“And no gloves means what?”
“Either he ditched the gloves, along with the gun, or he didn’t do it. We’re still looking for the gun.”
For a long time I didn’t say anything, and it was like that morning, when I’d read in the paper that Tommy had been released. Surprise at what I was feeling, and relief, and more, and I didn’t know why I even cared. It bothered me that Hoffman was sitting there, telling me that Tommy was still a suspect.
“Why would Tommy kill Mikel?” I asked. “Mikel had been nice to him, Mikel was taking care of him. If he was going to kill one of us, it would’ve been me.”
“What if he learned that his son had been selling naked pictures of his daughter on the Internet?”
This time, I got really angry. “People keep saying that! Mikel didn’t do it!”
“Fine, give me proof.”
“I don’t—”
“Mikel had access to your home the entire time you were away,” Hoffman interrupted. “He knew enough about computers to set up the system here. He sold drugs, and apparently he did it only for the money, not for the product. Why not try to make a little extra off his sister?”
“There are so many things wrong with that, I don’t know where to start! He was my brother, don’t you get that? He would never do that to me, he was always trying to protect me. And as for money—Jesus, all he had to do was ask.”
Hoffman didn’t say anything for a moment, giving me time to calm down.
“It wasn’t Mikel who took the pictures,” I insisted. “And it wasn’t my father who killed him.”
And as soon as I’d said it aloud, I discovered that I believed it. Tommy had committed a great many sins, but he could never have taken a gun and shot his son. It didn’t matter how drunk he might’ve been, it didn’t matter how provoked he might have felt. It never would happen. And if he wasn’t drunk, if he was sober when he did it, then we were talking about a level of premeditation that was beyond him. He wasn’t a planner. He was like me; life happened to us, we didn’t do things to life.
I sat there, and I thought about it and thought about it, and the only thing I discovered was that the more I thought about it, the more certain I became. Maybe it was utter bullshit, maybe there was no reason or logic to it.
But if the cops pinned the murder on Tommy, either because he was a drunk or a bastard or had one murder to his name already, it meant that the son of a bitch who had killed my brother would get away with it. I couldn’t let that happen. If not for Tommy’s sake but for Mikel’s, there was no way in hell I could let that happen.
Hoffman gazed at me, and it was disconcertingly close to the looks she’d shot at me in the interrogation room three nights before.
After a second, I said, “Tommy knows what happened. He didn’t do it, but he knows what happened. He says he doesn’t remember, but I think he’s lying.”
“And you know this how, exactly?”
“Because I know how that works.”
“That’s not really something that’ll stand up in court.”
I fidgeted with my pack of smokes, trying to use my hands to keep my brain quiet. “My brother’s been murdered, you’re accusing him of pimping my image. You’re saying my dead brother is responsible for some asshole in ass-crack Dakota beating off to my picture every night.”
Hoffman considered, just watching me. I hated the look, because I had no idea what was going on behind it. I got out a new cigarette, lit it, blew smoke. It was like she was hardly breathing.
“What?” I finally demanded.
“I’m just trying to figure you. You go on stages around the world, and you play guitar, and you sing, and jump and run and sweat and dance, and you have thousands of people watching your every move when you do that.”
“Van,” I said. “Not me.”
“Van more often, sure, but you, too. And television, you go on television, and millions—literally millions—of people watch what you do. Those people, they’re watching your body as much as hearing the music, they’re objectifying you just as much, they’re sexualizing you just as much.”
“You’re saying that the pictures shouldn’t bother me? Isn’t that like telling me I was asking for it?”
Hoffman shook her head vigorously. “No, hell no. What’s been done to you, it’s a kind of rape, and I wouldn’t dare diminish it.”
I threw up my hands, frustrated, not getting it, not getting her.
“It’s you,” she said. “It’s you, your body, and if it were me, I wouldn’t be ashamed, even if I could afford to be. I’d sure as hell be angry, I’d be boiling, but I wouldn’t be ashamed.”
“Well, you weren’t the one humiliated.”
“It’s only humiliating if you let it be, if you give it that power.”
“You know what? I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“You’ve got to own it—”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I repeated, slower and clearer, to make sure she understood.
She did. “You’re used to getting your own way, aren’t you?”
“Ah, here we go. This is the part where you call me a bitch rock-princess again, is that it?”
Hoffman slid her chair back and rose, pulling her coat free. “No. You’re a bitch because you’re pretty blatantly miserable. The rock-princess part, that’s just frosting.”
“I’ve got a reason to be miserable.”
“Sure. But maybe you just like it.” She had the coat on, adjusting it. She took the cap from her pocket and set it on her head, tucking stray hair beneath it. “Hell, you’re an artist, you’ve got to suffer, right?”
“And it was going so well,” I said. “Yet here we are, back to the fuck-yous.”
“Hey, gumdrop, if this was a date, you’d have known it. Don’t get up. I can find my way out.”
CHAPTER 23
The ringing phone pulled me free from the nightmare.
Reporters and humiliations, of cameras on me at all the worst times. Flashes capturing me in bed in Montreal, not with a groupie but with a cop, and photographers pursuing me into bathrooms, finding me drunk and naked and lying in my own vomit and blood. Big Technicolor production, cast of thousands, everyone from the funeral, everyone from the press, everyone from the audience. Chapel taking notes on his legal pad, and Joan standing with dead Steven, each looking pained with disappointment. Damien asking me to sign something, even though I wasn’t Van.
So the phone was really a lifesaver, as far as that went.
“Hello?” I said. It came out more as a slurry than a word.
“This is Scanalert operator one-four-seven; is this Miriam Bracca?” The voice was male, and young, and very efficient.
I sat up, felt around for the light. It had started raining again, and there was the sound of it pattering on the roof and running along the edges of the house. “Uh, yeah?”
“We’ve registered an alarm activation at this number.”
“You have?”
“Are you alone?”
“Yeah,” I said, and then thought maybe it was a reporter being cagey. “Why?”
“If you are not able to speak freely, say the word ‘later,’ now.”
“I’m alone. There’s no alarm going off here.”
“May I have your password?”
“My what?”
“I need your password for a system reset.”
“I don’t know. Joan? Mikel? Tailhook? Telecaster?”
“ ‘Telecaster’ is the password. I’m very sorry to have bothered you, ma’am.”
“Wait, that’s it?”
His efficient yap disappeared, and now he sounded slightly exasperated. “If there’s no audible going off there must be a malfunction in the system. We’ll run a diagnostic and send someone out later tomorrow to see if we can’t isolate the problem. Once again, sorry for the inconvenience. Thank you for using Scanalert.”