“You’re fine, crybaby,” Nunn said.
“The money… it was Peter’s idea… all his idea…”
“But you helped him, right?”
Ballard made a noise in between a sob and a grunt. Nunn took it for agreement. “You know Peter will spill every detail, Stan. You want to talk first, trust me; you want to be the police’s golden boy right now. You tell the police everything about what you know, Stan. Everything.”
Ballard, cringing, didn’t look Nunn in the face.
Nunn reholstered the gun in the small of his back. He made Ballard stand up and hustled him out of the alleyway. In the front of the museum, the same security guard who’d nodded earlier as Nunn left stood watching, listening. Apparently the sound of the shot had brought the man out of the building. The guard was a big guy, six-six, heavy. He looked as if he could handle Ballard.
“I heard a shot,” the guard said.
“Car backfiring, I think,” Nunn said. “This gentleman has information for the police regarding the woman who was honored at the memorial service at the museum last night.”
The guard glanced at Ballard. “Um, I can’t detain him or arrest him.”
“Neither can I. But Mr. Ballard is going to be a good boy. Just call the police and Mr. Ballard will detain himself until they arrive.” Nunn released his grip on Ballard’s arm. “Look at me, Stan.”
Ballard looked up finally, blinking, as though he’d stepped into a new world where legal strategies and filings and easy assurances did not carry their usual weight. It was a different reality for him.
“I’m going to go talk to Peter. So if you want to make a good deal with the police, before Peter does, I suggest you start talking as soon as they arrive.”
“Peter…,” Ballard started, then stopped. Then he didn’t say any more as Nunn hurried into the fog-choked night.
The St. Francis Yacht Club was at the Marina. The fog lay low over the water, like a cloud come to rest. Nunn had taken Ballard’s Mercedes and told the security guard at the parking lot that he was Stan Ballard, expected by Peter Heusen. The guard spoke to Heusen on the phone, nodded, and waved Nunn through into the lot.
Nunn parked and hurried down the dock. Despite being in a marina named after a saint who embraced poverty, St. Francis’s sailboats and yachts were grand, beautiful ladies. Heusen’s was a seventy-two-footer named Désirée. Beyond the boat Nunn could see the rising majesty of the Golden Gate Bridge, solidity in the drapery of fog. The dock was quiet; most people didn’t live on their boats, but Peter Heusen did. From the Désirée Nunn heard the shattering of a glass.
He stepped onto the deck, walked across, went to the galley.
Peter Heusen knelt on the floor. A broken cocktail glass glittered on the tile, lying in a puddle of whiskey. Peter picked up the biggest fragment of glass and glanced up at Nunn.
Then Peter laughed. “The memorial is over, Detective Nunn.” He snapped the word, dee-teck-tive, into three hard, snotty syllables. “But you’re not a dee-teck-tive anymore, are you?”
“Yeah, actually, I am, Peter. I have every reason to be now.”
“Look, that, um, science dude, from what I hear, saying the body wasn’t Christopher’s, that’s just ridiculous. He’s just some attention-seeking nerd. We’ll find out tomorrow”-here Peter stood up, awkwardly, dropping the glass fragment to the floor-“that he’s been hired by one of those tabloid websites, and he was wrong.” Peter leaned back against the counter and circled an aiming finger at Nunn. “Now. You got onto private property by lying to the guard, and I’m going to call him, and you’re going to jail for trespassing.”
Peter reached for the phone and Nunn walked through the broken glass and shoved him down to the floor.
“Uh, you can’t do that,” Peter blustered. He was well into his drink now, and when he tried to stand up again quickly, Nunn pushed him back down. “Get the hell off my boat. Now.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“I don’t even know where to start with you, Peter. Why have every advantage in the world and drink it away? Why let your sister die? Why steal from your own blood?”
“Why… don’t you get the hell off my boat?” Peter laughed.
“You and I both know that the forensics is telling the truth.” Nunn crossed his arms. “Ballard is talking to the police right now.”
“If Ballard is talking to police, it’s going to be about charges against you, trespassing, and incompetence. If my sister’s dead, that’s your fault, not mine.” Peter shook a finger at Nunn, then dragged a hand across his own mouth.
“Ballard is talking because he’s going to do what it takes to salvage his career. He’s cutting a deal. Now. Who do you think will negotiate the smarter terms, Peter? A seasoned estate lawyer or a drunk trust-fund baby?” Nunn glanced at his watch. “You and Ballard stole Rosemary’s money from her kids. He’ll get disbarred. You’ll get prison. Maybe you can give your fellow inmates sailing tips to pass the years.”
“You’re lying.” Peter’s voice rose. “You can’t touch me. You can’t come in here and threaten me. I take good care of those brats. You’re incompetent. Do you honestly think anyone will believe you?”
“Honestly, Peter? Yes, because Ballard is talking. He’s with the police now. The only way you’ll get leniency is if you confess to bilking your nieces and nephews. Or the brats, to use your pet name for them.”
“You can’t prove anything.”
“The body isn’t Chris’s. The case will be reopened. A mother was executed. The press, the public, will go nuts.”
“Fat lot of good that will do for my sister.”
“As if you care.”
Peter stood up and stared at Nunn, then he got another cocktail glass and poured an inch of whiskey into it. He looked at the glass and added a second inch. He took a long sip. “You think I hated my own sister? Maybe. But maybe I loved her too.” And for one awful moment Nunn thought Peter would cry into his whiskey. A huge, shuddering breath rocked him.
“Where is Christopher, Peter?”
Peter drank the top inch of whiskey in a long, hard swallow. “He’s dead. Rosemary killed him.”
“It’s not Chris’s body.”
“He’s dead. He’s dead.” Peter backed away along the galley counter. “He’s dead and locked in the maiden.”
“Peter. Where. Is. Christopher?”
Peter threw the glass at Nunn’s face. Nunn ducked, the splash of whiskey burning his eyes, the crystal slamming against his forehead. Peter tried to run past Nunn, and Nunn closed his fist around Peter’s collar. Peter might once have been an athlete, but the liquor had bled too much of his muscle and will away.
Nunn, gripping Peter’s collar, blinked away the sharp sting. He yanked Peter down to the floor, dragged him toward the glittering shards of the broken cocktail glass. He seized Peter’s thinning hair, forced his face above the sharp fragments.
“Tell me. Tell me where Christopher is.”
“No, no. No!”
“Peter. Think of it this way. If you stole from the kids, and you can give them their father back, then the judge is going to like you way better than Ballard. Maybe he’ll even let you keep the boat.”
“The boat,” Peter repeated.
“The boat. Tell me. Or I’ll dust up the broken glass using your face as my broom. It will hurt.”
Peter Heusen took three ragged breaths while Nunn counted silently to ten. When Peter stayed quiet, Nunn shoved his face toward the glass.
Peter screamed. Nunn stopped. “The Trompe l’Oeil Hotel! He’s at the Trompe l’Oeil Hotel. I mean, I think he is.”
Nunn knew the hotel, a four-star, not far from Union Square. “Don’t lie to me, Peter.”
“I’m not but-”
“But what?”
“You won’t recognize him. His face-”
“Got himself some plastic surgery, did he?”