CHAPTER 16I rang the doorbell six times before he would open up. I knew he was there; I had checked to make sure his car was in the garage and I had seen there were lights in his apartment.
“Oh—” he said. “It’s you.”
He turned his back on me and walked away into the bedroom. He was in his shirt sleeves and slippers and after I had closed the door I gave him a couple of minutes to collect himself. When I went into the bedroom, he was sitting on the bed, brooding up at the portrait of Lorrie King. There was no reading him—not that I tried.
I waited. He got up, went to the bathroom, drew himself a drink of water and returned to sit on the bed. “You must have set it up,” he said. “Why?”
“You’ll have to believe what you can,” I said. “It would have happened; Saunders knew about it. I tried
