Page 43 of Sharp Force
“But you said you heard growling.” Benton fills the shaker with gin and ice.
“I’m thinking that could have been the raccoon. He was near the house when I saw him,” I reply. “He looked like he was limping. But then again, I don’t think that was what snorted and screamed. I don’t know what I was hearing except our property sounded like a jungle.”
“Anything injured can be aggressive,” Benton says over the loud rattle of the shaker he works. “I’ll do a walk around tomorrow before we head to the airport. But it’s not likely we can get anyone to help with injured wildlife on Christmas.”
“If all else fails, we’ll call Fabian. He can come over while we’re gone and help Marino take care of it,” I decide as Benton pours our drinks.
“Cheers.” He hands me a martini and we clink glasses.
Tossing the panzanella salad with cold pressed olive oil and Bordeaux red wine vinegar, I add creamy burrata cheese and thick croutons. I tear up fresh basil, adding capers and anchovies as Benton sets the café table overlooking the birdfeeders.
The window shades are down. Nothing can see in. But I continue feeling watched.
“What do you think?” I feed him a forkful of salad.
“Amazing but needs something.” He’s chewing. “God, I’m starved.”
“A little more garlic maybe.” I have a taste. “Yes, that will do the trick.”
“It sounds like there was more than one thing going on when Marino drove you home.” Benton places the fork in the sink. “The red lights may not be related to the growling and screaming. I’m not aware of anything like that being heard when the Slasher’s hologram shows up. Nothing similar has been recorded.”
“Before it gets much later.” I raise my martini again. “Merry Christmas Eve. To us, Benton.”
We touch glasses again.
“There’s no one I’d rather spend it with,” he says.
It’s almost eleven when we sit down at the café table, the lights dimmed, a large candle burning. Rimsky-Korsakov’sChristmas Eve Suiteis playing, a beautiful Barolo decanting, the bottle on the table so we can appreciate the label, 2016 a very good year.
The kitchen smells like garlic and baking bread, a fire burning on the hearth. Benton has changed into the Black Watch plaid pajamas I got him last Christmas. He looks wonderful in candlelight, his brow gathered in a perplexed frown as I continue passing along what Reba O’Leary told me.
I share what I learned from medical files and police reports, mentioning my misgivings about Trooper Trad Whalen. As Benton and I talk, we demolish plates of panzanella salad.
“I just think the Slasher task force needs to be aware of all this,”I’m saying. “I always err on the side of passing along information even if it may not be credible. And based on what I saw inside Rowdy O’Leary’s office and learned from his wife? I think he had major psychiatric problems. Clearly, he was fearful, and anxious. He’d become obsessed with the Slasher murders.”
“A lot of people are, and for good reason.” Benton reaches for his glass, the wine ruby red in candlelight. “I’m sure you can guess the number of baseless tips we get daily on the Slasher hotline. Many of them are from the same unbalanced people. They leave rambling messages about government conspiracies.”
“Apparently, the Slasher is why Rowdy started carrying his revolver when he went out to fish or run errands or whatever,” I explain. “He also became fastidious about setting the security system. And maybe it was more than just the murders all over the news. Maybe he was afraid of something else.”
“Depression with paranoid features could be the reason. But not necessarily.” Benton tears off a piece of crusty bread, dipping it into tomato sauce. “The question is whether he was like that before the hit-and-run.”
“According to him, it wasn’t an accident,” I explain. “His wife says he worried that someone ran him over deliberately.”
“It doesn’t mean much if he thought that.” Benton rests his fork on the edge of his salad plate. “People who aren’t well?” He taps his temple. “Sadly, they say all kinds of things.”
“He’d been working from home ever since the hit-and-run,” I reply. “He spent a lot of money, according to his wife. I’m wondering where he was getting it, paying cash for an expensive emerald ring. Did he really have clients?”
“Let’s see if Janet has any answers,” Benton says as sleet clicks against windows.
A draft shakes the candleflame as he gets up from the table, unplugging his tablet from the charger on the kitchen counter. Sitting back down, he selects the Janet app and instantly the AI avatar’s familiar pretty face fills the computer screen. Moving our chairs next to each other, Benton and I look on together.
CHAPTER 15
“Good evening, Benton. Hello, Kay, it’s always so good to see you both,” Janet says with her demure smile, blinking as if alive, looking right at us. “Merry Christmas Eve.”
“And to you, Janet,” Benton says as if she’s a person.
“We wish you were here,” I add, and I mean it.
