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  “So the answer’s no?”

  “The answer,” Crabbe said, starting to get angry all over again, “is that getting something like an Academy Award nomination incorrect in a newspaper, even a newspaper like the Journal, is an egregious sin. And to make it worse, they were supposed to call me. The editor I spoke to said they’d call me when they discovered the truth. But like everyone else, they lied. I haven’t heard a word.”

  “They’ve been a little distracted.”

  “By this woman’s murder? It’s no excuse for their lack of professionalism. If you see them, please tell them I said that.”

  “I’ll do that,” Westwood said. “As soon as I see them, I’ll be sure to pass that along.”

  As Justin walked toward the front door, Wallace Crabbe cleared his throat. “I’ll still accept a free subscription.”

  Westwood stopped, turned, faced the balding little man with the smug expression on his face. “Excuse me?” he asked.

  “When they finally get back to work and they find out I was right about this Miller fake,” Wallace P. Crabbe said. “I told them I’d accept a free subscription as an acknowledgment of my contribution. I still will. And make sure it’s in the name of Wallace P. Crabbe. Not Wally.” Then he added with a sniff, “Make sure you tell them that, too.”

  This time Justin didn’t say a word. He didn’t even nod. He just left the very clean house and was extremely relieved and happy to sit behind the wheel of his very dirty car.

  7

  Justin went to bed early that night, fell asleep with the TV on, and was out by ten-thirty. The dream came again, earlier than usual. He’d been asleep only an hour or so.

  There were more details than the night before, the violence was even more vivid, the pain even deeper. This time the dream forced him to remember lying on the floor, and that the red was his own blood. He saw the man standing over him lift his leg to kick him, felt the impact of the shoe on his chest. He saw himself turning over, saw the look of pleasure on the man’s face, then the look of shock. This time Justin knew that the explosion came from him. And then there was more red. …

  When he awoke there was no lingering haze. He was wide awake; his brain was going at full speed. This time he did not want the images to stay, so he flung off the blanket and swung his legs out of bed. He turned off the television, went straight to the laptop computer he kept on his kitchen table, inserted the disk he’d copied earlier that day at the police station, and looked at the notes he’d typed up.

  He stared at the line that just said: “Walrus”????

  “It sounded like Walrus,” Deena had said. The blond man had wanted something, some information, and Susanna Morgan had given it to him. Something that sounded like Walrus.

  “Goddammit.” He said it out loud, got up and ran to his pants that he’d tossed on the bedpost, stuck his hand in the left front pocket. He found the crumpled Post-it that Harlan Corning had given him, the one with Wallace Crabbe’s phone number on it. Corning had written “Wally” on it. That’s what had thrown him off. The man had even said that he preferred to be called Wallace, but Justin was thinking Wally all the way.

  Justin Westwood glanced at his watch. 11:45.

  “Fuck it,” he said, also aloud, and quickly dialed the number.

  Wallace P. Crabbe was trying not to let his anger overcome him. His girlfriend had brought up that subject during their two days away. She’d told him that she thought it was unhealthy the way he got so upset over little things, that he’d make himself sick. He was surprised she had noticed. He’d thought he kept his emotions so far below the surface that they were undetectable. But she’d taken his hand in hers, said she knew that was what he thought, but she had gotten to know him well. Possibly even better than he knew himself. So she could see what was going on below the surface. This scared Wallace. But it also made him happy, in a strange, disconcerting way, and he told her he would try to work on this problem.

  When he went to the door to answer the doorbell, his first instinct was to erupt. And he had plenty of reasons. First of all, he was watching a DVD of The Third Man, certainly in his top ten of all time, maybe even the top five. And he was nearly at the moment when Orson Welles appeared for the first time, the shot in the shadowy doorway when he was so handsome and so mysterious. He hated being interrupted when he was watching a movie, especially this movie and especially at this moment. Second, it was nine o’clock. That was way too late for anyone to be ringing his doorbell. Third, he was not expecting any more visitors and he was in no mood to entertain anyone he knew or talk to any other policemen or listen to the ranting of a proselytizing religious fanatic, and those were the only three options he could envision.

  When he opened the door, he was surprised to find a fourth option.

  “Are you Wallace P. Crabbe?” a blond man, quite handsome, asked. He didn’t seem to notice that Wallace was trying to contain his fury. Or if he did, he certainly didn’t care. The stranger seemed perfectly at ease. “The Wallace P. Crabbe who called the East End Journal about the obit?”

  Wallace P. was stunned. So they actually did do something. Maybe that police officer really had passed along his message. Amazing. They even sent someone to apologize. What was the world coming to?

  “You’re from the paper?”

  The blond man nodded.

  “I was right, wasn’t I?” Wallace couldn’t help crowing. It came out smugly, but that’s okay, he thought, I deserve to be smug. But then his anger crept back into the smugness, and he said, “Do you have any idea what time it is? This is an outrage!”

  “You are Wallace P. Crabbe?”

  His ego won out over the lateness of the hour. “I told them they screwed up, didn’t I? I was right about everything, wasn’t I?”

  “You were right,” the man said. “Congratulations.”

  Wallace vented then for thirty seconds or so. He couldn’t help himself, no matter what he’d promised about trying to remain calm. He just started spouting off. About the state of the newspaper business, about the state of the world, about the lack of work ethic in just about everyone. About the fact that no one takes his job seriously anymore.

  “I take my job very seriously,” the man said. “May I come in? I know it’s late but I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m curious how you discovered the errors.”

  “Is this for the paper?”

  “Well, it was such a serious screwup I think we’re going to do a story on it.”

  That set Wallace off again. By the time he was finished spouting about his knowledge of movies and his awareness of history and the fact that the errors in the obit were so blatant he hadn’t even needed to check them against a reference book, he was sitting in an easy chair in his living room and the blond man was comfortably ensconced on the couch.

  “Wow,” the blond man said, “you really do know your movies.”

  “It’s something I take quite seriously,” Wallace Crabbe said.

  “Me too,” the blond man said. “I’m kind of obsessed with movies.”

  “Well, I don’t like to use that word—I think it has a slightly negative connotation—but …”

  The blond man nodded toward the TV and DVD player. “What were you watching when I interrupted you?”

  “The Third Man.”

  “A classic. I probably listen to the sound track more than any other one. You know directors and writers and cinematographers, too?”

  “And the editors and the cameramen and the composers.”

  “Can I test you out?”

  Wallace was eating this up. It could have been four in the afternoon as far as he was concerned. The paper was writing a story about his diligence and knowledge and he had a fellow movie connoisseur in his house. Heaven.

  “Okay,” he said, nodding. “But I warn you, I’m very good.”

  “Extreme Prejudice.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s
one of my favorite movies. Who directed it?”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize you were starting.” Wallace couldn’t help his superior smile. “Walter Hill. Nick Nolte and Powers Boothe were the stars.”

  “Wow. How about The Hand?”

  The same condescending smile. “Early Oliver Stone. Michael Caine is a cartoonist whose hand is severed.”

  “The Big Heat.”

  “Fritz Lang. Glenn Ford is the policeman whose wife is killed and he goes after Lee Marvin.”

  “Do you remember the actress who gets the hot coffee thrown in her face?”

  “Gloria Grahame. A marvelous performance.” Wallace put his hand over his mouth to stifle a cough. “The films you’re asking about— they’re all extremely violent.”

  “I guess that’s true,” the blond man acknowledged. “It’s what I like, though. I wonder what that says about me?”

  “This has been extremely entertaining,” Wallace said, “but I guess we should get on with it. What am I receiving?”

  “Receiving?”

  “From the Journal. I assume that in addition to the story, the very least I’m getting is a free subscription. Although that still doesn’t make up for the sloppiness, you know.” Wallace worried that, because he was in such a good mood, his rebuke wasn’t as harsh as it should have been. “That doesn’t make up for the kind of mistake this was.”

  “Do you think I could get a glass of water? Before I tell you what you’re getting?”

  Wallace stood up, not bothering to hide his annoyance, and went into the kitchen to get the drink. The blond man didn’t even look up when he heard a glass drop and break and his host begin to sputter. In a couple of seconds, Wallace came storming back into the living room, staring at the blond man, then turned back toward the kitchen, his mouth open.

  “I’m not giving you a free subscription,” the blond man in the living room said.

  “I’m not either,” the second, identical-looking blond man in the kitchen said.

  “What is going on here?” Wallace whispered to the second blond, who now stepped through the kitchen doorway into the living room. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

  “You were really angry about that obit, weren’t you?” the first blond man said.

  “I’m not now,” Wallace said, stuttering. “It d-d-doesn’t really matter.”

  “What’s the pin in Wallace P. stand for? Pissed off?”

  “You know,” said the blond who’d been in the kitchen, who was still lingering in the doorway, “sometimes when you’re angry, it’s better just to keep quiet.”

  “Yes.” Wallace nodded quickly. His head bobbed up and down several times. “I understand that now. And that’s what I’m going to do. Keep quiet.”

  “We know,” the first blond said. And, smiling politely, he drew out of his jacket pocket an SIG-Sauer with a silencer attached, pulled the trigger once, and shot Wallace P. Crabbe right in the middle of his forehead.

  “He sure was surprised to see you,” the first blond said.

  “They’re all surprised to see me,” the second one said.

  Then the two men smiled at each other and, professionals that they were, began to clean up.

  Justin was holding the phone to his ear, gripping it tighter than was necessary. It had rung ten times now. He was hoping that the little shit in his spotless, impersonal house would answer the phone, irate at being awakened. He was hoping that Wallace P. Crabbe would give him living hell and then call the East End Harbor police station to register a complaint against him.

  He let the phone ring twenty times before burying his head in his hands and bending over in despair. He only hung up when he was certain that Wallace sounded enough like Walrus that Wallace P. Crabbe wasn’t ever going to answer the phone again.

  8

  “Hey, Westwood.”

  Justin was sitting at his desk, his eyes closed, doing what he liked best, which was drifting away in his self-created cloud of darkness. The voice jarred his eyes open and he glanced over at the cop at the desk next to his. What the hell is his name again? Westwood thought. Oh, yeah. Got it. Chalk one up for my side.

  “What do you want, Brian?”

  “I just want to tell you I think you’re an unbelievable fucking pussy.”

  Justin nodded wearily. “Is that right?”

  “You let those guys from Middleview push the shit out of you.”

  “No I didn’t. I just didn’t push back.”

  “You think that missing guy is dead. I heard you with the chief. You convinced him you were right.”

  Justin shrugged. “Well, they didn’t believe me. And there was nothing I could do to convince them.”

  “Bullshit. You just rolled over and played dead.”

  “Maybe it’s because I don’t know if I believe me.”

  Brian didn’t say anything to that. He didn’t have to. The look of scorn on his face said more than enough.

  “Westwood.”

  This time it was the other one, Gary. Justin looked up at him but didn’t bother to respond.

  “What’s the deal with the chief and you?” Gary said. He didn’t seem to care if Justin was ignoring him.

  “What deal is that, Gary?”

  “It’s like he thinks you’re …I don’t know what. Like you’re special. Like you know stuff.” He looked at Justin, took off his silly-looking ultra-cop sunglasses and took a long look. “What is it you know?”

  “He don’t know shit,” Brian said.

  Gary kept looking. “Is that right?” he asked, but he wasn’t asking Brian. He was asking Justin.

  “That’s right,” Westwood said. “It’s the first smart thing I ever heard your little friend say.” Then he got up and walked out the door of the station, onto the East End Harbor streets.

  As he walked, he thought about the conversation he had had with the Middleview police.

  He’d called them the night before, right after he gave up on reaching Crabbe. He explained his fear and the department dispatched two men to check out Crabbe’s house. He wasn’t there. The house was empty. But there was no evidence of B and E. No blood. No sign of theft or a struggle or that anything violent had occurred. The sergeant at the desk called Justin back, asked him to explain his suspicions, and then said he thought it would be best if they could talk in person. Next, Justin called his chief, filled him in on what was happening. Leggett was nervous. Justin could tell that he wasn’t wild about the call to the Middleview force, but he agreed to back Justin, said he’d be at the meeting in the morning. And he was. Two cops from Middleview showed up at the station around nine o’clock. They went into the chief’s office and Justin did his best to explain his thought process as calmly and cogently as he could. But as he spoke he realized he didn’t have much. Yeah, he had a witness saying that Susanna Morgan had been murdered. But there was no motive and very little physical evidence to back it up. There was a connection between Susanna Morgan and Crabbe, but it was a tenuous one at best. And there was absolutely no proof that anything had happened to Wallace Crabbe other than the fact that he might have decided to stay at his girlfriend’s house for the night. Halfway through his explanation, Westwood could feel the two cops tune him out. They weren’t buying it. Not enough proof. Too much of a stretch. Absolutely no evidence. And it was all coming from a schmuck walking a one-street-long beat in a basically crimeless town.

  So he clammed up. The passion that had come out when he’d explained his theory to Leggett was gone. He finished his story in a quiet monotone, listened as the cops politely said they’d check up on Crabbe and keep Justin informed as the investigation progressed. They had glanced at each other and smiled at the word “investigation.”

  It was over. Without Wallace Crabbe’s body there was nothing.

  As the two cops left, he heard one of them say to Brian, “What’s the story with that guy?” Brian responded, too low for Justin to hear. Then he heard them all laugh knowingly. One of the cops also said, “Hey,
isn’t this where that intern’s from? The one who’s missing in D.C.?” And this time it was Gary who answered, “Maura Greer. Yeah. She was a townie.”

  “You know her?” one of the Middleview cops asked.

  “Went to high school with her,” Gary said. And Brian said, “Me too.”

  “She looks like a babe,” the same Middleview cop muttered.

  “A little porky,” Brian said. “But not too shabby.”

  “Hell,” the Middleview cop said, “that’s who you guys should go out and find. Be a couple of heroes. Don’t waste your time on this bullshit.”

  And they all laughed again.

  Then, when he came out of Leggett’s office, Brian had accused him of rolling over. Had he? Yeah, probably. He’d spent so many years rolling over that he couldn’t tell the difference anymore. But what the hell could he have said that would have made any difference? I have a hunch? I give out parking tickets in a resort town now but my hunches used to mean something? Yeah, that would have worked. He told himself that he gave up trying to convince them because he had nothing. Somewhere inside him was the thought that he was wrong. That his instincts had dulled and atrophied and his hunches no longer had validity. That the unpleasant and compulsively tidy man hadn’t been attacked, that he did actually have a girlfriend and he was probably just spending the night with her. That was why Wallace Crabbe hadn’t answered his phone. Because he was simply leading a normal life, something Justin Westwood hadn’t led in six and a half years.

  Justin made the turn onto Main Street. So what now? Too early to get drunk. Besides, he was on duty. He thought about saying he was sick and going home, smoking as much dope as he could, and blaring some R.E.M., drowning out the world and shutting his eyes for the rest of the day. But he knew he wouldn’t do that. Couldn’t do it. If he did, he’d stay there a lot longer than one day. So he had to ask himself the same question he’d asked himself almost every hour of the day and night for the past six-plus years: What do I do to get through the next sixty minutes without blowing my brains out?