Reversible Errors Read Free Page B

decline, as she was nearly certain to do, in an equally innocuous fashion. What halted him, instead, was the cold thought that any overture would be, in a word, unfair. Pamela was a subordinate, inevitably anxious about her prospects, and he was a partner. There was no changing the unequal footing or his leverage, no way Arthur Raven could depart from the realm of settled decency where he felt his only comfort with himself. And yet even as he accepted his reasoning, he knew that with women some obstacle of one kind or another always emerged, leaving him confined with the pangs of fruitless longing.
    He used the gizmo in his pocket to unlatch Pamela's door. While she sank into the sedan, he stood in the bitter dust that had been raised in the parking lot. The death of his hopes, no matter how implausible, was always wrenching. But the prairie wind gusted again, this time clearing the air and carrying the smell of freshly turned earth from the fields outside town, an aroma of spring. Love-the sweet amazing possibility of it-struck in his chest like a note of perfect music. Love! He was somehow exhilarated by the chance he had lost. Love! And at that moment he wondered for the first time about Rommy Gandolph. What if he was innocent? That too was an inspiration almost as sweet as love. What if Rommy was innocent !
    And then he realized again that Rommy wasn't. The weight of Arthur's life fell over him, and the few categories that described him came back to mind. He was a partner. And without love. His father was dead. And Susan was still here. He considered the list, felt again that it added up to far less than he had long hoped for, or, even, was entitled to, then opened the car door to head back to it all.

    Chapter 2
    july 5, 1991
    The Detectiv e w hen larry starczek heard about the murder of Gus Leonidis, he was in bed with a prosecutor named Muriel Wynn, who had just told him she was getting serious with somebody else.
    "Dan Quayle," she answered, when he demanded to know who. "He fell for my spelling."
    Irked, Larry agitated one foot through the clothing on the hotel carpeting in search of his briefs. When his toe brushed his beeper, it was vibrating.
    "Bad stuff," he said to Muriel after he got off the phone. "Good Gus just bought the farm. They found him and two customers dead of gunshot wounds in his freezer." He shook out his trousers and told her he had to go. The Commander wanted all hands on deck.
    Tiny and dark, Muriel was sitting up straight on the stiff hotel linen, still without a stitch.
    "Is there a prosecutor assigned yet?" she asked.
    Larry hadn't a clue, but he knew how it went. If she showed up, they'd assume somebody sent her. That was another great thing about Muriel, Larry thought. She loved the street as much as he did.
    He asked her again who the guy was.
    "I mean I just want to move on," Muriel answered. "I think this other thing-I think it may go somewhere. I might even get married."
    "Married!"
    "Hell, Larry, it's not a disease. You're married."
    "Eh," he answered. Five years ago he had married for the second time, because it made sense. Nancy Marini, a good-hearted nurse, was easy on the eyes, kind, and well disposed toward his boys. But as Nancy had pointed out several times recently, he'd never said goodbye to any of the stuff that had led his first marriage to ruin, the catting around or the fact that his principal adult relationship was with the dead bodies he scraped off the street. Marriage number two was just about past tense, but even with Muriel, Larry preferred to keep his problems to himself. "You've always said marriage was a disaster," he told her.
    "My marriage to Rod was a disaster. But I was nineteen." At thirty- four, Muriel had the distinction of having been a widow for more than five years.
    It was the Fourth of July weekend and the Hotel Gresham, in the early afternoon, was strangely silent. The manager here owed Larry for a few situations he'd handled-guests who wouldn't leave,