Chapter Five
When I drove back into the driveway at 12 Liverpool Street at ten o'clock the following morning, I saw Maggie Sheffield's car parked across the street as it had been the day before, but she wasn't in it.
I heard her say as I walked quietly into the living room, "Paul, I called the hospital on my way over here. Mrs. Himmel told me there was no change. She said that Mac was still with Jilly, had been since last night."
I heard Paul grunt.
"Mac spends a lot more time there than you do, Paul. How's that?"
"Go to hell."
Paul didn't sound particularly pissed off at such a question, just incredibly tired. Personally, if she'd said that to me, I would have been tempted to slug her. I walked into the living room, a long narrow great room that ran the entire front of the house, facing the ocean. It was all windows across the front; where there had to be walls to hold up the house, they were stark white. Large square white pavers covered the floor, and all the furniture was black. It was a minimalist designer's wet dream-no compromises with kitsch or newspapers or photos anywhere. Just all these clean stark lines that set my teeth on edge. I couldn't imagine cozying up with a good book in here or setting a nice big TV set in the corner and watching football. Actually, I didn't want to be anywhere near this room when I could help it. It was a testament-not to living, but to someone's idea of perfection. Even the paintings, all of the dozen or so abstracts, were made up of paint slashes, primarily black and white, lined up like perfect little soldiers along a long white wall. I couldn't imagine how anyone could live in this sterile space, particularly Jilly. I remembered Jilly's room growing up-bright teal blues and oranges and greens. Of course she'd also had punk-rocker posters on the walls. People changed, but this much? Was this all Paul's doing?
I said to Maggie, who was seated on a long black leather sofa, a small notebook open on her lap, "Sheriff, I hope you're well." She was wearing her tan uniform, running shoes on her feet. For just an instant, I saw her without the tan uniform, just as she'd been in my dream the night before. Her hair was ruthlessly pulled back, fastened with one of those things that my FBI friend Sherlock called a banana clip. Sherlock had a rainbow of colors in her banana clips.
"Mac," she said, rising. "I'm just fine. How's Jilly?"
"The same. No change."
"I'm sorry. How are you feeling?"
"Fine, no problem."
"You're looking a lot better, not quite so ready for the grave as yesterday. Come sit down, Mac. I just need to go over a few more things with Paul."
Paul hadn't stirred. He was seated forward in a black tufted leather chair, his hands clasped between his knees.
He appeared to be studying a white paver at his feet. "There's a small scratch," he said.
"Scratch? What scratch?" Maggie asked.
"There," Paul said. "Right there, in the top right corner. I wonder how that could have happened."
"Tell you what, Paul," I said, not joking at all, "I'll get a load of newspapers and we can pile them up over the scratch."
"Yeah, Mac, sure. You're a philistine. You've got a messy, unsophisticated soul. Come join the fun. Let's get this over with. I've got to get back to work."
"Jilly told me that was why you left Philadelphia and VioTech--you wanted to continue work on this project and they wanted you to stop."
"That's right."
"What's the project?" I asked, walking over a black-and-white geometrical carpet to stand by one of the large glass windows that looked out at the ocean.
"It's all about the fountain of youth. I'm developing a pill that will reverse the aging process."
"My God, Paul," Maggie said, nearly falling off the sofa, "that's just incredible! Why wouldn't they want you to continue on that? That would be worth not just a fortune, it would be worth the world."
Paul laughed at her. "Everyone bites big time on that one. Everyone wants youth back." He touched his receding hairline. "I'd rather come up with a pill to regrow hair myself."
"If Jean-Luc Picard on Star Trek is any indication, we still won't have a pill to grow hair even in the twenty-fourth century. You're out of luck, Paul."
"What are you really working on then, Paul?" I asked.
"Look, it's privileged information and it's really none of your business, either of you. It's got nothing to do with Jilly. Now please get off my back."