The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks - lanyon Josh (читать книги онлайн txt) 📗

The sheriff inspected him with those gleaming eyes. “You don’t say so,” he said finally.

“The kid must have told you this.”

The sheriff sighed. “Yeah, he said something along those lines and offered some garbled story about missing sets of keys. But I don’t know how reliable a witness he is.” He raised his eyebrows. “He’s a little light in the loafers, if you know what I mean.”

“You’re kidding,” Nick drawled. “What I noticed is he’s got a good eye for detail. He’s a painter. He notices things.”

“Maybe,” Sheriff Butler said, unconvinced. “The thing is, it’s the handyman who turned up dead. There’s still no sign of this body from the bathtub.”

When Nick didn’t respond, the sheriff added, “Thanks, Reno. If we have more questions we’ll contact you. Meantime, do me a favor and don’t leave town without letting us know.”

* * * * *

Perry was sacked out on the sofa when Nick opened the door to his apartment, but he sat up, hair on end, eyes heavy-lidded.

“Nick?”

“You expecting someone else?”

Perry gave a little chuckle and rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t think they’d keep you that long.”

Nick headed for the kitchen. “Want a drink?”

“Oh. I already brushed my teeth…”

Nick rolled his eyes and took a beer from the fridge. He was staring out over the sink, drinking, when Perry’s reflection appeared in the black window -- a slightly rumpled ghost drifting up behind him.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Perry said. “And not just because I’d rather sleep in the gazebo than my own apartment.”

Nick jerked his head in the direction of the fridge. “Help yourself.”

Perry padded barefoot over to the fridge -- and Nick resisted the temptation to tell him to put socks on his feet. He’d never considered himself the paternal type, but…someone needed to look after this boy. Once again he wondered what had gone wrong with the friend in San Francisco.

Perry got a beer, found the opener, and uncapped the bottle. He studied the design on the cap, frowning, then took a swig of beer.

“So what happened?” Nick questioned. “You found Tiny in Watson’s closet?”

“That’s pretty much it, yeah. I heard this weird sound. And then kind of a thump. I opened the closet and…he fell out.”

Nick glanced over. Perry’s fingers were white on the bottle cap, his eyes focused on whatever he had seen in Watson’s closet. It had to have taken a hell of a lot of courage to open that door. Against his will, Nick was impressed. Of course, the sensible thing to do would have been run for help.

Not that there were many places to find it in this lunatic asylum.

“We both saw him leave the apartment Sunday,” Nick said. “And you had the locks changed, so he couldn’t have got back in.”

“Somehow he did. We saw him leave, but no one saw him after that, remember? Jane was looking for him. He never came downstairs.”

Nick swallowed beer, considering this.

“But he wasn’t there the night before last,” Perry said, “because I checked the closet. I mean, the door was ajar, so I shut it -- but before I shut it, I glanced inside.”

“Why?”

Delicate color rose in Perry’s face. “Oh, you know,” he said vaguely.

And Nick did know. He bit back a grin. Hopefully Foster didn’t watch a lot of scary movies. “So he disappeared Sunday morning and showed up again, dead, in Watson’s closet on Tuesday night?”

“Right.”

“So someone murdered him and somehow -- and for some unknown reason -- dragged his body into Watson’s apartment.”

Perry said, “He wasn’t dead.”

Nick’s gaze sharpened. “What do you mean he wasn’t dead?”

“When I found him he was still alive,” Perry said unsteadily. “He…died while I was waiting for the ambulance.”

Nick set aside the inappropriate desire to offer comfort and focused on the business at hand. “Did he say anything? Did he say who did it?”

Perry shook his head. “He said, ‘We’re the good guys.’”

“We’re the good guys? You and me? Or him and someone else?”

“He didn’t specify.”

“But what the hell does that mean?”

Perry shrugged.

“Sounds like a line from a bad movie.”

Perry gave a tired laugh. “I know. But that’s what he said. At least, that was the only thing I could make out. He said something else, but I couldn’t make out the words.”

“None of them? What did it sound like?”

Perry made a violent gurgling sound, and Nick nearly choked on his beer. “You’re shitting me.”

Perry gave that funny little smile, but said seriously, “It didn’t sound like words. It was just…dying sounds.”

“Yeah. Well…” Once again Nick had that totally out-of-character desire to offer comfort. If he didn’t know it would be a fatal mistake to encourage the kid, he’d have…

But it would be a mistake -- so he didn’t.

Foster rubbed his eyes with his fist. “Gosh, I’m beat. I haven’t slept in two nights.”

Nick listened to this without hearing. He said slowly, “What I still don’t understand is how someone managed to lug Tiny inside Watson’s place after the locks were changed.”

“Maybe there’s a secret passage,” Perry offered.

“Yeah, right.” But as Nick considered it, his brows drew together. “Is that possible?”

“I don’t know. I never heard of any hidden passages.” Perry yawned, belatedly covering an inspiring glimpse of filling-free teeth and healthy tonsils.

“Are there blueprints of the house somewhere?”

Perry blinked at him like the question didn’t compute.

“Go back to bed,” Nick advised. “You look ready to keel over.”

Perry said, “Night, then,” and stumbled off to the sofa.

He was drifting off when a thought occurred. He pushed up on elbow calling, “How did your interview go?”

“Great,” Nick said. “I got the job.”

“Wow, that is great,” Perry said hollowly and buried his head in the pillow.

Nick finished his beer, tossed the bottle, and headed for his own bed.

* * * * *

Perry woke and lay blinking at the blue rain shadows rippling across the ceiling. Another day in Paradise, as his pop used to say.

He stretched, and the blankets drew up, leaving his bare feet exposed to the cold. Shivering, he curled up once more. Nick kept his thermostat too low; Perry felt chilled and cramped after a night on the sofa.

Actually he couldn’t remember when he’d last had a good night’s sleep. Before Frisco. Before Marcel turned out to be mostly a figment of his imagination.

Rising, he found a saucepan in Nick’s cupboard, filled it with water, and left it heating on the stove while he hurried across to his own apartment for a change of clothes and a tin of hot chocolate.

A glance over the banister showed him a deputy sheriff walking upstairs. He recognized him as one of the two who had shown up the night he had discovered the body in the bathtub. This was the younger man. “Abe” the senior partner had called him.

“Morning,” Deputy Abe said laconically. His expression indicated he remembered Perry quite well too -- and was equally unimpressed.

“Morning,” returned Perry, drawing back. He’d had a vague idea of grabbing some of his things out of Watson’s apartment, but that would have to wait.

Letting himself into his own rooms, he used his peak flow meter and noted the results on the asthma chart pinned to the fridge -- pleased to note that despite the stress and strains of the past week, he was still safely in the green zone -- grabbed clean clothes and the tin of Nestle’s Quik and dashed back to Nick’s.

Nick’s bedroom door was closed, Nick apparently still fathoms under after the long, nearly back-to-back trip to and from Los Angeles. Perry showered, shaved, and changed into clean Levi’s and a forest green thermal Henley. He knew the color suited him; he had bought it for the vacation with Marcel. He examined himself in the mirror. Despite the uneasy night’s sleep, he looked better than he had recently. But then he felt better -- mostly because Nick was back.