"This is Detective Purdy." I pointed behind me at Sam.
I'd seen Sam interview children before. He had a magical way of folding in on himself to disguise his size and appear less threatening. He managed the same transformation right then with Susan as he approached her bed. He became a big friendly gnome.
"Pleased to meet you," he told her. "I'm so sorry about your husband. I admired his work."
Admired his work? Sam was a private but vocal critic of the dead district attorney's proclivity toward plea bargains-on more than one occasion, I'd heard Sam call Royal Peterson "feckless"-though I didn't think it would be consistent with my role as a can of WD-40 to remind him of that at that moment.
"Yes," she murmured, sighing. "Thank you. It's been a hardship."
The closest chair was across the room. A stack of old newspapers covered the seat. It was apparent that Susan wasn't accustomed to welcoming visitors to her bedside. I cleared off the chair and carried it across the room. I moved an aluminum walker and a fancy carved cane out of the way to make space for Sam before I retreated into the shadows.
"I wish my children were closer," Susan said. "I really shouldn't be alone at a time like this…"
I thought the obvious, that Susan's children had moved from her vicinity as soon as they were able-and that Susan bore some significant responsibility for their migration.
"It has to be hard having them so far away," Sam said. "Especially during a time as difficult as this."
I should have warned Sam to use a light hand when offering sympathy-that Susan was capable of sucking up compassion like a big tornado in Oklahoma sucks up trailer homes.
"I feel like I've been deserted. I'm so alone here."
Her words were weepy. My own compassion reserves were running dry and I didn't plan on using what I had remaining in the tank on Susan Peterson. I wondered if it would be considered rude to go back out the door and check out the operation of the lift on the staircase. But I reminded myself of my role as a can of WD-40.
Sam was searching for words. I chimed in. "Susan? It's funny that you're thinking about your children tonight, because that's what Detective Purdy needs to discuss with you. He has some questions about your first child, your daughter Lucy. From your first marriage."
Susan paled.
She looked away from Sam and me before she spoke again. "All day the phone is ringing. All day. People have questions, questions, questions. They don't even ask how I am. I'm a sick woman who has just lost her husband, lying here in the bed where I'm probably going to die, and everyone has questions about something that happened so long ago. It makes no sense to me. None."
Sam jumped right back in. "The questions I have aren't about long ago, Mrs. Peterson. That's your business. My questions are about the last few days. I'm just wondering if you've spoken to your daughter Lucy recently, if maybe she called you after the story came out in the newspaper."
Susan hesitated before she said, "No. You'd think a daughter would, wouldn't you? I mean call her own mother after something like that shows up in the newspapers." With each word, she sounded older.
Sam straightened up on his chair. The gnome was gone. Sam was now as big as Shaq. "That answer covers today, Mrs. Peterson. What about yesterday? Did you speak to your daughter yesterday?"
"Well, um, let me think. No, no, she didn't call yesterday either." Susan actually smiled, as though she was proud of her answer. I felt myself cringe. I was riding shotgun with Sam now, and saw the transparency of Susan's protestations. If Susan thought she could play Sam for a fool, she was in for a surprise.
She probably couldn't recognize the signs, but I could. She'd pissed him off. Sam pressed her without mercy. His voice was now as intimidating as his posture. "She didn't call. That means she came by, doesn't it? Lucy came by to see you, Mrs. Peterson? When was that, exactly?"
She lifted a bell from beside her bed and shook it vigorously. I imagined it was an effort to summon Crystal. Susan winced and moaned like an old dog sighs. "The pain… I'm not sure, I'm not sure."
Sam stood. "When was she here?"
"I take a lot of medicine."
"And I eat too much food. When was she here?"
Her eyes flashed at Sam, the message behind them volatile. "Last night, about this time. It was the first time I'd seen her in a long time."
Sam ignored her threat. "How long a time?"
She hesitated. I couldn't decide whether she spent the moment trying to remember or whether she used it up manufacturing a lie. "Over a year."
Crystal walked in the door, smiling, and said, "Yes, dear?"
I said, "We'll just be a little while longer, Crystal. Susan will be fine until we leave."
Susan looked as though she wanted to disagree, but after a glance at Sam she wisely chose not to protest. She just looked pitiful.
Crystal was unsure what to do.
"Really," I told her, "it's fine. I'll let you know when we're leaving. If she needs anything I'll come find you."
Crystal retreated out the door. I closed it behind her.
Sam hadn't turned away from Susan. He asked, "And what did Lucy say when she was here?"
"She warned me."
"Yes?"
"She warned me not to talk to anyone about… the family. About her, or me, or Royal. Or her father."
"Did she threaten you?"
"No. Well, kind of. Maybe."
"How did she threaten you?"
Susan considered her answer before she said, "It's not important."
"Then tell me what she didn't want you to tell anyone."
With no hesitation, Susan said, "No." She added, "You can't make me, Detective. I know my rights. My husband was the district attorney."
Sam stepped closer, eliminating the space between him and the edge of the bed. If I'd been the one gazing into his eyes at that moment, I would have told him exactly where the treasure was buried.
Sam said, "Mrs. Peterson, your daughter is missing. I'm trying to find her. I need your help."
"My daughter? You mean Lucy? Sorry, you're going to have to do better than that, Detective. She's been missing most of my life. She's a worse daughter than I am a mother. Regardless, I don't know anything that will help you find her. She's probably hiding somewhere. I know I would have if I'd done what she did."
"What's that? What did she do?"
Susan smiled. "No, Detective. I'm done talking to you. Alan, please ask that girl to come back in here."
Before Sam had a chance to voice his opinion about Susan Peterson, his cell phone beeped in his pocket. We were standing on the sidewalk in front of the Peterson home as he flipped it open.
"Purdy," he said.
For about a minute he listened, nodding, occasionally saying, "Yeah." Once he said, "They did that?"
He closed up the phone and said, "That was one of my buddies at the department. He just got a call from the Denver Police. They think they found Ramp's car. It was towed out of the alley behind his apartment building after six o'clock tonight. He'd left it double-parked for some reason. They're still busy getting warrants to search his apartment and to search the car, and they're still trying to get one to search that damn ranch out in God-knows-where."
"Agate."
"Yeah. Agate."
"Lucy's car? Anything there?"
"No, no sign of Lucy's car. Thing's as bright as a fire truck, you'd think it would show up on someone's radar."
"What do you think of Susan's theory that Lucy's just gone into hiding to avoid the press?"
"I don't buy it. She called me this morning, told me she'd be back in touch early this evening. If she went into hiding, she'd call and tell me where she was. I'm sure as hell not going to tell the press. And that message she left for you? Why would she have left that message if she was going into hiding?"