax and
  the cherry tree. You ask him what he thinks of a dress, and he tells you
  it makes you look like a scarecrow that died last week sometime. And of
  course, he's always right. That's what's so awful. Anyway, I'm so glad
  he called me-I really am, you know," she called back to the rear seat,
  "because Bertle-that's my husband, Robin's father-well, Bertle's gone off
  to Switzerland to ski or count his money or something and left me here,
  and I was getting bored. What do you do?" she asked Grainne suddenly,
  just as she was making a rapid left turn and then a right in order to
  swoop onto the expressway.
  Grainne shut her eyes as the car darted into a tiny space between a truck
  and a van, to the accompaniment of loud horn-honking. In the momentary
  silence, Lucas filled in, "She's a-"

  "I'm a graduate student," she said firmly. "At the Faculty of Music.
  Opera school. I should have finished this spring, but I took a year off.
  I'll be going back in the fall."
 "How exciting," said Tricia. "A singer. I love opera. The
 226             MEDORA SALE

 only trouble with it is that Bertie keeps falling asleep-especially during
 Wagner. It goes on for so long, you know. And if I poke him to wake him
 up, then he jumps and starts applauding and everyone glares at him. Very
 embarrassing. Maybe you'd like to come with me instead. What a brilliant
 idea. Let's do it. I promise I don't hum, and I'm very careful not to
 applaud in the wrong places, and we have absolutely wonderful seats."
  "Tricia," said Lucas. It was a warning growl, a grimness in his voice
  that Grainne hadn't heard before. "Shut up and stop harassing Grainne.
  She's been through enough already."
  "She's not harassing me," said Grainne. "Offering me a ticket to the
  opera hardly constitutes harassment."
  "That just proves how innocent you are. Survive that, and she'll start
  asking you to family parties-"
 :'And knitting? Are you the person who knits?"
  'That's me," said Tricia, changing lanes to pass a truck on the left, two
  cars on the right, and then another truck on the left. "I love knitting,
  and Bertie hates thick wool sweaters. They make him itch, he says. And
  they're too hot. So I knit for Robin. I keep hoping my little sister will
  get married and have some children-then I can shower them with booties
  and little sweaters with bears on them. And, Robin, speaking of sweaters,
  there's a sweatshirt back there. Fold it up and put it under Grainne's
  head. She might as well take a little nap while we're getting there."

 "Are you sure?" asked Harriet, looking up at the stuccoed front and
 blinking neon sign that announced the restaurant La Celestina. "I didn't
 realize they actually served food here. Isn't it one of those places where
 you rent a plastic hamburger to leave on your table in case the dive gets
 raided?"
  "You're hopelessly out of it, Harriet. No one does that anymore. I can
  guarantee that there really is lunch, cooked by a real live chef, and
  served by real waitresses with sore
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        227

 feet and at least three kids each. Anyway, we have no choice. I told
 Dubinsky to meet us here."
  Addie greeted them with muted warmth. "Morning, Inspector," she said. "You
  here to eat or ask questions?"
  "Eat, mostly," said Sanders. "We're expecting my partner. If you happen to
  notice him, send him over."
  "He's hard to miss. By the way, what in hell did you say to Randy?" she
  asked, leading them to a quiet table in the corner. "Tips doubled over the
  weekend. You must've put the fear of God in him."
  "I think he's just considering the error of his ways," said Sanders. "We'll
  have an Amstel. Each, that is. And what's worth eating today?"
  Harriet watched until Addie was out of earshot and turned to John. "What
  was the waitress talking about?"
  "Oh, that. Randy was skimming tips. We just sort of prodded him, that's
  all. Nothing much. He seems to scare easy. It's nice Addie's getting her
  money."
 "He's the bookkeeper."
  "Right. And if cash is being skimmed wholesale out of this operation, Randy
  has to know about it."
  "Is cash being skimmed? And why does he have to know about it? Maybe he
  just keeps everything straight from this end-so much coming in every day,
  so much going out in food and heat and light and salaries and whatever. He
  hands the balance over. And then Neilson gets his hands on it and grabs a
  huge chunk instead of putting it in the bank. Easy. And so poor little
  Randy is innocent of anythingexcept cheating Addle and the rest of them out
  of their tips, of course," she added uneasily.
  "Right. Skim tips today, skim entire operations tomorrow. Anyway, he used
  to be a big-time embezzler. And I want to know why Neilson hired him. Would
  you hire an embezzler to do your books and handle all the cash from a
  profitable operation? No, you'd have to be crazy. But he wanted someone
  with experience. In fraud. One question is,
 228            MEDORA SALE

 did he want Randy because he could recognize fraud? Or perpetrate it? The
 other one is, when you hire a crocodile to protect you, how do you keep it
 from eating you first? Which leads me to wonder if Neilson had something
 very big on him, to keep him in line." He waved in the direction of Ed
 Dubinsky, who was threading his way through the tables in their direction.
 "And that makes me wonder what Randy was doing on the afternoon that Neilson
 was killed."
  "Was Neilson a blackmailer?" asked Harriet. "Along with everything else?"
 Sanders nodded.
  "Who was he blackmailing?" asked Harriet. "That you know of?"
  Sanders opened his mouth and suddenly thought of the pictures of
  Lydia-Harriet's friend Lydia-in bed with two men and a boy. But Dubinsky
  and Addie arrived simultaneously, saving him from having to answer. Sanders
  turned to Addie as she handed his partner a menu. "Was Randy here the
  afternoon Mr. Neilson was murdered?"
  Addle paused for a moment. "Sure. Well, most of the time, as far as I know.
  He was here at lunchtime, and then he must have gone out for a while.
  Couldn't tell you when. I only remember because Mr. Horvath was looking for
  him that afternoon. There was a major screwup on the ordering, and we
  needed him. I called the office, and they didn't know where he was-maybe
  doing something for Mr. Neilson. We even thought about closing. Not because
  of Mr. Neilson's death or anything. No one gave a damn about Mr. Nellson,"
  she added, lowering her voice, "but because we'd run out of stuff, head
  office was going crazy, and we needed authorization to buy emergency
  supplies. The chef was ready to quit."
 "But you opened."
  "Yeah. The chef went into the till, took all the cash, and sent the busboy
  out to a supermarket. Problem solved. Horvath worries about doing
  everything according to proce-
           SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        229

 dure. You know. Randy got back in time to straighten things out anyway."
 She paused. "I don't know what was going on at head office earlier, but
 it can't have been because of Mr. Neilson. They called Randy to let him
 know what happened just before we opened. Between five and five-thirty."
 "So Randy was in and out. How about Mr. Horvath?"
  Addle looked shocked. "Mr. Horvath was here all day. He's always here.
  Except when he was out shopping with the busboy, of course. But no-he was
  here."
  Sanders looked over at the impeccable elegance of the manager and
  wondered. "Have the corned beef sandwich, Ed," he said gloomily. "It's
  Monday, the chef's hung over, and the goulash didn't turn out."
  "Okay-and a beer," he said to Addie's retreating back. "According to Miss
  Cavanaugh, no one called the chauffeur and told him not to pick up Mark
  Neilson. The only people who ever dealt with the chauffeur-who even knew
  the telephone number-were Cavanaugh, that bitchy receptionist, a person
  they called the office manager, and maybe Randy West. I got that same
  story from everyone, by the way. But remember, the chauffeur wasn't sure,
  but he thought probably it was a woman who called. I asked all of them,
  including West, and they all said that it was the last thing on their
  minds when they found out about Neilson's death. Which, by the way,
  wasn't until just before five. And the chauffeur must've gotten that call
  before three-thirty, when school gets out, or he would have driven Mark
  Neilson to the airport when he picked him up. And before three-thirty,
  we didn't even have the identification of the corpse. So that call-if it
  existed-came from whoever shot Carl Neilson."
 "Where does that leave us?"
  "Okay. No one called the chauffeur, no one around this place was thinking
  of anything but food, and no one at the office knows anything about
  anything. That leaves us with Mr. Neilson, or Lucas's girl in the
  apartment. She seems to
 230            MEDORA SALE

 me to be the likeliest candidate. She was there, her prints are all over the
 place, her prints are all over the other girl's apartment, and she's
 disappeared with one of the investigating officers."
 "And where is he?"
  "Dead," said Dubinsky flatly. "Probably didn't expect any girl to be that
  dangerous. Nice guy, but he had his limitations, you know. No respect for
  the power of women."
 "Then who called the chauffeur?"
  "No one. The chauffeur and the girl are in it together. He probably picked
  her up lots of times, got to know her. That's where the weapon's gone. He
  took it away, and as soon as he was safely gone, she called us."
 "Motive?"
  Dubinsky shrugged his shoulders. "Money. Probably. How do we know there
  wasn't another suitcase stuffed with it that he hung on to? They keep
  telling us Neilson's cash is disappearing-well, that's where it went."
  Sanders pushed his sandwich away and picked up his beer glass. "Not very
  plausible."
 "Why not?" asked Harriet.
  "Why in hell would anyone in her right mind help to commit a murder and
  then, before the corpse has stopped twitching, call in a report on it? And
  if the girl and the chauffeur had the money, they would have disappeared
  together. We would never have laid eyes on either one."
  "Not if they wanted to go on living in the city," objected Dubinsky
  stubbornly. "As soon as they took off, the whole world would be out looking
  for them."
  "Anyway, I just can't see Lucas dead somewhere in a snowbank. Or being part
  of it, either. And your crazy theory doesn't take into account the report
  from the motel."
  "If that was Lucas," said Dubinsky. "And even if he was traveling around
  with her for a while, all she had to do was wait until he fell asleep. We
  haven't had a whisper about
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       231

 him for a week or two. And they're looking for him all over the place."
  "Three coffees," called Sanders in the direction of the tired-looking
  waitress. "You have a point. And we'd better start taking the chauffeur
  apart on that phone call."

 Grainne woke up as the jag pulled to a stop in front of a three-story
 warehouse on King Street West. "Where are we?" she asked, looking
 nervously around.
  "When did you two meet?" asked Tricia. "It's home, sort of. Okay, Robin,
  love. We're here. Any special instructions?"
  "Just don't let anyone know who she is, don't leave her alone, and don't
  let anyone, especially the police, into the apartment." He leaned forward
  and caught Grainne by the shoulder. "Take care of yourself. Don't call
  me, just in case. I'll be in touch. You're much safer with Tricia than
  you are with me right now."
  Tricia got out of the car and walked around to the trunk, opened it with
  elaborate care, and scuffled noisily about inside for Lucas's suitcase.
  He pressed his cheek against Grainne's. "Stay hidden," he said hoarsely.
  "I'm not sure I'd survive if anything happened to you." He let go
  abruptly and jumped out of the car. Grainne turned to watch him stride
  casually up an alley beside the warehouse.
  "What if they're watching for him?" she asked in panicky voice as Tricia
  got back in the car.
  "He said it doesn't matter. But he doesn't live here. His apartment's up
  on Adelaide Street. He just didn't want them seeing this car with you in
  it." Tricia gave her a comforting pat on the knee, put the car in gear
  and made a rapid and heart-stopping U-turn.
  Minutes later, Tricia pulled up in front of a soaring building down by
  the waterfront. She jumped out, tossing the
 232            MEDORA SALE

 keys to the doorman. "My cousin's gear is in the trunk," she said. "Could
 you have it brought up?"
  "Certainly, Mrs. Lucas." He didn't twitch a muscle as Tricia opened the
  door and assisted a woman with one boot on and the other in her hand up the
  stairs and into the building.
  The elevator took them directly to the top floor. Grainne limped into a
  huge apartment and sat gratefully down on an enormous chesterfield that
  gave her a view of the lake; Tricia tossed her coat onto a chair and sat
  down near her. "It's getting late," she said. "We'll have some lunch, and
  then we'll put you to bed for the time being. You look very tired." She
  turned and called over her shoulder. "Mrs. Henderson. "
  An efficient-looking woman in a white uniform appeared In the doorway.
  "Yes, Mrs. Lucas?"
  "Something nice for lunch for my cousin as soon as you can manage it,
  please. And would you call Mrs. Kovacs and say that I am much too ill to
  attend the meeting this afternoon? I think we should put Miss Hunter in the
  small bedroom-it's quiet and cheerful. She'll be staying for a few days."
  As soon as she left, Tricia turned back, kicked off her shoes, and curled
  herself up in the corner of the chesterfield. "I'm so glad Robin called
  me," she said. "It's not easy being a stepmother to someone who's
  practically your own age, you know. This is the first time he's ever let me
  do anything for him."
  "Except knit him sweaters," said Grainne. "It's a beautiful sweater. He let
  me borrow it once when I was very cold."
  Tricia laughed. "You can't mother someone who's twentyeight, can you? I've
  tried treating him like any other male friend, but that doesn't seem to
  work, either. So I knit."
  just as Grainne was opening her mouth to explain to Mrs. Lucas how her
  stepson viewed her offers of friendship, a heady smell of rich soup drifted
  in from the dining room
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       233

 and wisdom prevailed. "That smells wonderful," she said. "I'm absolutely
 starved."

 "No, he can't call me back. I'll call him later." Rob Lucas slammed the
 telephone receiver down. He looked at his watch. One-thirty. The bored
 voice at the other end of the line had told him that Inspector Sanders had
 gone to Freyfields to interview Mrs. Neilson "a little while ago." He
 tapped his thumb against his upper lip and considered his options. Was it
 worth driving out to Freyfields on the chance that Sanders would still be
 there, and could be reasoned with, before this whole thing got even more
 desperately out of control? It was risky. He had borrowed Kelleher's name
 to make the call, but his voice on the telephone had probably been
 recognized. Someone in the department was probably figuring out right now
 what Lucas was likely to do, and would turn up at the estate to pick him
 up. But as long as Lucas had an opportunity to talk to the inspector
 first, it didn't matter so much. He would chance it.
  But first, he needed a car. He looked uneasily at his telephone. If they
  were monitoring his calls ... He slipped down the stairs, out the back
  entrance, and into the back door of the restaurant behind the building.
  "Hi, Lum," he said with his usual casualness. "A sandwich to go-anything
  that's fast-while I'm telephoning." He walked out of the kitchen and
  around to the pay phone beside the washrooms.
  Tricia had no objections to lending him the jag. "I've got Bertie's car.
  I really don't need two. Where shall I drop it off? And don't worry, Mrs.
  Henderson's here. She won't let anyone near Grainne."
  Eight minutes later the jag screeched to a halt at the corner of King and
  Bathurst. Tricia leapt out, leaving it running, and before Rob had a
  chance to say anything, she had one elegant arm in the air, flagging down
  a cab. " 'Bye,
 234            MEDORA SALE

 love," she called, as she climbed into the taxi that had miraculously
 appeared, "see you later."

 Lydia Neilson appeared behind him as he stood in front of her door,
 waiting. "I thought I heard someone," she remarked. "Come on. I'm in the
 stable." He followed her numbly around the house, convinced that coming
 here was a mistake; Sanders was nowhere in sight. "Now, what do you want?"
 she asked, as they walked slowly around the paddock. "I was under the
 impression that you had murdered Carl and were on the run. If you did, by
 the way, you have my profoundest gratitude-but I don't suppose you've come
 to be thanked."
  He stopped, leaning against the white fence. "Is that what they're saying
  about me?" he asked, unsurprised.
  "According to Marty Fielding," she said. "Of course, Marty is a mine of
  gossip and half-truths. It doesn't do to take him seriously. But he does
  report what people are saying-he doesn't give a damn if it's true or not.
  You've replaced me as everyone's favorite murderer."
  Lucas shook his head. "I didn't kill your husband, Mrs. Neilson, and I
  don't suppose you did, either, but someone thinks that I-" He was
  interrupted by the sound of car engines.
  Lydia Neilson's head swiveled in the direction of the driveway. "Just a
  minute," she said, holding up a hand. She ran lightly over to the edge
  of the house. In a second or two she was back and reached out a hand to
  grab his. "Come on," she said. "To the stable."
 "What?" he asked, scrambling to follow her.
  "It's your friends from the police department. Two carloads of them.
  Perhaps they heard you were here."
 "Jesus," he muttered breathlessly. "Where-"
  "Into the woods," she said. "You can't get a car onto the bridle paths."
  She flung open the door, and the spring
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        235

 light flooded in on the restless figure of the enormous gray gelding. "He's
 ready to go-you caught me just before I took him out. You'll need boots,"
 she said, in horror, looking at his running shoes. As she spoke, she
 rummaged in the tack room, appearing seconds later carrying a pair of boots
 and a hat. "Here, quick. They're Carl's, but they should fit well enough. As
 soon as you get far enough away, just dismount, hitch up the reins and give
 him a slap. He'll come home. He did it often enough when he threw Carl."
  As her voice ran on in an urgent, breathy whisper, she was lengthening the
  stirrup leathers; he was pulling off his running shoes, stuffing them in
  his pockets, yanking on Carl Neilson's boots-a little large-and cramming
  the hat-a little small-on his head. "Ready," he said.
  Lydia ran to the door. As soon as she opened it, a voice called out across
  the paddock. "Anyone home? Mrs. Neilson?"
  "You'll have to mount in here. Duck as you go out. Hurry up!"
  In an automatic movement he had almost forgotten, Rob grasped the saddle,
  settled his foot, and vaulted onto the gelding. It snorted with
  disapproval.
  " 'Bye, Achilles," Lydia said brightly. "Show us what you can do." Her slap
  on the gelding's rump sent him scrambling precipitously out of the stable.
  Rob's leg muscles quivered as they adjusted themselves to his mount; it had
  been five or six years since he had ridden, and for a few moments he felt
  disoriented and awkward. Then Achilles swerved and headed at a canter
  toward a grass-covered primitive road that ran between a meadow and
  woodland behind the stable. At that moment a roar of rage or excitement
  echoed from behind him, and even under Carl Neilson's hat and above the
  steady beat of Achilles' hooves, he recognized that voice. Baldwin.
  The grassy track ended at the back of the meadow, where it intersected with
  a narrow bridle path. He had a moment
 236            MEDORA SALE

 of panic; there were woods in every direction. Lydia had neglected to tell
 him which way to go. He tried to pull Achilles up a little to give himself
 time to think. Then engine noise and a quick glance behind him told him that
 Baldwin was coming as far as he could in a car. A loud blast of the car
 horn, and the issue was decided. Achilles started, half reared, and took the
 left fork.

 The path then veered sharply to the right; as Achilles rounded the bend at
 a canter, they were suddenly on top of a file of three novices, whose mounts
 were moving at a bone-crushing trot. Their riders bounced painfully with a
 precarious lack of connection to saddle or horse. The one in the rear had
 lost a stirrup; her back was already eloquent with panicked insecurity when
 Achilles snorted and barreled past them, crowding the three bored horses
 over to the verge. A howl of despair told Lucas what had happened; he reined
 in to make sure that he had not created a disaster and looked back in time
 to see Baldwin, red-faced and panting, snatch the bay mare with the awkward
 gait from its fallen rider and mount.
  "Lucas," he yelled. "Get off that goddamn horse and come back here. You're
  under arrest, you bastard."
  Without thinking for a moment of the consequences of his actions, Lucas
  bent over Achilles' arching neck and spoke into the ear that was cocked
  back to catch the excitement behind them. "Come on, Achilles," he murmured.
  "Let's move." And he dug his heels with their nonexistent spurs in the
  gelding's side for an instant. Achilles lowered his head, stretched out his
  body and broke into a fast, relaxed gallop. Lucas glanced back. The bay
  mare, resentful of her new and heavier burden, was resisting the invitation
  to race.
  Suddenly up ahead he could see bright sunlight that spoke of the end of the
  wooded area. He cursed and looked back.
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       237

 The bay mare was still behind them, although falling farther and farther
 back with each of Achilles' strides. The bridle path ended at a gravel road
 that ran off to the right, dividing the woods from farmland; to the left
 were woods, except for a meadow enclosed in white fencing, which had been
 carved out of the brush. As they drew closer, Lucas could see that the field
 held six or eight mares and their foals; he had a choice between the gravel
 road, which could carry a vehicle searching for them, and the mares. He
 nudged Achilles to the left and urged him toward the formidable gate. "I
 hope you Jump as well as you run, baby," he said, and held his breath as he
 felt the horse consider the distance, adopt a deliberate and workmanlike
 pace, gather himself up, and sail over. "Beautiful, Achilles," said Lucas,
 patting him on the neck. "Now where?"
  The gray continued his more measured stride as Lucas scanned the field. Up
  ahead there was another gate, leading into woodland. "Where there is a
  gate, there is a path, Achilles," he said. "Let's go."
  They had now gathered an admiring crowd of mares, running inquisitively
  along with them, drowning out the noises from behind. Then, as Achilles
  jumped easily over the far gate, Lucas heard an indistinct and angry yell
  from the far side of the meadow. This time he didn't look back.
  The path on the other side of the pasture joined what was evidently the
  same long string of paths throughout these woods. He must have missed some
  fork earlier in his journey while he was concentrating on Baldwin. Achilles
  was continuing on a steady, untiring gallop. "Easy, there," said Lucas
  soothingly. "No need to do yourself in. We're safe. I think we'll just
  mosey along here and then cool down."
  Achilles turned an ear to listen, caught the tone, and slowed to a canter,
  then to a disciplined trot and a comfortable walk. The woods were filled
  with lacy sunshine, filtered through the bare-branched, budding trees, and
  Lucas found himself wondering whether Lydia Neilson would sell Achil-
   238            MEDORA SALE

 les and how much she might want for him if she did. Surely she had more
 use for a sturdy pony that the boy could ride than for a restless gray who
 was over seventeen hands and needed serious exercising. His pleasant
 reverie was interrupted by the sound of a car driving by. He looked up,
 startled. Ahead, the path turned sharply to the left; the wood ended in
 a broad grassy ditch, and beyond it was a two-lane paved road. Lucas
 dismounted, rather stiffly-he was going to pay for this tomorrow, he
 knew-and began walking the gray gelding along the path.
  It was time to think. Was it possible that the voice he had heard in the
  background at Homicide had been Baldwin's? Baldwin had meant him to think
  that Sanders was at Freyfields. Baldwin came out to the house to confront
  him, not to bring him in. Nobody in his senses would set out alone after
  someone who was suspected, in that lovely old phrase, of being armed and
  dangerous. Not even an old colleague. And Baldwin had left everyone else
  behind when he set out after him. What had he been planning to do? Get
  him alone, shoot, and claim self-defense? Lucas patted the weapon in his
  shoulder holster and reflected that he was a fool to be carrying it
  around. All Baldy needed to do was place it in his dead fingers and fire
  it once. But why out here, he wondered, and the answer came with a
  swiftness that horrified him.
  They wanted him out of the way because he stood between them and Grainne.
  If this were true, then Baldy wouldn't be around anymore, he reckoned.
  He might have left someone at Lydia Neilson's place for appearances'
  sake, but the heavy artillery would have pulled out. And that meant he
  could ride back toward Freyfields, leave Achilles near home to find his
  own way to the stable, and search for the little park by the river where
  he had left Tricia's car. "Come on, fella," he said, "we're going back."
  Achilles tossed his head impatiently and then stood as Lucas threw his
  stiffening leg over the gelding's back.
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       239

  This time they followed the main path back. As they neared the area that
  bordered on the Nellsons' road, Lucas heard the rush of the small river
  that told him he was near the car. "This is where we part company,
  Achilles, my friend," he said as he dismounted. He shortened the stir-
  rups, checked the reins, headed him in the direction of home, and gave
  him a little slap on the rump. Achilles started off at a trot, slowed,
  and looked back, puzzled; then he shook his head in an equine gesture of
  dismissal at the follies of mankind and set off again.
  In less than five minutes, Lucas broke through the thick brush growing
  alongside the river and came to the small park. In summer it would be
  filled with tired motorists and city picnickers; on a Monday in March it
  was deserted. Tricia's car was waiting. He brushed the twigs off his
  corduroy pants and got in, anxious to go, very apprehensive of what he
  would find.
 CHAPTER 16

 Once past the pretty white-fenced farms, the road skirted an aged shopping
 mall, crumbling, down-at-heel and discouraged-looking, before heading into
 the industrialized suburbs. Rob Lucas spun the jag into the parking lot and
 headed for the pay phone. With fumbling hands, he dialed his father's
 number, was reminded by a mechanical voice that his call was long-distance,
 swore at the seconds lost, and started all over again.
  "What's happened?" he asked as soon as he heard Tricia's voice. His words
  were strangled with worry.
  "Happened? Nothing. We had lunch, and we talked, and Grainne's taking a
  nap. Is something wrong? You sound out of breath."
  "Oh, God." He sagged against the wall of the booth in relief. "I was sure
  they'd found her."
  "Well, they haven't. Whoever they are. And I certainly wouldn't have let
  them in if they had. Have a little faith, Robin. We're very comfortable and
  cozy. We're going to eat and watch a couple of movies. Nothing to worry
  about. And, Robin-"
  "Mmm?" He barely heard her over the roar of panic subsiding in his head.
  "She's awfully nice. If you don't mind my saying so. And very attractive,
  although she's terribly thin and does need some clothes-"
 "You're not taking her shopping, Tricia," he yelled. "And
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       241

 you're not leaving her alone while you go off, either. She doesn't need
 clothes. She's not going anywhere."
  "Relax, sweetheart. I'm not going to leave her alone. Will you be here for
  dinner?"
  "Better not. I'll call you as soon as I know anything. And-"
  "Yes. I'll look after her. Bye-bye." And the click cut him off. As he
  stepped out of the booth, a woman waiting to use the phone gave him a very
  curious look.

 Rob turned north from King Street, pulled into the network of alleyways
 behind his apartment building, and left Tricia's car in the cramped parking
 area beside the rear door. Although only the ground floor contained offices,
 the structure was not residential, technically. For this reason, certain
 conventions were observed for the benefit of city inspectors, who would
 otherwise be forced to acknowledge that the illegal second- and third-floor
 apartments were not used for warehousing, or as design lofts. The underlit
 and badly maintained halls, for example. And the absence of a buzzer system.
 Or security. If you liked space and valued privacy, the arrangement was
 ideal. Lucas liked it.
  As he ran up the broad staircase to the third floor, he was aware of
  twinges that were going to turn into stiffened legs tomorrow. Terrible to
  let himself get that far out of shape, he thought cheerfully, pulling out
  his keys. From now on, everything was going to be different.
  It was the light from the open refrigerator door that stopped him in the
  doorway, catching his attention first.
  His kitchen was neatly arranged in the windowless corner to the left of the
  entrance. The counter that formed the barrier between the kitchen and the
  rest of the apartment had been knocked over; it was surrounded by broken
  dishes and glassware. Long, pale splinters caught the light where the
  screws anchoring it in its place had been wrenched out
 242            MEDORA SALE

 of the broad floorboards. His filing cabinet lay on its side, its contents
 scattered across the floor. Every drawer-desk, cabinet, wardrobe-had been
 dumped. Not the result of a frantic search, he concluded. just someone
 amusing himself, that was all. Someone who hated him. Someone who had taken
 the trouble to break in and had discovered that there was no one in the
 apartment. He walked over and closed the refrigerator door, and then bent
 and picked up a wineglass that had miraculously escaped the carnage.
 "Sort of messy, eh?" said a voice behind him.
  Lucas jumped and turned around. Framed in the doorway he had left so
  invitingly open stood two uniformed constables, their faces blank,
  uninterested. "Yeah. It is," said Lucas casually. "Did you guys do it?"
  "Us? Hell no," said the other one. "Not our style. Anyway, we were sent
  over to bring you in, Lucas. Sorry."
  The first man's hand rested on his weapon, already released from the
  confinement of its holster. Rob spread his arms peacefully in an outward
  gesture. "It's under my jacket," he said.

 John Sanders stretched out his legs and accepted a beer with a sigh of deep
 relief. The afternoon had been maddening. Cassidy, the chauffeur, had not
 been amenable to dissection; he was, by turns, hostile, bored, and then
 irritated by questioning but devoid of incriminating responses. Yes, he had
 met Neilson's friend Annie, and thought she was a scrawny, stuck-up bitch
 who could use a few sharp lessons. Which Neilson had given her, he was glad
 to say. Otherwise he had no opinions. He did what he was told, he said;
 that's what he was paid for. And no one confessed any of their secrets to
 him-he was just the chauffeur. Dubinsky insisted he was a clever bastard,
 clever enough to disguise a relationship with Annie; Sanders was not so
 sure. In the end, a
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        243

 painstaking search had turned up nothing of any interest in Cassidy's
 apartment at Freyfields.
  Lucas had called in from a Toronto number, disproving Dubinsky's theory
  that he was dead, and had disappeared again. Then Harriet had
  disappeared. That was the final blow. Harriet's disappearance had been
  temporary, fortunately, and here he was, in her apartment, surrounded by
  greasy and sticky cartons of Chinese food, allowing himself to be
  supplied with plates, glasses, napkins, and other unnecessary amenities.
  "Where were you?" he asked. "I've been calling you since four o'clock.
  Every fifteen minutes."
  Harriet sat down beside him, reached into a container of shrimp with
  acquisitive chopsticks, and grabbed the largest one. "I was drinking soda
  water with a lecherous architect at the Park Plaza," she said. "About a
  job. I only meet him in public places. It's safer. Here, have a shrimp,
  Inspectorthey're wonderful."
  Sanders heaped rice, shrimp, chicken, pork, and vegetables onto a plate
  and settled back. He waited a minute for the hot, the sour, and the
  fish-salty sauces to penetrate the rice and then picked up a fork, took
  one mouthful of the resulting mixture, and put the fork down again.
  "Something wrong?" asked Harriet. "You're not actually upset about that
  architect, are you? Because-"
  John laughed and shook his head. "No. I just feel I shouldn't be here,
  lounging around, eating shrimp-"
  "From soggy cardboard boxes. You're right. I can understood how luxury
  like this might upset you. But I'm fresh out of dry bread and stale
  turnips."
  "It's your warmth and sympathy I love, Harriet. You must be what they
  mean by a supportive woman." He shook his head. "It's not that. I'm
  restless. My body is telling me to rush downtown and work all night, and
  yet I know damn well there's absolutely nothing happening. Not
 244            MEDORA SALE

 until we find Lucas again-and his witness. And God knows where he's gone
 to ground this time. So I might as well be sitting here."
  "Have another beer," said Harriet unsympathetically. She put down her
  chopsticks and walked over to the kitchen. "Anyway, I thought you had
  more leads than that." Her voice was slightly muffled as she rooted
  around in the refrigerator. "Who wanted to kill him?"
  "Lots of people," said Sanders. "The line forms to the right. He was
  cheating his business partners. Of course, we don't know who they were,
  so that's not a helluva lot of help. Someone he injured could have killed
  him-that girl in his apartment, for example. Lucas said she was bruised
  and beat-up-looking. Or-"
 "Or Lydia," said Harriet, handing him an open bottle.
  "Well, yes. Lydia." He paused, concentrating on pouring his beer. "How
  much do you know about her, Harriet? About her private life, I mean?"
  ClOnly what I told you. She had a lover, poor thing. And I can't say I
  blame her, considering what Neilson was like."
 "Just one lover?"
  ,'What do you mean, just one? I don't know what impression of her you
  picked up, but she isn't some wild, free spirit who sleeps with everyone
  she meets. She's actually rather conventional, in spite of the lover."
 :, You wouldn't expect to find her at an orgy, then?"
  'Lydia? At an orgy?" Harriet stared in disbelief. "You're kidding."
  "We have some rather interesting pictures of Lydia," said Sanders. "Not
  suitable for publication, you might say," he added evasively. "And she
  has a story, a rather thin story, about being drugged and kidnapped at
  a huge birthday party Neilson gave for her. The trouble is, no one has
  even heard of this birthday party. All the people connected with
  Neilson-office personnel, restaurant employees, the housekeeper, the
  chauffeur-claim that Lydia never went to any
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       245

 of his parties, ever. The office and restaurant people have never even seen
 her."
  Harriet frowned in concentration. "Where was this alleged party?"
  "At La Celestina. Three or four years ago. Nobody there remembers a huge
  party then. They claim she's never set foot in the place."
  "Well, it's not true. She did. But that wasn't an orgy," said Harriet
  almost primly. "It was a perfectly respectable costume party."
 "You were there?"
  "Of course I was. We were still friends at that point. Dressed as a clown,
  fittingly enough. Lydia was something classical, I think. A nymph, maybe."
  She paused to stretch and scratch her earlobe. "Come to think of it, poor
  Lydia got smashed, and when the birthday cake and presents came out, no one
  could find her. Neilson oozed about, apologizing and looking embarrassed.
  I'd forgotten that. So he couldn't have been whisking her away and- But
  then, he didn't do his own dirty work, did he?"
  "No, I don't suppose he did. Dammit," he added, "I should have asked you
  about all this before."
 "Exactly. Why didn't you?"
  He shrugged. "Well, those pictures made it all a bit awkward. And besides,
  it never occurred to me that you were at the party. Do you remember
  anything else about it?"
  "It was on April Fools' Day. That was why I went as a clown. I remember
  that. Her birthday was actually on the second." She stared off into the
  distance. "And I assumed she was drunk because when I went up to wish her
  happy birthday, she was hanging on to a couple of guys-I thought at first
  that one of them was the mysterious lover. She could have been drugged,
  though. She had that vague, spacey look. They sort of elbowed me aside and
  dragged her off. Out of the dining room somewhere."
 "Dragged her off?" said Sanders. "Unwillingly?"
 246            MEDORA SALE

  "Hard to tell. But there was something-now I remember. They called her
  Mrs. Neilson; that was what was strange. Like employees, not friends. And
  certainly neither one was like a lover. Want some coffee?"
 "Just a minute," said Sanders, reaching for the telephone.
  , 'A lot of things were happening at the restaurant in April," he said
  when Harriet returned with two mugs of coffee. "A few days after that
  party there was a murder in the alley behind it, and it came in for a lot
  of scrutiny and bad publicity. That was probably when Neilson upgraded
  the place. New staff and so on. Would you remember the men who dragged
  Lydia away if you saw them again?" he asked.
 "I'm not sure. Possibly."
  , 'Well, then, my love, prepare yourself for a happy day looking at mug
  shots tomorrow. Maybe we can find some of Neilson's associates and pals
  after all."

 Matt Baldwin set the telephone receiver down and leaned back in his chair.
 Patrick Kelleher stood, stiff and uneasy, next to the door; Eric Patterson
 sprawled gloomily in a chair pushed back against a file cabinet. "He isn't
 home," said Baldwin. "And he hasn't responded to his call."
  "Probably turned the damn thing off," said Patterson. "After all, he's
  human. Well, if we can't get Sanders to come and talk to him, maybe he'll
  say something to me."
  Baldwin paused a second and then jerked his head in the direction of the
  interview room. Patterson rose quietly and left.
  "Hi, Rob." Patterson's voice was calm. It was always calm. "What are you
  playing at? If you don't mind my asking. Because you get too cute, and
  they'll charge you with murder."
  "Whose murder?" asked Lucas. They were his first words in two hours.
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        247

  "Nellson's. And the witness's. I can't do much about Neilson-after all,
  he's lying on a slab in Grenville Street. Someone killed him. But it
  would help one whole heap if you'd produce the girl. Everyone's convinced
  she's under a snowbank somewhere."
  "Not much left in the way of snowbanks," said Lucas. "Sorry, Eric. But
  before I start talking, I have one or two little things I want to say to
  Inspector Sanders. That's all."
  "They can't raise him," said Patterson. "It could be a long wait."
  "That's okay. I could use some sleep." And Rob Lucas stretched out in the
  chair he was seated on and closed his eyes.

 John Sanders had stopped, rigid, in the middle of taking off his raincoat.
 "Lucas is here?" he said. Dubinsky nodded. "Since yesterday?" Ed nodded
 again. "When did you find out?"
  His partner looked at his watch. "One minute and four seconds ago. I
  called. You had left. They said," he added, drawling his disbelief, "that
  they couldn't reach you. And it didn't occur to them to try me."
  "Christ almighty! More of Baldwin's tricks." He threw his coat over a
  chair and started for the door. "Sometime he's going to try to get the
  jump on all of us once too often. Where is he? Lucas, I mean."
  Lucas was sitting in the interview room, tousled and unshaven, but
  remarkably clear-eyed and awake. "Who can hear us?" he asked as soon as
  Sanders, still white-faced with rage, took his place at the table.
  "Hear us? In here? No one. You think I'm wired or something?" He spread
  open his suit jacket in an impatient gesture of proof. "See?"
  "That doesn't prove much," said Lucas, his voice so low that Sanders had
  to lean forward to pick up what he said.
 248            MEDORA SALE

 "But don't strip. I'll take your word for it. I am sorry to make all this
 fuss," he continued softly, "but you're the only person who was out of
 town-far out of town-when Neilson was killed and when Jennifer Wilson was
 killed. I realize that's not a guarantee, but right now I have to trust
 someone."
 "What in hell are you talking about?"
  46 Let me explain to you what has been happening." And Lucas's quiet,
  steady voice went on and on, setting out the string of events,
  enumerating the coincidences, until he came to his reasons for hiding out
  in the woods.
 :'If you're so sure of all this, what made you come back?"
  ' We had to. I think they're convinced they won't be safe until they get
  rid of her, even though she can only identify them by voice. They have
  a point. Her identification wouldn't be worth much in a jury trial, but
  once you know who they are, it'll be easy to find better evidence. Or
  they may think she saw them. Anyway, we can't spend the rest of our lives
  hiding. And she knows a fair amount of detail that should help in the
  investigation. Like, Neilson was expecting delivery of cash-a lot of
  cash-at the apartment; that's why he let his murderers in. The money must
  be somewhere, and you might be able to trace it."
 "Is she sure of that?"
  He nodded. "It was something Neilson said to her. About his pension being
  delivered that afternoon."
 "Where is Miss Hunter now?"
 He shook his head. "She's safe."
 "For chrissake, Rob, I have to talk to her."
  "No. Somebody here, some guy maybe standing out there in the hall right
  now listening, murdered Neilson. And killed Jennifer Wilson. And injured
  Grainne."
 'Who?"
  'I don't know." He looked very young and helpless. "The only person I can
  think of," he said, lowering his voice even further, "is Baldwin. He got
  my reports. He was the one
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        249

 who wanted to keep the investigation contained, to run every aspect of it
 himself. He sent me out to Neilson's place yesterday. It was crazy, the way
 he was doing things. If you think about it."
  Sanders suddenly felt very tired. "Shit," he muttered, jumped up, and threw
  open the door. "Dubinsky!" he roared.
  "No," said Lucas frantically. "Don't tell anyone else. Not yet."
  "I can't do anything without help. And if I can't trust Ed, I can't trust
  anyone. Even myself. You're sure it's someone in the department?"
 "Or a friend of someone in the department."
 The door opened. "Yeah?"
  "Who worked on that case-the one that involved Neilson? You know-the murder
  of the hooker in the alley behind his restaurant."
 "Baldwin and Patterson."
  "No. Not just them. Everybody. I want the name of anyone who could possibly
  have talked to Neilson around the time of the investigation. And when
  you've got that, get an ID shot of everyone on the list. No matter who they
  are. And then call Harriet, apologize to her very carefully for me, and
  take the pictures over to her place. She knows about it. Sort of. Thanks."
  He turned back to Lucas. "Now, your witness. You can't keep her hidden
  under a bed somewhere forever. You may think she's safe, but I'd be willing
  to bet that thirty minutes over coffee with a couple of your pals and a
  quick look through your file, and I'd find her. She's at an apartment
  belonging to a friend or relative you trust-right? So I'd check with
  parents, cousins, aunts, uncles-not really hard to find if you go about
  things carefully. It's better for us to get there first."

 A distant pounding lingered in Grainne's ears. It took her a measurable
 length of time to orient herself-to the silky
 250            MEDORA SALE

 covering, the darkened room, the crisp sheets, the dying odor of expensive
 perfume. The pounding continued, and then she knew that it existed in the
 real world, not in some dream or nightmarish vision. She had been heavily,
 dizzily asleep, but fear rapidly cleared her head. She sat up.
  Tricia's lazy voice drifted in through the door. "Who is It, Mrs.
  Henderson?"
  44 It's a policeman, madam." Mrs. Henderson sounded cool and unperturbed.
  "He'd like to talk to you."
  Grainne drew the warm comforter to her chest like a shield and listened
  intently. "Ask him to wait outside, please." The lazy voice had developed
  a sharp edge. She heard the click of narrow heels on the parquet floor.
  Now the conversation dropped to a distant murmur, and she could no longer
  distinguish what was going on. Finally, Tricia Lucas's voice rose enough
  for her to catch the words. "Not a chance. Not without a warrant. Now if
  you would just step back, I'd like to close the door." There was another
  pause, during which Grainne heard nothing but faint background noise.
  Then Tricia Lucas's voice, shaking with anger, rose again. "Mrs.
  Henderson. Call Thomas and Thomas. Button five." The wall shook as the
  heavy front door smashed open against the foyer wall.
  Grainne was off the bed and half-running toward the door on the far side
  of the room. It was a bathroom. A bathroom with one door and a skylight,
  in an apartment that was twenty-four stories above the surface of Lake
  Ontario. She was trapped. Destined, she thought wryly in spite of her
  fear, to cower forever in bathrooms. She looked about for some avenue of
  escape, some place to hide, but this room was not equipped with
  woman-size shelving. She headed back into the bedroom.

 They were almost at the apartment building when the call came. An
 uncertain, guilt-ridden Rob Lucas, shaved and
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        2S1

 tidied up, and John Sanders. The call was from Thomas and Thomas, barristers
 and solicitors to the rich, furious that their client, Mrs. Bertram Lucas,
 had had her apartment door forced open a few moments ago by a police officer
 without a warrant.
  "Oh, God," said Lucas, turning ash-gray. "You were right. They're after
  Grainne."
  A patrol car, lights flashing, pulled up ahead of them in front of the
  apartment building. "That's fast," said Sanders to the two constables as
  they jumped out. "Who sent you?"
  "Building security. There's been a break-in on the penthouse floor."
  All four men raced for the front door. The concierge flung it open and
  rushed toward the open door of the elevator. "Oh, hello, Mr. Lucas," he
  said politely, mindful of all his duties. "But you don't have to worry.
  It's the Schneidermanns' apartment. I locked the elevators, in case," he
  added. "And so maybe someone should stay down here by the stairs." Sanders
  nodded at one of the constables.
  When they arrived at the penthouse level, they were met by Tricia Lucas,
  standing in the open door to her apartment, in silk-embroidered dressing
  gown and high-heeled bedroom slippers, perfectly made-up, and absolutely
  furious. Leaning against the wall outside the apartment, was Eric
  Patterson, smiling in his ironic, self-deprecating way.
 "Hi, Rob, old boy," he said. "Inspector. Nice to see you."
  "What in hell is going on here?" Sanders glared at Patterson.
  "This man forced his way into my apartment, damaging the door and the wall
  as he went," Tricia snapped, pointing a long, perfect finger in the
  direction of his chest.
  "Acting on information received-" Patterson's voice began its professional
  drone.
 "Without a warrant-'5
 "From whom?"
 "A source," said Patterson. "I got a tip that the witness
 252             MEDORA SALE

 we were searching for was in this apartment." He shrugged his shoulders and
 smiled. "So I didn't have time to grab a judge and get a warrant. What else
 is new? But I couldn't find her."
  "Which is breaking and entering, as far as I'm concerned-"
  "Look, I'm sorry about the door, lady. But you were being damned
  uncooperative."
  "Excuse me, Officers," said the concierge for the fourth time.
  "What now?" Sanders was getting tired of the demanding little voice.
  "I don't know what's going on at the Lucases', but it was the
  Schneidermanns' apartment that was broken into." His voice throbbed with
  desperation. "And I don't know how," he added, "because no one went up to
  the penthouse this morning but this man, and the only staircase up to the
  roof is monitored all the time, and there was no one on it this morning.
  I'll open the door for you, but I'm not going in. I'm not getting killed."
  Before he had finished, the elevator chimed discreetly. Everyone turned as
  the ornamented brass doors slid apart and a red-faced Matt Baldwin stepped
  out, followed by a much paler Patrick Kelleher.
  "Hello, Matt." Sanders raised a hand in greeting. "What brings you here
  this morning?"
 "You won't need me, then?" said Patterson.
  "Stick around," said Sanders. "I'll be with you in a minute."
  "Do you mind?" said the concierge, his voice rising to a near shriek.
  "Anything could be going on in there." And with a flourish of his keychain,
  he opened the Schneidermanns' door. Absolute quiet billowed out of the
  apartment. The six men, Sanders and Lucas, Baldwin and Kelleher, Eric
  Patterson and the uniformed constablefollowed by Tricia Lucas, who had
  never seen the inside of
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        253

 the Schneidermanns' apartment and was not going to miss the chance now,
 burglar or no burglar-moved with only a faint swish of shoe leather toward
 the living room.
  And there, sitting huddled on the chesterfield, wearing a warm nightgown
  belonging to Tricia and a wool dressing gown belonging to Rob Lucas, sat
  Grainne Hunter, staring fixedly at the procession. As soon as Rob came
  around the corner, she leaped to her feet like a nervous cat and took one
  step in their direction.
  A voice rang out in the enormous room. "Watch it! She has a gun."
  Kelleher yanked his weapon out and raised it just as Lucas threw himself
  at the man's arm on its upward swing. The noise of a shot smashed through
  the room; Grainne's arms flew to her chest, and she rolled onto the
  floor. At almost the same moment, Ed Dubinsky stepped in the doorway and
  grabbed Kelleher's wrist, clutching it in a grip so massive that his
  fingers splayed helplessly. The weapon fell to the floor with a small
  clatter. Dubinsky bent down and scooped it up with his other hand.
  Grainne lay without moving.
  Lucas was on his knees beside the fallen girl. As he wrapped his arms
  around her, she opened her tightly shut eyes, smiled tentatively, and
  tried to move her arms away from her chest, hampered somewhat by Lucas's
  ferocious grip. "I hate loud noises," she whispered.
 "My God, darling, I thought you were dead," said Lucas.
  "No, just getting out of the way. It seemed like a good idea at the
  time." Her voice faded away to the faintest of whispers and she began to
  tremble violently.
  "What in hell is going on?" asked Patterson. Dubinsky had released his
  grip, and Patrick Kelleher was rubbing his wrist. "Does she have a gun
  on her? Who saw it, anyway?"
  "I don't know," said Kelleher angrily. "I thought it was Inspector
  Sanders."
 254            MEDORA SALE

  There was silence. Sanders shook his head. "Does she, Lucas?" he asked.
  "Have a gun in her pocket?"
  "My pocket, sir, actually," said Lucas, one arm still holding her firmly by
  the shoulders while he patted the two roomy pockets of his dressing gown
  with the other. He shook his head. "Who was it said that Grainne had a
  gun?" he asked.
  An awkward hush fell across the group, separating it into a collection of
  uneasy individuals. Dubinsky glanced around impatiently and then pulled
  Sanders over to the door, talking all the while. Matt Baldwin stepped back,
  his eyes flickering rapidly from person to person, until he allowed his
  gaze to rest finally on Rob Lucas and Grainne Hunter.
 "I want that wornan-" he started.
  Sanders nodded to his partner, and moved over until he was right next to
  Baldwin's right ear. "Look, Matt," he whispered, "we have a potentially
  explosive problem here."
 "Explosive?"
  "Yeah. One of us is going to have to get Kelleher and Patterson out of here
  and downtown. Get them to write some sort of reasonable report on this.
  Otherwise, you know what's going to happen. Jesus, look at this place.
  Willful damage. There's a hole in that goddamn Persian rug from Kelleher's
  weapon. Cost a fortune to fix it. Maybe even unlawful discharge of a
  firearm. And Patterson. Breaking into the apartment next door, all that
  damage. And the other one can stay and try to straighten things out with
  Mrs. Lucas there. She looks mad as hell. "
  As Sanders's voice droned softly on, Baldwin's expression changed. "Good
  idea," he muttered. "I think I'd better go with Kelleher and Patterson,
  though. They're my responsibility, after all."
  "I suppose they are," said Sanders, as though this was the first time the
  idea had occurred to him. "Well, I'll stay and tackle the lady."
 "What about Lucas and that woman?"
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       2S5

 "Don't worry, I'll take care of them."
  With an impatient nod, Baldwin summoned up his two problems and stalked
  out of the apartment. They were followed closely by the constable from
  the break-and-enter detail, who was not anxious to wait around for any
  potentially awkward repercussions. Sanders turned quickly to Grainne
  Hunter. "John Sanders, Miss Hunter. Now, what can you tell us?"
  Grainne sat down on the couch again, hunched forward, every muscle taut.
  "The person who shouted," she whispered, "the one who said, 'She has a
  gun,' he was one of the men who killed Neilson."
  "Who was it?" asked Sanders, looking around. "I wasn't sure."
 "I was in the hall," said Dubinsky. "I couldn't tell."
  "Neither could I," said Lucas. "I assumed it was Baldwin, but now-I don't
  know. It could have been any of them. Are you sure, Grainne?"
 She nodded. "Positive."
  "What about the other one, then?" said Sanders. "You said there were two,
  didn't you? Did you hear him?"
  "This morning? No. And he's hard to miss. He has a really distinctive
  voice. High-pitched but raspy. Like a tenor with screwed-up vocal cords.
  Anyway, he's too short to be any of the gang that came in here."
  "Shit!" said Dubinsky, who had been listening intently. He grabbed the
  Schneidermanns' phone. "Get me Collins," he barked into the receiver.
  "By the way, what are you doing in here?" asked Sanders. "We were
  expecting to find you next door."
  Splotches of color appeared in Grainne's cheeks. "Oh. Well, when I woke
  up this morning, I heard Tricia arguing with a policeman. I figured he
  was looking for me, and so I climbed out of the bedroom window onto the
  roof, and came around here. They have a Japanese garden," she said,
  pointing to the floor to ceiling draperies. "I borrowed a
 256            MEDORA SALE

 rock and smashed a hole in the French window. It's not a very secure
 system for an expensive apartment," she added. Her tone was censorious.
  "It could be worse," said Sanders. "You set off the alarm and collected
  a lot of police protection."
  "And I'm starved," she added plaintively. "I haven't had any breakfast.
  I didn't like to use their kitchen, somehow."
  "Well, take Sergeant Lucas back next door with you and get yourself some
  breakfast," said Sanders. "We're off."
  "Will she be . . ." Rob Lucas's voice trailed off in an unasked question.
  "Safe? She should be. Safe as anyone is, anyway. See you later, Rob."

 "Are you sure of this?" asked Sanders as they headed for the car.
  "Yeah," said Dubinsky. "We just want to get there before they're all
  finished downtown, that's all. Someone will be there with a warrant."
  Eight minutes later they pulled up in front of a boxy, four-story, pale
  yellow apartment building, surrounded by the grimy detritus of spring.
  Another gray-suited man slid out of a dark blue Pontiac parked ahead of
  them and walked back.
 "You got it?" asked Dubinsky.
 The newcomer patted his jacket pocket.
 "Is he back yet?"
 He shook his head.
  "Give it to me, then. You wait here. We might need you later."
  The apartment was on the top floor. The superintendent had looked at the
  warrant, considered the possibility that they were capable of breaking
  down the door, and had ridden up with them, grumbling, in the elevator.
  "I dunno," he said as he unlocked the door. "I could get in real trouble
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        2S7

 about this, you know. He don't like people going in his apartment. Not
 even to fix things. I won't be responsible," he added, in final and total
 rejection of the entire procedure, and left.
  It was a low-ceilinged, large-roomed two-bedroom apartment with a rather
  grubby and old-fashioned kitchen. Buildings like it went up in thousands
  in the fifties and have remained, squatting in a homely fashion, in areas
  where it doesn't make financial sense to rip them down and replace them
  with even homelier structures. The two men looked around, and headed in
  opposite directions.
  Sanders started in the bedroom, moving with an easy rhythm through a
  large chest of drawers, on the principle of beginning with the easy
  stuff. Nothing. He opened the closet and looked in jacket pockets; no
  better luck. Two suitcases stood upright on the shelf above. As he pulled
  them down, a green tweed hat, narrow of brim and countrified, fell with
  them. He picked it up with a grin and started for the kitchen. First
  blood.
  A low whistle greeted him as he walked into the room. "You got
  something?" he asked.
  Dubinsky was standing on a chair, his head in a cabinet next to the
  stove. "Maybe," he said, his voice muffled somewhat. "This ceiling is
  false. Leads into the kitchen fan, I think." He pushed up one side of the
  cream-colored, dirty board that formed the ceiling inside the cabinet.
  There was a thump as something moved. "Here," he said, "take this crap."
  And he began handing piles of plates down to his partner. "I need some
  room." Dubinsky raised the board an inch or two and began to slide it
  over. It moved about five inches and stopped. "Shit," he muttered, and
  then reached into the opening he had just created. "There it is," he
  said. "Or at least, there something is." And with infinite delicacy, he
  pulled and twisted and maneuvered until a small, elegant, dark brown
  attach6 case with gold hinges and clasps dropped down into his hands.
 2S8            MEDORA SALE

  Sanders had it from him before he could blink. "Locked?" he asked.
  "It was," said Dubinsky, climbing down. "But it looks like someone
  already did a number on the lock." He shoved a pile of dirty dishes to
  one side and set the attach6 case down on the counter, pushed in the
  half-moon-shaped fastenings, and opened it up.
  There, lying in piles, each one fastened with a paper wrapper, was about
  as much neat, clean, sparkling new money as either of them could remember
  having seen in one place before. "A million?" said Sanders.
  "Bit more," said Dubinsky in the confident tones of one who is never
  wrong. Suddenly he raised a warning hand. "The elevator." In a second he
  was lounging in the kitchen door, blocking it completely.
  Sanders shifted quietly over and leaned back against the counter.
  They heard the rattle of a key in the door and then furious footsteps
  across the living room. A disembodied voice struck Sanders's ears before
  the face appeared in the doorway. "What in hell do you guys think you're
  doing?"
  "Hi, Eric," said Sanders. His voice was suspiciously mild, even
  conciliatory. "We needed a word with you. The super let us in."
  "So I heard," said Eric Patterson, giving Ed Dubinsky a friendly push
  into the kitchen. He glanced at their lounging bodies and relaxed. "I
  must talk to him. He's not supposed to do that." Suddenly his eye fell
  on the pile of dishesclean dishes-sitting on the counter beside the
  stove. One glance at the cupboard, its door discreetly shut again, and
  his hand darted into his jacket, returning furnished with a cumbersome
  police-issue revolver. "Move, Ed," he said. Dubinsky shifted over a foot
  or two, revealing the open attach6 case. "I thought so. Come on, move.
  All the way over beside the Inspector." Patterson edged over to take
  Dubinsky's place, reaching back with one hand to shut the
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        2S9

 lid on the case. Without taking his eyes off his two colleagues, he picked
 up the money and began to back slowly out of the room. "Sorry, pals. But
 this is mine."
  At the precise moment when the plainclothes officer grabbed Eric Patterson
  in an enormous hug from behind, Dubinsky and Sanders were flinging
  themselves in opposite directions down to the floor. Patterson's bullet
  ricocheted alarmingly between stove and refrigerator before coming to its
  final rest peacefully under the counter. By the time the two men raised
  their heads, Patterson's hands were cuffed behind his back.
 "Nicely done," said Sanders.
  "We didn't have anything to worry about anyway," said Dubinsky.
  "Patterson's a crummy shot. Always was."
  They were interrupted by the ping of the elevator and a light knock on the
  door. Dubinsky darted by Patterson and moved swiftly and noiselessly across
  the living room.
 The knock was repeated, louder this time.
  "Listen, Patterson, you asshole. I know you're in there. I saw you go in.
  You damn well better answer the door." The voice was odd, hoarse, and
  high-pitched, as if the speaker had a cold.
  "Glory days," murmured Dubinsky. "A two-for-one." He opened the door in one
  swift movement, reached out, and grabbed the man standing there, first by
  the hair, then by his arm. "Hi, Randy," he said. "We wanted to talk to
  you."
  But the thin-faced bookkeeper was, for once, at a loss for words.
 CHAPTER 17

 "The nurse is arranging an appointment with Allen Kresnick to look at that
 arm. Since broken bones aren't really my thing," said the doctor. Grainne
 sank into an expensive leather chair in the soothing, dark-paneled office.
 "It would be helpful, of course, if we could send over the original X rays.
 Where did you say you had it looked after?"
 Grainne's eyes widened in panic. "Uh-"
  "We didn't, actually," said Lucas. "As a matter of fact, I set it."
  Dr. McCaul turned to him in disbelief. "You? When did you take up medicine,
  Rob?"
  "I did a fairly comprehensive course in first aid," he said casually. "As
  part of my police training. Under the circumstances, it was all that could
  be done. I doubt if Miss Hunter remembers much about it-she had a high
  fever at the time."
 "And you treated her for that as well."
 "Sort of," he said modestly.
  "That's quite a course the police department runs. And I suppose you just
  happened to have plaster around-" Lucas opened his mouth to speak but was
  cut off. "-in case you felt like doing some sculpture or something." He
  wrote busily as he spoke. "You're in remarkably good shape in spite of it
  all, Miss Hunter. You need to take it easy for a while still-eat well,
  build yourself up. That other problem should clear up by itself. The foot
  has healed beautifully. I'd like to see you in two weeks; call me if you
  have any
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       261

 problems before that. And, Rob," he added, "restrain yourself from amateur
 surgery, will you?"

 "What other problem, my beloved?" said Lucas.
  "I'm not your beloved, and it's none of your business," said Grainne
  sharply.
  "Yes, you are. I might not be your beloved, but you certainly are mine,
  and I shall cling to you like glue as long as I possibly can. But I am
  willing to admit that it's none of my business," he said humbly. "I'm
  getting rather arrogant about your physical well-being, I suppose. I keep
  trying to play Pygmalion, and you're nothing at all like Galatea. I
  probably wouldn't like you if you were."
  Hurt feelings vibrated underneath the inconsequential talk, and Grainne
  winced. "Well, I can't discuss it here on the street, anyway. Really.
  Take me down there," she said, pointing to a small pastry shop a few
  steps below ground level, "and buy me an espresso-no, a cappuccino-and
  a huge pastry, and I'll tell you."
  Grainne finished her giant-sized chocolate eclair, pushed aside her
  plate, and pulled the cappuccino in its glass cup closer to her. She
  began to stir the whipped cream and chocolate shavings into it with the
  dedication of an artist trying to create a smooth, perfect color. She
  looked up, opened her mouth, turned pink, and stirred again.
  "What is it?" asked Lucas. Vague alarms stirred in his brain. "You're all
  right, aren't you? There isn't something that he told you-"
  "What do you mean?" she asked. "Are you afraid I have AIDS or something?
  I don't. Neilson was terrified of infection. He took more precautions
  than-"
  "That was the last thing on my mind," interrupted Lucas, remembering the
  contents of Neilson's drawers.
  "Anyway, it's less drastic than that. But along the same lines-"
 262             MEDORA SALE

  "Along the same lines?" said Lucas, puzzled. "You mean- No. I would have
  noticed."
  "Don't be stupid," she snapped. "And try to get your mind away from
  whatever sexually transmitted disease course you once took. Pregnancy, you
  idiot-that's what we were discussing. I'm over a week late, and the thought
  had occurred to me that we had spent a lot of time in bed without really
  giving much consideration to consequences."
  He picked up her hand. "Nothing could please me more," he said gravely, "as
  long as-"
  "Well, nothing could please me less right now. I've finally reached the
  point where I know I can face school next year and really work and-" She
  paused, and her eyes filled with tears. "Would it really?" she asked. "Is
  that how you honestly feel? Or are you just being gallant and nice?"
  "I was going to add, as long as you were pleased. But yes, that's how I
  feel-for God's sake, Grainne, I love you. How else would I feel?"
  "Well, your Dr. McCaul says he doesn't think I am. He muttered about shock
  and weight loss and fever and all those things. He recommended I eat more
  and get healthy and come back in two weeks. Then he'll be able to tell. I
  think I'll have another pastry."
  "Whoa," said Lucas. "We're going out for dinner in a couple of hours."
  "Well, all right. I wish I had another piece of respectable clothing to put
  on," she said, looking down at the overlong skirt she was wearing.
  "Don't let Tricia hear you say that, or she'll rush you over to Holt's and
  buy out the store before you can catch your breath. She's itching to give
  you something besides a couple of cast-off outfits. I told you my family
  was dangerous," he said. "Grainne, will you marry me?" he added in a rush.
  "And don't answer. Not unless it's a yes. Not yet."
  She looked doubtfully at him and then returned to the earnest contemplation
  of her coffee. "Look, Robin, you
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       263

 know you don't mean it. Once you recover from all this shock and
 everything, you'll see I'm not what you thought I was. I'm a very ordinary
 sort of person. And I can get very edgy and irritable when I'm working.
 A couple of weeks of me, and you'll be looking for someone else. Why don't
 you wait and see how you feel in two or three months?"
  Lucas burst into laughter. "You certainly aren't what I thought you were.
  But people never are, are they? Usually you're presented with some
  wonderful package, and underneath it you keep getting nasty little
  flashes of meanness and stupidity. But you, my love, you're hard and
  bitter on the outside, and then inside every layer gets more fascinating
  until you're down to the diamond at the core. I may even be down to the
  real you by now. But I'll wait, if that's what you want. How about until
  tomorrow?"
  "Do you often go in for these flights of poetic fancy?" she asked.
  He flushed. "Not that often," he said steadily. "But you won't get rid
  of me by embarrassing me. I'm determined when I know what I want."
  "Damn it all," she said, rubbing her temple with her right hand. "I have
  to get ready, and I have to think. Robin, I need time to think. I'm so
  confused. And I must find a place of my own. As soon as I'm feeling a
  little more agile." She waved her cast in the air. "I can't keep drifting
  along, living with your stepmother, borrowing her clothes, being
  pampered, as though nothing mattered anymore."
  "I have a nice big apartment," he said. "It's a little untidy at the
  moment," he admitted. "I haven't put it back together yet. You could help
  me-I mean, picking out new dishes and things. I hated the old ones
  anyway. I bought them in one of my to-hell-with-it-all,
  back-to-the-people moods. And there's room for a piano---even a grand,
  if you'd like one."
  "Stop it, Robin! You're making me dizzy." She smiled to take the sting
  out of the words. "Take me back to the safety of your wicked stepmother's
  house. You know,"
 264            MEDORA SALE

 she added, as she stood up, "your wicked stepmother is really quite-"
  "I know, I know. Stop making me feel like a louse. She's not nearly as
  awful as I said. But wait until you meet my father. . . ."

 "Is this seat taken?" Harriet's slightly mocking voice cut through Sanders's
 reverie. He jumped, startled, and half rose as she settled herself into
 place opposite him. The maitre d' snapped her napkin out of the wineglass it
 was decorating and dropped it onto her lap. "I'll just have some of that,"
 she said, reaching for the bottle of red wine on the table. As her hand
 moved, prepared to help itself, the horrified man snatched the glass away
 and disappeared.
  "Harriet, you're going to have learn to be civilized if you eat in places
  like this. That's not a wineglass. You know that. It's a napkin glass,"
  said John. "Here, have some of mine."
  Harriet waved the proferred glass away. "I'll wait. Restore my credit with
  the waiter. Anyway, as you no doubt noticed, that was a white-napkin glass.
  It's important to be precise. Red-napkin glasses are a different shape."
  Harriet's face remained solemn, but her green eyes glinted with malicious
  laughter, making his heart lurch like a lovesick adolescent's. The last few
  days without her had seemed unbearably long.
  He picked up her hand and brushed it lightly with his lips. "You won't
  believe how much I've missed you, Harriet. I think I got used to having you
  around all the time. It feels like months."
  Harriet's pale cheeks turned pink; she touched his face lightly with one
  finger and withdrew it hastily. "Then why are we dining here in formal
  splendor? Instead of eating in some cheerful ethnic haunt? I realize you
  owe me, Johnand I mean, really owe me-for solving your case for you.
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        26S

 How many women could recognize someone after four years from a police
 photograph? But this!" She waved a hand around. "Or is this a belated
 apology for abandoning me all week?"
  His lips tightened. "For chrissake, Harriet, don't. I apologize. I know
  I should have called, but it's been hellish over there. And a lot of
  work. I'm only here because I couldn't stand it anymore."
  Harriet brushed aside his complaints with a wave of the hand. "Pay no
  attention. I'm just bitching. Because I'm starved, and this is the kind
  of place that serves one minute chunk of meat decorated with two snow
  peas, a strip of carrot, and a teaspoon of sauce. And I haven't eaten
  since that Chinese food on Monday. Not properly." As she reached for
  John's wine, the waiter rushed over with a new glass and filled it. She
  raised it solemnly. "Salut," she said, and tasted the wine. "This is a
  spectacular bottle of wine," she admitted. "What's happening?"
  "Where do you want me to start? Try this-Rob Lucas invited us to dinner.
  He pays, his choice of restaurant. That's how it goes. And at the moment
  we seem to be trapped and helpless-we don't even get menus. They told me
  to sit here, and a bottle of wine appeared. And then you appeared. And
  all we need now is a loaf of bread."
  "Don't look now," whispered Harriet, "but here it comes." She giggled.
  Right after the basket of rolls was insinuated into the middle of the
  table, a pale young woman with a riot of short curly brown hair and
  enormous gray eyes walked unsteadily through the tables toward them. Her
  arm was in a grubby cast, supported and partially hidden by a black silk
  sling; she was swathed dramatically in more black silk, with a ruffle
  that started at the bust and fell to the floor on one side. She sat down
  and smiled uncertainly. "I'm Grainne," she said. "And you must be
  Harriet, because I know he's Inspector Sanders." She nodded in John's
  direction. "Rob
 266            MEDORA SALE

 is back there issuing instructions of some sort. And if I look peculiar,
 it's because-"
  "Don't apologize. You look marvelous," said Harriet. "That's a spectacular
  dress."
  "It's Robin's stepmother's. It's not a very good fit. And I'm sure it's not
  supposed to trail on the ground like that. Most of my clothes seem to have
  disappeared somewhere. . . ."
  "You didn't seize her clothes as evidence, John, did you? That's going too
  far."
 "We don't do things like that, do we, Rob?"
  "Like what?" asked Rob Lucas as he slipped into the fourth chair.
 "Like seizing all my clothes as evidence," said Grainne.
  "It's a thought," said Lucas. "It would keep you from disappearing again.
  Much more effective than a subpoena."
  The conversation was cut short by the arrival of plates on which were
  arranged small slices of something, decorated with a dark reddish brown
  sauce.
  "What is it?" asked Grainne, who appeared to be torn between apprehension
  and curiosity.
  "I hope you don't mind. I ordered ahead," said Lucas apologetically. "This
  way you can get what you want. It should be a partridge galantine with game
  sauce. Since Grainne likes red wine," he explained, rather obscurely, "and
  we're celebrating her return to the world. Even if she doesn't have any
  clothes." He raised his glass with a tentative smile.
  Everyone took a hasty gulp of wine, and silence, heavy and uncomfortable,
  fell across the table. Grainne glanced quickly around, helped herself to a
  roll, and concentrated her gaze on Sanders. "I don't know about the rest of
  you," she remarked casually, "but I want to know what's going on. And since
  Rob is slung out, or suspended-"
  "No, no," said Sanders hastily. "On leave, pending an inquiry. That's
  different."
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        267

  "Whatever. He claims he knows nothing. You'll have to tell us."
  Sanders picked up his wineglass and put it down again. He shrugged. "What
  the hell. What did you want to know?" he asked, nodding at Grainne.
 "What about the policeman?" prompted Harriet.
  "Patterson? Nothing. He's been sitting in a cell since Tuesday and hasn't
  said a bloody word to anyone-except his lawyer. He figures he's laughing
  as long as he keeps his mouth shut. He knows you didn't see him. That
  means you can't make a positive ID."
 "How does he know?"
  "My guess is that you looked straight at him in that apartment and didn't
  react. That's the only thing he's said so far. To use his words, our
  evidence isn't worth a pinch of shit and go ahead."
  "But the money! You said that Patterson had more than a million dollars
  belonging to Carl and that would be proof enough," said Grainne, turning
  accusingly to Rob. "How did Patterson get his hands on it?" she asked
  curiously. "Carl was so damned suspicious of everyone."
  "That was the last million or so that Neilson was able to squeeze out of
  the company in cash without blowing the whistle on himself," said
  Sanders. "Randy was supposed to deliver it to him before he left the
  country for good. And Patterson had it, all right," said Sanders. "And
  we'll get him. Randy is talking so fast, we need revolving teams to get
  it all down. He swears he never killed anyonePatterson shot Neilson and
  the man at the cabin and wounded you," he added, counting off each one
  on his fingers. "And killed the Wilson girl. You're lucky the guy really
  is a lousy shot."
  "Randy may not have killed anyone, but the poker was his idea," said
  Grainne and shuddered.
  "Randy West has a basically nasty disposition, I believe," said Lucas,
  as he reached over to fill everyone's glass. "He
 268            MEDORA SALE

 was so annoyed at not finding Grainne in my apartment that he made a brave
 attempt to reduce everything in it to rubble. But he did say he was
 sorry," added Lucas dryly.
  "Are you sure you want to sit here and listen to this?" interrupted
  Harriet, her voice icy with disapproval.
  "No, I'm fine," said Grainne. "That all happened a lifetime ago. Anyway,
  Randy's probably telling the truth. He wouldn't have touched me if he'd
  been alone. I think. But why bother killing Carl? Aside from general
  humanitarian motives-for the good of mankind."
  "Partly spite. Mostly to cover their tracks. Patterson seems to have been
  the mystery half owner of La Celestina," said Sanders. "And before that
  he was on Neilson's payroll as a troubleshooter. That's why he was
  helping Neilson with his little marital problem. Which was his big
  mistake," added Sanders, waving a hand in grave acknowledgment across the
  table, "since Harriet was able to recognize him from the costume party
  and give us a crucial link between him and Neilson. Pure luck for us,
  because Neilson almost never let his respectable or family life mix with
  his professional life. And that brought us to the question of how
  Patterson could afford to buy a half interest in the restaurant on his
  salary."
  "Especially since he was paying twelve hundred dollars a month in child
  support. He used to grouse about that all the time," said Lucas.
  "That, too. We've been ploughing through his financial records for days,"
  Sanders added, "and it'll take weeks more."
  "So how did he?" said Harriet. "Let me guess. He was an old school chum
  of Neilson's, who gave the restaurant to him in memory of happier days."
  "You're close," said Sanders. "According to Randy, Neilson did give
  Patterson half the place."
  "He did?" asked Grainne, surprised. "That doesn't seem in character-not
  at all. Not for Carl."
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT        269

 "According to Randy, it was to keep Patterson quiet."
  "Blackmail?" said Grainne. "Patterson was blackmailing Carl? I love it.
  The biter bit. What had he done?"
  "It all had to do with some poor prostitute who was beaten to death and
  dumped in the alley behind the restaurant," said Sanders. "Her pimp was
  tried for murder but got off-he claimed he was elsewhere at the time, and
  the jury believed him. The investigation never went any further because
  the team decided they'd found the murderer but hadn't managed to get a
  conviction. Now Randy claims that Neilson got overenthusiastic and killed
  this little hooker at the club one night and then called Patterson for
  help. Patterson took one look-there was Neilson in an upstairs room with
  the body of a skinny sixteen-year-old-and saw a gold mine. Randy said the
  death was probably an accident."
  "Accident!" said Harriet in dangerous tones. "How can you accidentally
  beat a sixteen-year-old girl to death?"
  "Randy's words, not mine," said Sanders hastily. "Patterson asked for and
  got half the operation in return for his help; he cleaned up the room,
  moved the body, and then steered the investigation away from the
  restaurant. It worked, too."
  "So why kill the goose that lays the golden eggs?" asked Harriet. "Or did
  he have ambitions to run the restaurant on his own?"
  "Not at all," said Sanders. "Patterson was perfectly happy. It was
  Neilson who was in trouble. Everything else was closing in on him. He had
  a lot of reasons for wanting to get out of the country. People were
  getting annoyed at him, and that fire and the inquiry were the last
  straw. He had been squirreling away money for about a year, as far as we
  can tell, and moving it into his operations in Florida. And for the last
  couple of months, he skimmed every penny out of the restaurant that he
  could. The place was about to fall on its face."
 "Leaving Patterson with nothing?" asked Harriet.
 270            MEDORA SALE

 Sanders nodded.
 "That's neat. How did Patterson find out?"
  "Randy told him. Randy also told him about the money in the attach6 case.
  So they reckoned they could get rid of Neilson and split the cash."
 "How much?" Grainne asked curiously.
  "A million and a half or thereabouts. Neilson had already transferred
  several million to Miami during the last year."
 "Who gets the money?" asked Harriet. "Lydia?"
  "She should. It was earned more or less legitimately," said Sanders.
  "She'll get whatever there is. And it will be a considerable amount, I
  expect, once she moves all that cash out of its hiding places. She told me
  the other day that she's going to do what she can to reorganize Carl's
  businesses on a sounder and more legitimate footing, and once they're going
  concerns again, she'll sell everything and move farther out into the
  country. She said that she wanted to get away from all this corruption and
  evil as soon as possible. By that, I assumed that she meant her husband's
  corruption and evil."
  "By the time she finishes cleaning up all the rot in Northsea/Baltic," said
  Harriet, "she'll have recovered from the entire episode. I wonder if her
  nameless friend is anywhere around still?" Discreet black-clad arms swooped
  down and removed the remains of the tournedos Henri IV, interrupting her
  train of thought for a moment. "But speaking of money, the thing that
  really startles me," she added, "is the sweet and trusting side to Randy
  West's nature, letting Patterson get his hands on all that cash." Harriet
  looked with sad eyes at the basket of rolls that were, at that moment,
  being whisked away.
  "He figured that as Neilson's money man, he would be watched too closely.
  He couldn't hide it safely. But Patterson-who would suspect Patterson? And
  no one would have if you hadn't been there," he added, turning to Grainne.
          SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       271

  "Cowering in the damned bathroom." She shook her head. "But what about
  that other guy?" she said, turning to Lucas. "What was his name?
  Bechstein? Steinway? NoBaldwin. I knew it was a piano. I thought you said
  he was the one who-"
  Lucas reddened. "That's what I thought. It never occurred to me it could
  be Eric. I mean, every piece of information I had I gave to Baldwin and-"
  "And Eric helped himself to it. Nothing easier," said Sanders. "Baldwin
  wouldn't have noticed if Eric had walked in with a shopping cart and
  started filling it with confidential documents. And that's one tremendous
  advantage to all this," he added cheerfully. "Once the inquiry is over,
  I'll never have to have nightmares about working under Matt Baldwin
  again. You won't even be able to find the closet he's stashed away in."
  A tiny dish of ice cream, chestnuts, and whipped cream was set in front
  of each person; glasses were snatched away again and replaced. The wine
  steward arrived with an ice bucket and champagne, which he set up with
  a flourish beside Rob Lucas. As the steward started to remove the foil
  from the cork, Lucas addressed a quiet word in his direction. The
  champagne was deposited rapidly into the ice bucket, and the man melted
  away.
  "Robin, this is obscene," said Grainne, starting to laugh. "Champagne!
  You're behaving like a-like a-"
 "Tycoon? Playboy? Ostentatious rat?"
 "Something like that. What is it in aid of? If anything."
  "Oh, this is in aid of something," he said, taking a deep breath and
  looking her hard in the eye. "It certainly is. It's to celebrate our
  engagement. We are engaged, aren't we?" He stumb led slightly over the
  words and waved his hand in exasperation.
  The muted conversation from the tables in the rest of the room served
  only to intensify the silence. Grainne turned scarlet. "This isn't fair,"
  she said at last. "It really isn't. I'm
 272            MEDORA SALE

 so embarrassed." She buried her face in her napkin to cover her confusion.
 After a moment she raised her head, her eyes strangely bright, and looked
 over at the calmly waiting Lucas. "Oh, for heaven's sake, all right. We're
 engaged," she said, in a muffled voice and dropped her napkin back in her
 lap. But just as her natural pallor and composure were beginning to return,
 she looked at him again and erupted in laughter. "Is this where you drag out
 the diamond the size of an apartment building and make me put it on?"
  "Oh, no," he said. "Nothing so vulgar." He took the rose from the tiny vase
  in the center of the table and handed it solemnly to her, and then turned
  his attention to opening the bottle of champagne.

 "I feel as if I've just lived through a Victorian melodrama," said Harriet
 as they wandered along Bloor Street, vaguely in the direction of her
 neighborhood. "Did you have any idea he was going to do something that
 outrageous? And if you did, you might have warned me."
  "Well, I asked him yesterday what he was going to do if the disciplinary
  hearing didn't turn out well. And he said that hearing or no hearing, he
  was going to quit the force, go to law school, marry Grainne, and be happy.
  The only problem he could see with his plan was that Gramne persisted in
  not believing him when he said he wanted to marry her. He said he wasn't
  sure if this was a ploy to get rid of him or if she really thought he
  proposed to everyone he met. But he didn't say he was going to stage a
  public declaration."
  "There's a man who's used to having his own way," said Harriet. "Gorgeous
  or not, he'll be a handful. I would have crawled under the table if someone
  had done that to me."
  "You're not used to standing center stage," said John. "She is. Look how
  quickly she recovered. Anyway, I suspect
         SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT       273

 she's used to having her own way, too. They're a pair of prima donnas
 madly in love with each other; they'll get along very well. Don't you envy
 them all that happiness?"
  "Why should I envy them? I'm very happy," said Harriet, leaning her head
  on his shoulder as they walked along. "Aren't you? Anyway, doesn't the
  thought of marriage terrify you? It does me. Perhaps I'm too old and too
  bruised for it."
  "No," he said gently. "It doesn't terrify me. Not anymore. After all, it
  depends on who you're thinking of marrying."
          ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 MEDORA SALE is the author of three previous novels, Murder on the Run
 (1986), which won the Crime Writers of Canada Arthur Ellis Award for Best
 First Novel, Murder in Focus (1989), and Murder in a Good Cause (1990). She
 received her B.A. in modern languages and her Ph.D. in medieval studies from
 the University of Toronto. A former teacher who is now a full-time writer,
 she lives with her husband in downtown Toronto.