“Have you thought about the possibility,” Lefebvre said, “that he could be right, that those bones are the baby’s?”
“I consider that slim, knowing who was visiting him,” O’Connor said.
“And what reason would Mitch Yeager have to influence him?”
“I can tell you that,” Irene said. “He hoped to ruin Max’s chances of living independently of him. Mr. Yeager didn’t know the terms of the trust and figured Max would have to give up all his money and become dependent on him again. He’s had big plans for Max.”
“Does that possibility seem likely to you, Max?” Lefebvre asked.
“Absolutely. He wanted me to manage his businesses. Now I don’t have to. He’s furious with me.”
“This will take tact,” Lefebvre said.
“You’re screwed then, aren’t you?” Irene said, and he laughed.
“I don’t mean to get you in trouble,” Max said, “but-”
“Mr. Ducane,” Lefebvre said, putting the photos back into the envelope, “a homicide detective who is at war with the coroner might as well stay home. Give me a day to try to find a way past Dr. Woolsey’s defenses. If I can’t manage it, then I’ll let you know.”
“The crime scene photos,” Irene said.
“What about them?”
“I saw your photographer at work. He took photos of everything-every step of the way. If we’re on to something here, then he probably has a photo of some bone that will give it away. A pug must have… oh, a jawbone, for example, or a nose cavity or some other bones or teeth that are very different in shape from a baby’s, right?”
“Yes, but…”
She held up her camera. “Tell him that before the police had a chance to secure the scene, that nosy broad from the Express took a bunch of photos of the contents of the trunk of that car, and that today I started asking you questions about dog bones.”
“Irene…” O’Connor warned.
“I’m not making news here, O’Connor. That’s the truth. I took a lot of photos. I asked questions about dog bones. I wondered about a killer who would keep a baby alive, just to kill him later in a car trunk. That’s all.”
“Do you know what, O’Connor?” Lefebvre said, touching his chest. “I think I feel a little something here. What is it?” He feigned a look of concentration.
“In a human, it would be a heart. In a jackass, indigestion. But what do you feel?”
“Oh yes, now I know. Sympathy for you.”
39
W HEN WE LEFT THE DUCANE HOUSE, O’CONNOR FOLLOWED ME HOME again. It wasn’t that late, about nine o’clock. The lights were on, so I figured Mary and my dad were still up. I invited O’Connor in. He declined. I felt noble for offering.
Once inside, though, I was glad he had declined, not because my dad was in bad shape, but because he and Mary were laughing. Recently, Dad hadn’t laughed all that often.
“Glad to see you’re having a good time here,” I said.
“I was remembering the camping trip.”
We had gone camping together a lot, but “the camping trip” always referred to one adventure in Joshua Tree National Park. On that trip, I was about ten, Barbara fourteen. Barbara and I had caught a bad case of contagious giggles, and infected my parents with them. After three warnings from the ranger, the whole family got kicked out of the campground for laughing too loudly after curfew. Just as we were getting in the car, the ranger asked in a pleading voice, “What was so darn funny?”
It broke us up again. In fact, for some time after that, all you had to do was say “Joshua Tree,” and we’d lose it.
The truth is, I don’t have the slightest idea what the original joke was, or even if there was one. If there was and I heard it again, I suspect I wouldn’t be more than mildly amused. The laughter itself wasn’t really what mattered. What mattered was that all our lives, from that moment on, there was that time in our memories of our family so closely drawn together, a one-of-a-kind something that happened over nothing.
My father looked at me now and took my hand. “Call Barbara,” he said.
“Now?”
“No, tomorrow. Arrange to have lunch with her. Something. Just the two of you. Don’t mention me. Don’t ask her to come here.”
If he hadn’t mentioned Joshua Tree just before he asked, I probably would have made excuses. But I knew what he was remembering, what he wanted of me, and so I agreed that I would.
So I left a message for Barbara. I specified that I wouldn’t be asking her to talk about or take care of Dad. Sister time.
I walked Mary out to her car and thanked her again. After she left, I had an odd sensation of being watched. I looked around, but couldn’t see anyone.
I went back inside and called Barbara again.
I didn’t hear from her.
It didn’t bother me much, because the next few days were wild ones.
40
W HEN SHE FIRST SAW THE PHOTOGRAPHS ON THE FRONT PAGE OF THIS morning’s Express, the woman who had once been known as Betty Bradford became so alarmed, she threw the paper in the kitchen trash. Her husband came downstairs as she did and teased her as he retrieved it, telling her she was becoming absent-minded. “Just because it’s Saturday doesn’t mean I don’t want to keep up with the world,” he said.
She laughed it off, told him she didn’t know what she had been thinking. She was a convincing actress. All the world had been her stage for fifteen years.
She had become the woman in the part she played. A respectable woman.
How she loved that word, respectable.
She hadn’t been able to eat breakfast at all. From the moment he took the newspaper in hand until the moment he left to take the boys to Little League, she worried that he would see her photograph and ask questions. Twenty years, a few pounds, and a change in hair color-was that enough to keep a man from recognizing a photo of his wife?
Now, several hours later, while he took the boys to their swimming lessons, she stood stock still at the kitchen sink, staring out through her greenhouse window, her hands in yellow rubber dishwashing gloves. The warmth of the sudsy water came through the gloves, and she enjoyed the plain, everyday feel of that.
She looked out at the front lawn, looked out at her neighborhood. A good neighborhood. One where they thought the problem kid was the long-haired boy who played in a band. He wasn’t a problem. He smoked a little dope with his friends once in a while and played his guitar too loud, but he was a sweet kid at heart. He wasn’t going to do anyone any real harm. They should all keep an eye on the quiet, sullen boy who lived three doors down.
She knew how to spot a troublemaker.
She had been one.
She didn’t like to think of it, but there it was, right in the paper. She glanced over at the place where it lay on the counter, stained by coffee grounds that had been in the trash, and quickly looked away from it, looked back to the sunny day just beyond the window. She thought about a little box that held something she had stolen from a powerful man, something she had nearly thrown away a half a dozen times. Maybe, she thought, she should throw it away now.
She told herself that even if he learned the truth, her husband would love her, would stand by her.
She didn’t really believe it, though.
She had known only one man who had stood by her, accepted her as she was. A tough man who was, all the same, gentle with women, gentle with her. Who had helped her to find her way from being a wild and restless thing into being a woman. Not some silly mimicry of womanhood, but something real. Just by respecting her.
But that man had died in Mexico. His name was Luis-she had stopped calling him Lew, the anglicized version of his name, not long after they had become lovers.
“Luis,” she whispered now, “what am I going to do?”