Sweet fantasies… she harbored no illusions of healing the boy's emotional wounds, had phoned Alex Delaware, a psychologist she'd worked with and trusted, friend of Milo Sturgis's, a man who'd been willing to go undercover for something he believed in. But he was out of town with his girlfriend, would be returning today.
Meanwhile, Billy stayed in the hospital for antibiotic treatment and nutrition, a police guard sitting ten feet down the hall. No reason Petra could see for that, but Schoelkopf had ordered it. Maybe he was feeling guilty, so why not?
The uniform at the door to Billy's room had been called into action only once, dealing with Sam Ganzer, who insisted on visiting. Feisty old guy, standing on his tiptoes, facing up to the uniform, fingers pointing, things getting loud until Petra interceded, said Ganzer could see Billy, took him for coffee in the family lounge first, to calm him down.
He wanted to know what would happen after Billy left the hospital. Telling Petra she was brave, a “real hero,” but no way would he allow her or anyone else to send the boy to some “stupid juvenile hall, I can tell you about institutions- hell, I'll adopt him myself before I let you get away with that.”
Petra promised she'd take care of Billy. Adoption fantasies had filled her head, too.
Billy needed to be hospitalized for at least three weeks. He'd emerged from the nightmare encounter with only superficial scratches, but medical tests revealed a low-grade bacterial infection in his lungs, foot fungus, slightly elevated blood pressure, and a pre-ulcerous stomach. The doctors pronounced the last two symptoms as probable stress reactions. No kidding. The infection was their main concern, and they had him on IV antibiotics. No one had told him about his mother yet. Delaware said he'd handle it, and Petra was grateful it wouldn't be her.
Ilse Eggermann would never be solved officially, but Petra was sure Ramsey had done her, too. How close she'd come to being fooled- okay, humility was good for the soul. Good for the career, too. In the future she'd be careful about assuming anything.
She thought about how Ramsey and Ilse could have gone down: Ramsey visiting Balch in Rolling Hills Estates, couple of beers between friends, then on the way home, nice, easy drive up Hawthorne, he decides on a stopover at the pier. Had he used a disguise that night, too? Had he been planning something all along? Or had Ilse's foreigner status protected him from recognition? The Adjustor had never made it over to Europe.
That kind of M.O. indicated he might've killed other women. She'd beg off that part of it- let the feds have their fun, anyone else who wanted the glory. Schoelkopf was already holding press conferences, talking about his investigation.
No news on the reward yet. Dr. and Mrs. Boehlinger had returned to Ohio to finalize Lisa's funeral arrangements, and they hadn't returned Petra's calls. Whether or not Billy deserved the reward legally, he certainly deserved it morally. Boehlinger would probably try to avoid paying. After what he'd put Billy through, Petra wanted to lean on him, but what could she do? Maybe an anonymous leak to the papers. Or perhaps Mrs. B. would come through.
All secondary. For now, Billy slept, helped along by a big dinner and sedation.
Angel face, white and smooth, so peaceful.
She bent down, kissed his forehead, left the room, went to get the play therapist.
On her way out of the hospital, one of the administrators, a middle-aged suit named Bancroft, snagged her.
“How's our little hero, Detective Connor?”
“Fine.”
Bancroft caught her arm, let go quickly when she stared at his hand. “If you have a moment, Detective, I have someone who'd like to speak with you.”
“Who?”
“In my office, please.”
His office was big, done up in blue tweed and fake Colonial. Two women in their sixties sat in overstuffed chairs. One was chunky, broad-shouldered, with wiry gray hair uncoiling under a small charcoal pillbox hat, an ancient, no-nonsense tweed suit, a melt-the-glacier stare. The other was very thin, with coiffed hair the color of brandy, tasteful jewelry, light makeup. Navy suit that looked like Chanel, matching shoes. Her face was longish, painfully angular. She'd probably been beautiful once. She looked frightened. Petra was baffled.
“Detective,” said Bancroft, “this is Mrs. Adamson. She and the late Mr. Adamson were among our most generous benefactors.”
Slight inflection on the past tense. Bancroft winced. The thin woman smiled. Her hands were white, blue-veined, slightly liver-spotted. Petra noticed one index finger making tiny circles atop her purse. Gorgeous shoes, gorgeous suit, but, like the stocky woman's getup, the outfit looked old, gave off a clear sense of history.
No introduction of the other woman. She was examining Petra like a fishwife rating mullet.
“Well, I'll leave you to talk,” said Bancroft. He left.
The chunky woman got up too, looking none too happy.
“Thank you, Mildred,” Mrs. Adamson told her. Mildred nodded grimly before closing the door.
Mrs. Adamson turned to Petra. Her mouth worked. Finally, she said, “Please call me Cora. I'm so sorry to take your time, but…” Instead of continuing, she removed something from her purse and held it out.
Color snapshot of Billy. A little younger- maybe eleven. He stood on a boat dock, waving.
“How did you get this, ma'am?”
“It's mine. I snapped the picture.”
“You know Billy Straight?”
The bottom half of the woman's mouth trembled, and her eyes pooled with tears. “This isn't Billy Straight, Detective Connor. It's Billy Adamson. William Bradley Adamson, Jr. My son. My late son.”
Petra examined the back of the photo. A handwritten inscription said: Billy, Arrowhead, 1971. The colors were a little faded; she should have noticed. Some detective.
The boy was smiling, but something was off- the smile required effort.
A handkerchief had flown to Cora Adamson's face. She said, “Perhaps there are things I could've done differently, but I wasn't- How could I know for sure?”
“Know what, Mrs. Adamson?”
“Forgive me, I'm not making sense, let me organize my thoughts… Billy- my Billy- was an only child. Brilliant, he taught himself to read at four. He graduated from Cal law school thirteen years ago, immediately began doing legal work for the Farm Workers Union. My late husband was convinced it was a stage, rebellion, getting back at the corporate world. But I knew better: Billy had always been caring, kind. Even as a small boy, he refused to hurt anything- he wouldn't fish. Bill senior loved to fish, but Billy refused. The day I shot that picture, he and Bill had had a tiff about that. Bill insisted he was going to show Billy how to fish once and for all. Billy cried and insisted he wouldn't get in the boat, refused to kill anything. Finally, Bill told him if he couldn't be a man, just to stay behind with his mother. Which he did. But he was upset- he loved his father. I took the picture to cheer him up.”
Petra stared at the photo. Same eyes, same hair. Same cleft chin. Jesus, even the expression was a clone.
“At twelve he became a vegetarian,” said Cora Adamson. “Again, Bill thought it was a phase, but Billy never touched meat or fish again- I'm wandering, forgive me- where was I- the farm workers. Billy could have gotten a job with any firm in the country, but he chose to travel around the state with the farm workers, looking for violations, living the way they lived. He seemed happy, then suddenly he showed up at home and announced he'd quit, gotten a job with the public defender's office. But he wasn't happy there either, and left soon after.
“After that, he started to drift, driving around the state in an old car, growing his hair long, a long beard, doing legal work for various free clinics, never settling down. I knew something was bothering him, but he wouldn't tell me what it was. He wasn't around long enough to tell me. His father was so angry at him… he just kept wandering, leaving me no phone number, no address- I knew he was lost, but he refused to be found.”