“So she very deliberately created a new life for herself while just as deliberately ending the old one. She framed Raymond for her murder. I don’t believe she had anything against Raymond, she just needed to fake her own death so no one would come looking for her, and Raymond, with his record, was the perfect fall guy. And you have to admit, she did a helluva job. The blood was an inspired touch. And the snowstorm? Manna from heaven. As a result, the authorities were convinced Alison was buried in a shallow grave somewhere.

“Except you didn’t buy it, did you?” I continued. “You and Dr. Bob. That’s because you knew about the money. But you couldn’t say anything, not without revealing your own fraud. So you hired me. And when I convinced myself that Irene Brown killed Alison, you put the note on my windshield to make me think otherwise, to keep me looking—you knew where I was having lunch that day. Damn! I should have seen it then.

“But I didn’t. So I kept looking for Alison. I kept looking until I found her. Only the money was gone by then, spent on The Harbor, with no way for you and Dr. Bob to recover it. But you anticipated that, too, didn’t you? That’s why you brought Stephen Emerton into it. How much did you offer him? A third? He hated his wife so much, I bet he settled for less.”

Truman didn’t answer.

“You brought Stephen into it because even if Alison was pretending to be Michael Bettich, she was still legally married to him; if she was killed, all her assets would go to him. That’s why Stephen was willing to risk casting suspicion on himself by admitting that Alison had had an affair with a doctor she had previously worked with; that’s why he dropped a hint that she could still be alive—so he could claim a piece of the action later. He was much smarter than he had pretended.

“After that the three of you just sat back and waited until I found her, knowing that I wouldn’t quit until I did. And when I did find her, you discovered that there was a trigger in the neighborhood already primed to do your killing. How lucky for you.”

“Interesting theory,” Truman told me.

“You’ll never get away with it,” I warned him.

“If what you say is true—and I most emphatically deny that it is—we already did get away with it, Mr. Taylor. And since you are without a shred of evidence to support these outrageous allegations, I strongly suggest you keep your fucking mouth shut or I’ll slap your ass with an injunction and sue your brains out. By the time I get done, you’ll be taking your meals with the other derelicts at the Dorothy Day Center.”

“How are you going to get a court order to exhume Michael’s body without my testimony?” I wondered. “How are you going to prove it actually is Alison buried down there to claim her property?”

“I have your written reports,” Truman reminded me. “They should be sufficient for our needs. Unless you testify that they’re phony, of course—and lose your license in the process. Are you willing to do that?” Truman was smiling triumphantly. “I didn’t think so.”

He stood up. “Good-bye, asshole. Don’t forget to send me a bill.”

He started toward his car and was halfway there when he stopped and looked back at me.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he called. “Hiding Dr. Holyfield’s assets from his wife? That was Alison’s idea. I just thought you should know.”

I should have hated him, but I didn’t. I should have hated Dr. Holyfield and Stephen Emerton, too, but they didn’t seem worth the effort. Instead, I convinced myself that sooner or later they would all get what they deserved. Life would settle with them, just as it had with Alison. It was something I needed to believe.

I gazed at the bright, cloudless sky as I returned to my car, realizing for the first time that I had not heard the sound of a jet engine for over a week, hadn’t seen any planes at all. The realization depressed me, although I couldn’t tell you why.

After seating myself behind the steering wheel, I took Alison’s photograph out of its envelope. When she had been just a voice on a cassette, a face in a photograph taken years earlier, I found her fascinating. And Cynthia and Bobby Orman were right: I had fallen a little in love with her. But now I was surprised by how ordinary she had become. A common thief with just a dash of uncommon flair.

I tore the photograph into pieces too small to reassemble and littered them on the ground.

twenty-nine

I watched Cynthia stretch, pushing against the edge of my redwood picnic table, first one finely chiseled leg, then the other extended behind her. Watching Cynthia move, especially in jogging shorts and tank top, was like an ice cold beer on a sweltering summer day: always a pleasure.

She had asked me to go jogging with her, but I had declined, using my still tender shoulder as an excuse—although it certainly hadn’t bothered me when Cynthia and I were together the night before. But it was such a beautiful day, why ruin it by getting all sweaty and out of breath? Instead, I wished her well, sprawled out in my hammock, and read my Sporting News. It was hard going. I kept thinking of Alison. And the men who had killed her.

I told Anne Scalasi and Chief Teeters what had happened in Deer Lake. They didn’t take it well. Teeters threatened to arrest me for obstruction. Anne just wanted me to go away for a while. But at least Teeters wouldn’t be haunted by the one that got away. And Scalasi would be able to replace the red tab in her murder book with a blue one.

“There’s not a damn thing you can do about them,” Cynthia said after I told her the story. “You have no evidence, nothing that’s admissible.”

“I could kill them.”

“But you won’t.”

“No, I won’t,” I agreed. “Alison was dirty. That’s why she was hiding. She knew what she was getting into. It’s just that—”

“You want justice for her.”

“I don’t know from justice,” I admitted. “What the hell is justice, anyway? If you have a working definition, I’d like to hear it. I just want … I don’t know what I want. A happy ending, I guess.”

“Oh, Taylor, you of all people should know better. Not every story has a happy ending. Some of them just end.”

She was right, of course. The world is what it is, not something else. That’s one reason why I have so little patience with peace demonstrators. But I didn’t feel any better about it.

I hadn’t read more than a dozen pages of the Sporting News when Cynthia, mopping her forehead with a towel, returned to my backyard, carrying my mail.

“This ought to improve your mood,” she said guardedly and handed me an envelope with Hunter Truman’s return address. It contained a check for $12,800—thirty-two days’ work, counting my time in the hospital, one of the longest cases I’ve ever investigated. However, Truman had decided to ignore my $1,982 expense invoice, and I debated suing him before finally deciding against it. It would probably give him too much pleasure.

“Who’s Rosalind?” Cynthia asked.

“Hmm?”

“Rosalind Colletti,” she repeated, handing me a postcard.

A jolt of adrenalin electrified my body at the sound of the name. I sat up, my legs straddling the hammock, and snapped the postcard from Cynthia’s fingers. On one side was a spectacular photograph of the Split Rock Lighthouse overlooking Lake Superior just north of Duluth. The other side had my address, a Duluth, Minnesota, postmark, and this message written in long hand:

Dearest Taylor,

I’ve been told your first aid saved my life, and for that I will be eternally grateful. But you know, despite what Oscar Wilde had to say on the subject, living well is not always the best revenge. Sometimes dying is.

Rosalind

“Who’s Rosalind?” Cynthia repeated after I had read the postcard for the fourth time.

She’d done it again! I’ll be damned, she’d done it again! Sheriff Orman must have helped her … managed to get to someone in the hospital.… And when Truman and Emerton and Dr. Bob exhumed her body only to find that there was no body …