"How'd Korn and Demetri figure out where he was?"
"Dropped in on his secretary." He chewed his cheek. "Saw your name in the appointment book."
"Great."
"You of all people should know it's not a pretty job, Alex."
"When's Richard's lawyer due?"
"Soon. Big-time mouthpiece named Safer, specializes in getting the upper crust out of scrapes. He'll advise Doss to stay clammed, we'll try to hold your boy on conspiracy. Either way, it'll take a long time clearing the paperwork, so figure on his being here overnight, at least."
He stood, stretched his arms, said, "I'm stiff, too much sitting around."
"Poor baby."
"You want me to apologize again? Fine, mea culpa, culpamea."
I said, "What about Fusco's file? What about the painting? What does Doss have to do with that?"
"Who's to say the painting has anything to do with the murder? And no, nothing's forgotten, just deferred. If you can still bring yourself to do it, read the damn file. If not, I understand."
He shoved at the door and walked out into the hall.
The victim's family room was a few doors up. A young, honey-haired woman in a powder-blue pantsuit stood a few feet away.
"Detective Marchesi, Dr. Delaware," said Milo.
"Hi," she said. "I offered them Cokes but they refused, Milo."
"How're they doing?"
"Can't really say, because I've been out here the whole time. They insisted-the boy insisted-that they be by themselves. He seems to be the boss."
"Thanks, Sheila," said Milo. "Take a break."
"Sure. I'll be at my desk if you need me."
Marchesi made her way to the detective's room. Milo said, "All yours," and I turned the handle.
The room wasn't much different from an interrogation cell, had probably been converted from one. Tiny, win-dowless, hemmed by high-gloss mustard walls. Three chairs upholstered in mismatched floral cotton prints instead of county-issue metal. In place of the steel table with the cuff bolts was a low wooden slatted thing that resembled a picnic bench with the legs cut off. Magazines: People, Ladies' Home Journal, Modern Computer.
Eric and Stacy sat in two of the chairs.
Stacy stared at me.
Eric said, "Get out."
Stacy said, "Eric-"
"He's the fuck out of here-don't argue, Stace. He's obviously part of this, we can't trust him."
I said, "Eric, I can understand your thinking-"
"No more bullshit! The fat cop's your pal, you set my dad up, you fuck!"
I said, "Just give me-"
"I'll give you dick!" he shouted. Then he rushed me as Stacy cried out. Suffused blood darkened his skin to chocolate. His eyes were wild and his arms were churning and I knew he'd try to hit me. I backed away, got ready to protect myself without hurting him. Stacy was still shouting, her voice high and feline and frightened. I'd made it out the door when Eric stopped, stood there, waved his fist. Spittle foamed at the corners of his mouth.
"Get out of our lives! We'll take care of ourselves*." Over his shoulder, I saw Stacy, bent low, face buried in her hands.
Eric said, "You're off the case, you fucking loser."
CHAPTER 22
I DROVE HOME, cold hands strangling the steering wheel, heart punching against my chest wall.
Try to forget the kids, they are no longer my affair. Concentrate on facts.
Milo was right. The facts fit. His instincts had aimed him at Richard. Time to be honest: so had mine. The first time I'd heard about Mate's death, Richard had popped into my head. I'd run from the truth, hidden behind the complexities of ethical conflict, but now reality was spitting in my face.
I recalled Richard's gloating after bringing up Mate's death: festive times. The sonofabitch finally got what he deserved.
Finally. Did that mean he'd turned to someone else when Goad had failed to follow through?
Means, motive. Vicarious opportunity. Ready with an alibi. Milo had pegged it right away. People like Richard didn't do their own dirty work.
For all my theories about co-optation and irony, did the van butchery boil down to stupid, bloody revenge?
But why? What could lead someone as bright as Richard to risk so much over a man who'd been no more than an accomplice to his wife's last wishes? Was he one of those skillful psychopaths bright enough to channel his drives into high finance?
Distressed properties. A man who profited from the distress of others. Had Richard been running from a truth of his own? The fact that Joanne had frozen him out of her life, shut him out completely, chosen death in a cheap motel room over a life with him in the Palisades?
Dying in the company of another man… the intimacy of death. The feminist journal-S(Hero)-wondered about the preponderance of female travelers, speculated about the sexual overtones of assisted suicide. Had Richard seen Joanne's last night as the worst kind of adultery? I supposed it was possible, but it still seemed so… clumsy.
Was Richard behind the phony book and the broken stethoscope? You're out of business, Doc?
A sick uneasiness slithered over me. Happy Traveling, You Sick Bastard… Why had Richard contacted me within a week of the murder? Stacy's college future, as he'd claimed, or, knowing that Quentin Goad had been arrested, was he preparing himself for exactly what had happened?
Asking me to see Eric, too.
Take care of the kids while I'm gone… Look how that had turned out.
Then I thought of something much worse. Eric, all that talk of guilt and expiation.
The directed child, the gifted firstborn who'd dropped out to tend to his mother, had seemed to be adjusting. Suddenly leaving his dorm room, sitting up all night… obsessed with guilt because guilt was all he felt?
Involved. Had his father been cruel enough, crazy enough to get him involved? I'd allowed myself to wonder if Eric had been Mate's slayer. Now that I'd seen his anger at work, those speculations took on weight. Richard's deal with Goad peters out, so he keeps it in the family. Dad in San Francisco, son down in L.A. for a couple of days with the keys to Dad's car. I wanted to think Richard was-if nothing else-too smart for that, but if he'd been willing to risk his family by passing cash in a con bar, was there any reason to trust his judgment?
Something-a fissure-had forced its way through this family. Something to do with Joanne's death-the how, the why. Bob Manitow claimed her deterioration was all due to depression, and maybe he was right. Even so, that kind of emotional collapse didn't manifest overnight. What had led a woman with two PhDs to destroy herself slowly?
Something long-standing… something Richard had reason to feel guilty about? A guilt so crushing it had caused him to displace his feelings onto Mate?
Kill the messenger.
Make it bloody.
Father and son. And daughter.
Stacy sitting alone at the beach. Eric sitting alone under a tree. Everyone isolated. Driven apart… something that Mate's murder had brought to a head? Here I was again, guessing. Obsessing.
Once, when I was nine, I went through a compulsive phase, labeling my drawers, lining my shoes up in the closet. Unable to sleep unless I pulled the covers over my head in a very special way. Or maybe I'd just been trying to shut out the sound of my father's rage.
I turned off Veteran onto Sunset, raced up the glen, was still groping and supposing when the road to my house appeared so suddenly I nearly missed it. Hooking onto the bridle path, I sped up the hill, drove through the gateposts, parked in front of my little chunk of the American dream.
Home sweet home. Richard's was being torn down, brick by brick.
Robin was in the living room, straightening up. No sign of Spike.
"Out in back," she said. "Doing his business, if you must know."
"A businessman."
She laughed, kissed me, saw my face. Looked at the file. "Looks like you've got business, too."
"Things you don't want to know about," I said.