F Is for Fugitive

words or less, tendered while I followed him through the foyer – all raw woods and modern art. We went down a step into the living room, which was dead ahead: two stories of glass looking out toward the view. The roof of Jean's apartment building wasn't visible, but I could see the lights of Floral Beach stretching almost as far as the big hotel on the hillside half a mile away.
    "Let me get you a drink," he said. "Thanks. Do you mind if I clean up?" He nodded to his left. "Straight down the hall."
    I found the bathroom and ran some water, scrubbing my hands and face. I blotted my face dry, staring at myself in the bathroom mirror. I had a big scratch on my cheek. My hair was matted with dirt. I found a comb in his medicine cabinet and ran it through my mop. I peed, brushed myself off, washed my hands and face again, and returned to the living room where Dwight handed me some brandy in a softball-sized snifter.
    I took it neat and he poured me a second.
    "Thanks," I said. I could feel the liquor defining my insides as it eased through. I had to breathe with my mouth open for a bit. "Whew! Great."
    "Sit down. You look beat."
    "I am," I said. I glanced anxiously toward the front door. "Are we visible from the street?"
    The narrow panels on either side of the front door were frosted glass. It was the exposed living room that bothered me. I felt as if I were onstage. He crossed the room and closed the drapes. The room was suddenly much cozier and I relaxed a bit.
    He sat down in the chair across from me. "Tell me again."
    I went back through the story, filling in the details. "I probably should have just waited for the cops."
    "You want to go ahead and call them and turn yourself in? The phone's right there."
    "Not yet," I said. "That's what I kept telling Bailey, but now I know how he felt. They'd just keep me up all night, hounding me with questions I don't have the answers for."
    "What are you going to do?"
    "Don't know. Get my head together and see if I can figure this out. You know, I was up here earlier and knocked on the door, but you weren't home. I wanted to ask if anybody up here ever saw Jean using the stairs."
    "The stairs?"
    "Up from the Timberlakes' apartment. It was right down there." I found myself pointing to the floor to indicate the base of the bluff.
    "Oh, that's right. I'd forgotten about that. Talk about small towns. I guess none of us are that far from anybody else."
    "That's for sure," I said. At the back of my mind, uneasiness was beginning to stir. Something about his response wasn't quite ringing true. Maybe it was his manner, which was suddenly too studiously casual to be believable. Pretending to be "normal" is a lot harder than you'd think. Did it mean anything, his having lived this close? "You forgot Jean Timberlake lived thirty feet away?"
    "No big deal," he said. "I think they only lived there a few months before she died." He set his brandy snifter on the coffee table. "You hungry? I'd be happy to fix you something to eat."
    I shook my head, easing him back toward the subject that interested me. "I realized this afternoon that the back door of the Timberlake apartment opened right onto the stairs. I figure she could easily have used the road up here as a rendezvous point for the guys she screwed around with. You never saw her up here?"
    He considered the possibility, searching his memory. "No, I don't believe so. Is it that important?"
    "Well, it could be. If somebody saw Jean, they might have also seen the guy she was having the affair with."
    "Come to think of it, I did see cars up here at night on occasion. I guess it never occurred to me it might be somebody waiting to pick her up."
    I love bad liars. They work so hard at it and the effort is so transparent. I happen to lie well myself, but only after years of practice. Even then, I can't pull it off every time. This guy didn't even come close. I sat and looked at him, giving him time to reconsider his position.
    He frowned with concern. "By the way, what's the story on Ann's mother? Mrs. Emma called about an hour ago and told me Bailey switched the medication. I couldn't believe it..."
    "Excuse me, could we get back to Jean Timberlake first?"
    "Oh, sorry. I thought we were done, and I've been awfully worried about Ann. It's unbelievable what she's been through. Anyway, go ahead."
    "Were you fucking Jean Timberlake yourself?"
    The word was just right, crude and to the point. He let out a little laugh of disbelief, like he must not