“My thoughts exactly.” Dugan’s voice was practically a coo.
Harros clapped his hands to his knees. “Let’s bring this to a close. We’ve learned a great deal here today. Now, Bill, there’s one more question I’d like to ask.”
I leaned against the archway and folded my arms.
“What else haven’t you told us? What else did you steal from my daughter’s apartment?”
“Nothing.” My answer was quick and dismissive.
“Then we’re done.” Mr. Harros exhaled loudly and pushed himself to his feet. Abe followed, then Dugan and Fay, like a row of ducklings. Jenny and I went to the entryway to show them out.
“Wait a minute,” I said as they filed toward the door.
They turned with a certain eagerness, as if to receive some kind of confession. “We never finished the timeline. What happened after Sheila got in her car? There’s a big hole there.”
“That’s what we’d like to know, Bill,” Abe responded. “Of course, once Fay left, we don’t know what you and Jenny did. Sheila was found in her car on Page Mill Road.”
The insinuation didn’t deserve a response. “Page Mill is between her apartment and the hospital.”
“Yes. The pathologist put time of death after midnight. That leaves about enough time for her to have gone home, searched for epinephrine, and then driven part of the way to the hospital. That makes it a near certainty she received the toxin here. If something did happen after the party, we’ll soon have witnesses. The police are investigating. We ourselves have put up posters in the area asking people to come forward.”
“The police were here, Bill,” Jenny said in a quiet voice. “They asked me questions for about twenty minutes.” She shot a look at Harros. “They were very nice to me.”
“They’re not taking it seriously enough,” Harros declared. “But they will. Once they see the evidence we’ve collected today.”
“Whatever you found in the kitchen will be useless,” I said. “The analysis will be biased. You should have let the police do it.”
“Pratt’s reputation will be sufficient,” Harros sniffed.
Dugan had already opened the door for Fay. Abe was about to follow them out. I wanted to take one last stab. The younger Harros had shown a small gleam of independence. “Abe, take a minute to think clearly about the facts. Don’t you see what’s happening? Dugan is using you.”
Abe’s eyes flashed mock gratitude. “Do you really think a man in his position would harm Sheila, with all he has to lose? Just come clean with us, Bill. It’ll be better in the long run.”
I stared a hole through the middle of his forehead. “I thought doctors waited until all the tests were in to make a diagnosis.”
“By the way,” Abe added, as if playing a trump card, “the autopsy report showed needle puncture marks in Sheila’s arm. Injections.” His gaze shifted to Jenny. “You might want to think about that.”
George Harros bent slightly at the waist and extended a hand to Jenny. “I thank you for your hospitality.” He turned to me. “And I suggest you follow some advice. Don’t take any trips.”
I held the door open for him, but didn’t bother to respond. His words had no meaning to me anymore. Abe’s mention of the injections in Sheila’s arm were far more important. I wanted to know who’d administered them and what was in them.
Jenny wouldn’t take Mr. Harros’s hand either. Instead, she stood with her arms folded across her chest, looked him in the eye, and said, “You have one very fucking weird way of mourning your daughter.”
The venom in her voice took us all by surprise. But I felt some pleasure in watching the rage tremble and spread over Harros’s face. I slammed the door behind him.
18
I gave myself a minute at the door to cool off, then took a tour of the area around Jenny’s apartment to make sure all of our guests really had left. When I came back inside, Jenny was sitting on the couch, legs crossed, staring daggers of spite at her cream curtains.
“Why are they like that?” she demanded.
“I guess the landlord felt safe with a neutral color.”
“No, those people! Why are they against us? What did we ever do to them?”
I sat next to her. “Nothing, Jen. They’ve decided to see the situation in a certain way. They’re fixated on their own goals, and they see others as either helping them or getting in their way. If you don’t help them, you’re their enemy.”
“That’s so unfair.”
“Well, I intend to get in their way a little more.” I looked at my watch. “I’ve got a meeting with Marion at the Brentwood.”
Jenny’s foot wiggled madly. “Great. Leave me here alone. Why didn’t you toss their self-righteous asses on the street?”
“If we were guilty, that would have been a logical thing to do. But we need to stay in the game. Stay on some kind of speaking terms with Harros. Otherwise Dugan’s got free rein.”
“It’s not a game. It’s my life. My reputation.”
“You’re right. It’s not a game.”
“So what am I supposed to do, sit around and wait for those two belly-floppers who ransacked my kitchen to come back?”
“You could come with me to see Marion. Or maybe you need a break from this business. You could go up to your mother’s house in Sacramento. You’d be safe up there.”
Jenny lifted her chin. “I might do that.”
It didn’t sound like a bad idea to me, either. The whole business was wearing on her. I got the feeling she’d prefer that I just drop it, which was not going to happen.
She picked up the remote and switched on the TV, making a point of ignoring me. I said good-bye and took a slow walk to the Scout, wondering if her real peeve didn’t still come down to my continuing failure to move in with her.
The Brentwood Lodge, halfway between Palo Alto and the city, was a monument to the grand era of ersatz elegant American dining. The entryway and great hearth were built of flagstones laid atop one another. A dark oak counter made a big undulating sweep in front of the bar. A fire roared in the hearth. The bar had a small stage in one corner and plenty of room for dancing to the old tunes, now belted out on Saturday nights by a guy in a velvet jacket with a portable synthesizer. The restaurant served old favorites like beef burgundy and crab à la king. The bow-tied waiters and their shoe-polish hair were monuments in themselves.
I put on a little double take when I came upon Wes and Marion at a table in the bar. Wes was rotating his beer glass in nervous circles. He pressed forward in his seat as if trying to get some difficult words out. Marion sipped a drink with an umbrella. Her head was erect, her neck and shoulders draped artfully with a checked scarf.
Wes leaned back and stretched his arms with relief. “Bill! What are you doing here?”
“Meeting Jenny. Wow, what a surprise!”
I pulled an imitation leather chair right up to their table. Marion turned a briny eye on me. I sat down anyway. I signalled to the cocktail waitress, ordered a Manhattan, and beamed at Wes and Marion with a whaddya-know smile.
Marion turned away from me and tightened the scarf on her shoulders. “Finish what you were telling me, Wes.”
“Oh… well, never mind,” he stammered. “But I think it can be easily — uh, easily treated.”
He looked at his watch and I looked at mine. Seven-fifteen. Wes’s cell phone chirped. His secretary was punctual. After a few uh-huhs into the phone, he gulped down his beer. “Something’s come up. Sorry, I’ve got to go. Good seeing you, Marion.”
Marion stood to protest. I stood with her. “What is this?” she demanded. “You set me up!”
I blocked her way out. “Stay just a minute, Marion. Let’s talk about Sheila.”