The minimalist, tasteful ambience was working; the dining room was nearly full and abuzz with conversation. Or maybe it was just the food. The clientele was students and older people who could be faculty or just older people who liked Mexican cuisine.
No one noticed our entry except a blond woman in a corner booth facing the door. She waved, the hostess saw the gesture, smiled, ushered us through, and said, “Here they are.”
The table was set for three. The woman sat with military posture as her fingertips grazed an empty margarita glass. She wore a black cowl-necked sweater and dangling onyx earrings. Fifties, angular and pleasant-looking with tightly curled shoulder-length blond hair and green eyes.
Vivid green, a surprising match to Milo’s. Surprising because only two percent of people have pure-green eyes and I’d never seen ocular emeralds like my friend’s.
Neither Milo nor Kathy Bookbinder seemed to notice.
She said, “Milo? Kathy.” A glance at me.
I said, “Alex.”
Her lips twisted. She stared at me, puzzled, but said nothing.
Milo said, “What’re you having?”
“My usual. Chile relleno chicken taco combo with black beans.”
“Sounds good.”
“If that’s what you really want.” Kathy Bookbinder looked at me again.
I said, “Fajitas sound right.”
“An individualist — no offense to you, Lieutenant.”
“Milo’s fine.”
“Milo, then.” Yet another examination of my face. “I know you. You spoke here a few years ago. Long-term effects of child abuse. You’re a psychologist.”
I said, “Alex Delaware.”
She repeated my name. “Your talk was excellent.”
“Thanks.”
Milo began his speech: “Dr. Delaware helps us on certain cases—”
“Good for your department,” said Kathy Bookbinder. “Being that forward-thinking.” Back to me. “I can see why you’d be on this one.”
A waiter came over and took our order. Kathy Bookbinder tapped her glass and said, “Another, please.”
“Coming up. What about you gentlemen?”
“Iced tea.”
“The same.”
When the waiter was gone, she said, “It’s only my second dose, Milo. In case you’re curious.”
“I’m curious by nature but not about that.”
Kathy Bookbinder folded her lips inward, let them open slowly and settle as a neutral hyphen. “Tell me about poor Persephone.”
He gave her the basics.
She said, “Killed with a lover. She was the main target, not him?”
“Yes.”
“Poor guy, guess he just happened to be cheating with the wrong person.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
She looked at me, as if expecting some sort of psychological supplement. I said nothing and she turned back to Milo.
“So. You drove all the way out here. What do you think I can tell you that’ll justify the trip?”
Before he could answer, the drinks arrived. Kathy Bookbinder let hers sit there and maintained unwavering eye contact.
He said, “We’d appreciate anything you think might be relevant.”
“To a murder that occurred, what... twenty-five years later? How about you start by filling in what happened to Persephone as an adult. Because after she ran away, I never heard from or saw her again.”
“Away from a foster home?”
“No, she spent one night in a county facility for adolescents with lax security and just walked away. Most of the kids there had committed crimes but a few, like Peri — that’s what she called herself — were wards of the court. I made her one — made all three of them wards — because some idiot judge let him out on bail. We were worried about their safety so we separated them and sent them to three different cities. Peri ended up in Pensacola because she was the victim of record and deemed the most vulnerable and that was far north. Barlett — the older brother — him we felt comfortable keeping closer so we placed him in — don’t hold me to this, it’s been ages — I want to say Tampa. The little one was vulnerable for other reasons, clearly a kid with issues, so he went to a psych facility clear across the state near Fort Lauderdale.”
She smiled and sipped. “I had no idea my memory was that good.”
I said, “Relevance will do that to you.”
“I’m relevant?”
I smiled back. “What was Barlett like?”
Dual emeralds glinted, then nearly vanished as she squinted straight at me. Through me. “You think he did it?”
“We definitely don’t.”
Milo said, “A man named Richard Barlett, two years younger than Meagin — Peri — was murdered a couple of days after she was. Can’t get into details, but we have reason to believe the killings were related.”
Kathy Bookbinder’s shoulders rounded and she seemed to compress. “Richard Barlett. Well, that’s no stretch, his given name was Barlett Richard Gilmore. Both of them killed? My God, what else haven’t you told me?”
Milo said, “Nothing substantive.”
Two pairs of green eyes faced their mates. “You can honestly say there are no other victims?”
I thought of New Orleans. If Milo did, he kept it to himself.
He said, “I can, Doctor. What kind of kid was Barlett?”
“Nice, quiet, didn’t make much of an impression. What kind of adult did he turn out to be? For that matter, you still haven’t answered my question about Peri.”
“We know very little about him, other than he lived alone and didn’t have much in the way of physical possessions.”
“Homeless?”
“No, he worked as a clerk at a church and lived in a shack in an orange grove.”
“Hmm,” said Kathy Bookbinder. “Guess that makes sense.” She scooted closer to us, hand tight around the stem of her margarita glass. “And Peri? Was her life hellish clear up to her death?”
“Not at all,” said Milo. “She ended up marrying a rich man and living in Bel Air.”
“Bel Air? Wow. And you’re sure the husband didn’t do it — seeing as she was having an affair?”
“He’s pretty much been ruled out.”
“If you say so.” She fiddled with her drink, then tugged at her curls.
The food arrived. No one ate but we all drank in silence for a while.
She was the first to break. “Can you give me a sense of what she was like beyond Bel Air? Just for my own edification.”
Milo looked at me.
I said, “Intelligent, self-possessed, had a few friends but mostly stuck to herself. For recreation, she ran and painted.”
“That I remember — art, her liking to draw. Not nasty stuff and I was looking for it, given her experiences. Girlie fantasies — unicorns, that kind of thing. I chose to take it as a good sign but maybe she was just holding it in. My job was like that, doing the dirty work, never really getting to know the kids.”
She looked at me hopefully.
I said, “She painted mostly landscapes and still lifes. But also a ghost orchid.”
“Really,” she said. “Well, that also makes sense. The monster who abused her worked in the swamp where those crazy things grow and he took her in there regularly. Allegedly to help with cleanup. Obviously I suspected it had nothing to do with cleanup but Peri denied he’d abused her there, insisted every attack took place in her bedroom. That’s how she nabbed him. She hid a mini-recorder under the bed and gave the cops the tapes. Made a special trip to the Copeland police station, marched in and said she had evidence of a felony. The rest of the family was on some kind of day trip and she’d faked illness. Luckily, the Copeland police chief was a wonderful man who immediately broke into action and protected her. And that’s not what I’ve always seen from law enforcement.”
I said, “A bedroom in a double-wide trailer.”