He laughed again. "But she ended up there." Turning to stare at me. For once, not a combative glare. Sad, pitiful, seeking an answer.
"Oh Jesus," he said. An abrupt, suppressed sob made him choke. He bounced once in the sofa, as if levitated by pain and slammed back down by fate.
"Goddamn her," he whispered. Then he lost the fight and the tears gushed. He punched air, punched his knees, attacked his own chest, his shoulder, knuckled his eyes. Hid his face from me.
"Fuckin' Lancaster!. For that she goes out there! Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus Christ!"
He lowered his head between his legs, as if about to vomit, found no comfort in that position and sprang up, running to the wall of french doors, where he turned his back on me and cried silently while facing his swimming pool and his land and the faraway ocean.
"She must've really hated me," he said.
"Why would she hate you, Richard?"
"For not forgiving her."
"What did she do?"
"No," he said. "No more of this, don't strip off my skin, just let me get through this with my skin on, okay? I won't try to tell you how to do your job, just let it be. Help my kids. Please."
"Sure," I said. "Of course."
CHAPTER 27
THE FOOTSTEPS FROM above resumed. Moments later Joe Safer knocked on the doorjamb. Richard was still staring through the glass. He turned.
Safer said, "Everything all right?"
"Joe, I'm really bushed, think I'll lie down." Trudging to the sofa, Richard removed his shoes, lined them up at the base of the couch, stretched out.
"Why don't you go upstairs to bed?" said Safer.
"Nah, I'll just sack out here. This is my relaxation spot." Richard reached for a remote control, clicked on seventy inches of the Home & Garden channel. Someone wearing a plaid shirt and a massive tool belt building a redwood deck. Making it look as easy as licking an envelope, the way those types always do.
Within seconds, Richard seemed hypnotized.
"Ready for the children?" Safer asked me.
"Ready."
I followed him up a rear staircase, arranging the file cards in my head.
Guilt, expiation. I didn't forgive her.
Joanne transgressing-probably exactly what I'd guessed: an affair.
Eric, close to his father, aligned with his father. Had Joanne's transgression led her son to despise her? Spending time with her as she destroyed herself, loving her but also hating her? Could that explain the Polaroids? Documenting her descent-her punishment-then passing the pictures to Richard…
That level of filial contempt was hard to imagine, but Eric was explosive and impulsive and he had the genes for it. Now, months later, was he coming to grips with what he'd done? Seeking his own expiation?
Richard had just admitted paying Quentin Goad to murder the death doctor.
Make it look bloody… the wrong guy to cheat on. With Richard's need for control, how could Joanne have expected anything but rejection and retribution?
Attempted murder as closure… and, if Mate hadn't helped Joanne die, a grand mistake.
If he hadn't, who had?
Do-it-yourself job? As a microbiologist, Joanne had access to lethal chemicals, the skills for self-injection. But given her physical condition I couldn't see driving to Lancaster by herself…
She hated me. Now I had a reason she'd died in the Happy Trails Motel.
So maybe Mate had been there, agreeing to revert back to rented rooms in order to respect Joanne's wishes. Same for the lack of publicity: perhaps Joanne had requested he keep it quiet. For the sake of the kids? No, that made no sense. If she'd wanted to shield Eric, why choose such a conspicuous suicide?
Why kill herself by any means?
One thing seemed clear: Mr. and Mrs. Doss had suffered through a troubled relationship. Mrs. had sinned and Mr. had refused to forgive her. Joanne had bought into Richard's rage. Hating herself enough to self-destruct. But she hadn't gone out without a parting shot. Taking control of the last day of her life. Contacting Mate-or someone else-on the sly. Dying on her own terms.
Lancaster. The ultimate screw-you to Richard.
Because she knew Richard well, knew he'd try to direct his anger everywhere else and a corpse in a cheap motel would be something he couldn't escape. Or so she'd hoped. If funneling Richard toward crushing introspection had been Joanne's goal, she'd failed miserably. As Judy had said, Richard was a blamer. And Richard liked to crush his adversaries.
A few minutes before, spinning his "hypothetical" tale, he'd brushed off the deal with Quentin Goad as an act of folly, denied he'd made a second attempt.
Yet he'd come prepared with an alibi, was already talking about temporary insanity. Milo would laugh all that off. You didn't have to be a detective to laugh it off. Because Richard was a ruthless, self-centered control freak who'd believed himself aggrieved. And as I'd just seen, Richard had a very bad temper.
Now here I was in his house, on his terms.
Safer reached the top of the stairs and paused at a small back landing that faced a closed door. "They're both in Eric's room," he said. "Would you like to see them together or separately?"
"Let's see how it goes."
"But together would be okay?"
"Why?"
He frowned. "To be frank, Doctor, neither of them wants to be alone with you."
"They still think I betrayed them?"
Safer righted his yarmulke. "I'm sorry. Richard talked to them and so did I, but you know adolescents. I hope this doesn't turn out to be a complete waste of your time."
Or worse, I thought.
Safer touched the doorknob but didn't turn it. "So how did it go with Richard?"
"Richard seems to feel rosy about the future," I said.
Rosy. The moment I said it I realized it was the same word I'd thought of upon seeing Richard's anger-flush. Poor old Dr. Freud wasn't getting enough respect in the age of Prozac.
"We-ell," said Safer, "a positive attitude is a good thing, wouldn't you say?"
"In Richard's case, is it justified?"
One big, gnarled hand came forward and smoothed the beard. "Let's put it this way, Doctor. I can't promise to bring everything to a close immediately, but I'm feeling positive, as well. Because when you get down to it, what do the police have? The Johnny-come-lately accusations of a habitual felon facing a three-strikes life sentence? Allegedly corroborative eyewitness testimony about some sort of envelope being handed over to someone by someone else in a poorly lit bar for who knows what purpose?"
I smiled. "Richard just happened to be there?"
Safer shrugged. "Richard has no specific memory of that particular meeting, but he says if it did occur, it was to pay Mr. Goad. It's customary for him to pay his workers in cash when they're short of funds-"
"Altruism?" I said. "Or good commerce when you deal with ex-cons?"
Safer smiled. "Richard employs people no one else wants to hire, sometimes helps them out when they're down. I have a long list of other employees who'll testify to his goodwill."
"So the eyewitnesses are a wash," I said.
"Eyewitnesses," he said, as if it were a diagnosis. "I'm sure you're familiar with the psychological research on the unreliability of eyewitness testimony. I wouldn't be surprised if a careful check into the backgrounds of these particular eyewitnesses reveals histories of alcoholism, drug abuse, criminal behavior."
"And poor lighting."
"That, as well."
"Sounds open-and-shut," I said.
"Overconfidence is dangerous, Doctor, but unless I receive an unpleasant surprise…" Safer's green eyes narrowed. "Are there any contingencies I should be aware of?"