Holland Taylor Trilogy by David Housewright Page A

him when he was a kid.”
    â€œThat’s a motive?”
    â€œUnrequited love, detective. That’s the motive.”
    I don’t recall what I said then, but I don’t think the words “Good job” passed my lips.
    Anne broke it down for me. “Elizabeth,” she said, “was strangled. Manual strangulation is a very personal method of killing someone. And the killer did not want the body found. Both facts indicate the killer not only knew Elizabeth, he had some personal attachment to her. Now, add these facts to the equation: The killer was not very sophisticated, otherwise he probably would have known that the gases that emanate from a decaying corpse would force the body to the surface of the river even with two concrete blocks attached to it. But he was organized—the blocks, the wire, getting the body down to the river. He was strong. And he wasn’t afraid of water. In fact, I’d bet water was a natural element to him. After all, he could have buried her. Most people, that’s their first choice.”
    I thought it over, tried to find a flaw, couldn’t, decided to dismiss her anyway. “You’ve got it all worked out,” I said contemptuously. Then I saw it. “The sand. The goddamn sand!”
    â€œI wonder if he saved anyone from drowning that day,” Anne said.
    â€œLet’s ask him.”
    We did. Anne, with her sympathetic smile and a demeanor to rival any grade-school counselor, held the kid’s hand and brushed the hair out of his eyes and asked simple questions until he spilled his guts. The kid confessed (had been wanting to confess for six months it seemed) that he had been infatuated with Elizabeth ever since she was his baby-sitter. While riding his ten-speed home from the beach, he passed the Micka house. He was surprised to see Elizabeth mowing the grass; she had moved out years earlier. He decided to say hello, remembered that Elizabeth’s parents were in Europe and changed his plans. While she was in the backyard, he slipped through the open garage into the house and made his way to her bedroom. He waited. She came into the bedroom, removed her blouse in preparation for a shower, draped it over the chair, saw him and screamed. He tried to make her stop, clutched her throat. It was all a terrible mistake.
    The kid pleaded to man-one. The judge gave him fifty-four months and some psych time at the security hospital in St. Peter. I apologized to Detective Sergeant Anne Scalasi—a difficult thing for me, but man, she was impressive—and offered to buy her a steak dinner. Only Anne doesn’t eat red meat and turned me down. I got her drunk instead.

    Marion Senske returned to the room. “Sorry for the delay,” she told me, circling to the far side of the desk. “You were saying that Anne Scalasi did not send you to me.”
    â€œNow that I have had time to reflect on it, I believe she did,” I decided.
    Marion smiled, actually smiled, if only briefly. “It would seem Lieutenant Scalasi has extremely well-developed political instincts,” she volunteered. “Well-developed, indeed. She appraises the situation, recognizes the risks of personal involvement, then seeks to minimize them by moving in the most discreet manner possible. Yes, good instincts. Perhaps we can work together one day.”
    Have you ever felt like you were invited for drinks while everyone else was staying for dinner?
    â€œLady, I don’t know what in hell you’re talking about,” I told her.
    Marion studied me again. I began to feel like a laboratory rat. I promised myself I would give her a slow count to ten, then I was gone. I reached seven when she asked, “Are you discreet?”
    â€œYes. It’s a job requisite.”
    She studied me some more. This time I got up to nine before she said, “I discovered long ago that the odds of a secret becoming known increase exponentially with the number of