A Playdate With Death (22 page)

“I’m a colleague of Ms. Applebaum’s,” Al said. “Go tell your mother that we’d like a few words. If you don’t mind.” Al had perfected his calm but firm cop’s voice. Matthew looked for a moment like he was about to follow the gently given instruction. At that moment, the door opened again, and Patrick Sullivan walked into the house.

“Hello?” he said in a questioning voice. “What’s going on here?”

His son turned beet red and began to mumble something unintelligible.

“Mr. Patrick, Mrs. Susan say she no want to talk to these people, but they no leaving,” Salud said.

“Can I help you?” His voice was cold and foreboding.

For a brief second, I considered spilling the story to him, Susan’s feelings be damned, but I couldn’t bring myself to completely destroy the life she was so intent on keeping intact and undisturbed.

“We were just leaving,” I said and motioned to Al to follow.

Susan’s husband waved to his son. “Please see them out,” he said.

Matthew jerked the door open, and Al and I filed through. As I walked by the young man, I reached into my pocket, pulled out a business card, and pressed it into his trembling hand. In a low, hurried voice meant for his ears only, I said, “This has my cell phone number on it. Tell your mom that she might be able to catch us on our way to the police station.”

We’d parked the car on the circular driveway right in front of the house. As we pulled around to leave, Al said, “Well, so much for that.”

“Do you think she’s just having some kind of hysterical breakdown at the thought of having given up her husband’s baby, or do you think she knows something about Bobby’s death?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Maybe she killed him, and she’s having a hysterical breakdown because she just realized that she killed not just her own son, but her husband’s, too,” I said.

“Maybe who Bobby’s father is has nothing at all to do with his death.”

I hit the brakes and turned to Al. “You were the one who was so big on the no-coincidences theory!”

He shrugged his shoulders, and I shook my head at him. Before I stepped on the gas, I looked back up the long driveway through my rearview mirror. A silver Audi TT and a gold Lexus coupe were parked around the side of the house in front of the three-car garage. Neither had been there when we’d arrived. I pulled into the street and headed toward Sunset Boulevard. Suddenly, I remembered the little sports car that had zipped by me on the PCH the last time I’d visited Susan Sullivan. I remembered the racing car that the boys said they’d seen when Peter’s BMW had been vandalized. I pulled over to the side of the road with a screech and turned to Al.

“That’s the car,” I said.

Al raised his eyebrows questioningly, and I reminded him about the boys and described the car that had almost rear-ended me.

“The Audi. It’s got to be the Audi.”

Al wasn’t convinced. “It’s possible. But if we call the detectives with nothing more than the possibility that the racing car the kids described could have been maybe the same Audi that blew by you on the highway and that might
maybe be the same Audi that’s in this driveway, even though thousands of those cars are floating around the city right now, they’re going to laugh in our faces.”

I knew he was right. “Well then, let’s get them something more than that.”

He looked at me for a moment as if trying to figure out whether I was determined or foolhardy or both. Then he patted the gun strapped to his waist. “All right. Let’s.”

A
T
first, no one answered our ring. Then I leaned on the bell. After a couple of cacophonous moments, Patrick Sullivan wrenched the door open and glared at us.

“Look here, I’ve had about as much as I’m willing to take of you. My wife doesn’t want to see you. Get away from my front door and off of my property before I call the police.” He hunched over into my face and spoke through gritted teeth. I felt a thin spray of spittle and didn’t wipe my cheek, although I desperately wanted to.

“Mr. Sullivan, my friend Bobby Katz is dead. He was shot in the head, and I think your wife knows something about how and why he was killed. And, frankly, I’m betting you or your son Matthew knows, too.”

His eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?” I
couldn’t tell if his ignorance was real or feigned.

“Mr. Sullivan, if you want to call the police, by all means go ahead and do so. I’m sure they’d be interested in exploring your family’s involvement in Bobby’s death. Alternatively, you could let us in and help us figure out what may well be an innocent explanation for all this.”

Patrick Sullivan stared at me, his face inscrutable. Then, suddenly, he stretched out his arm and opened the door wide. “Come in,” he said.

He led us through the circular entry hall and into the living room. We stood on the crimson Chinese carpet in the middle of the room. He didn’t invite us to sit down.

“Wait here. I’ll get my wife,” he said and left us, clicking the door shut behind him.

Al rocked back and forth on his heels. I paced nervously.

“Do you have
any
idea what you’re going to say when he drags the woman down here to talk to you?” Al asked.

I scowled at him. “More or less. Have some faith.”

We both turned to the door when it opened, expecting to see Susan Sullivan. Her son Matthew stood there instead. He was pale and sweaty, and his breath came in shallow gasps, audible across the room. He looked like he’d been running or crying.

“Get out! Get out of here!” He tried to shout, but his voice cracked and came out an awkward squeal.

“We’re here to talk to your mother, Matthew,” I said.

“Get out!” This time he managed the yell.

I could see Al firming up his stance out of the corner of my eye. His feet were planted shoulder-width apart, and he’d
assumed a barely detectable crouch. He was ready to spring at the young man if he needed to.

“Hey, Matthew,” I said in a conversational tone. “Is that your Audi or your dad’s?”

His face turned beet red, and he lunged at me. Al, moving more quickly than a man of his age has any right to, stepped between us. He grabbed Matthew around the shoulders with one arm and swung him away from me. Matthew wiggled frantically in his grip. Before I could make it across the room to the grappling men, Matthew had somehow managed to yank one arm free of Al’s, and he was punching wildly. The two men slipped on the edge of the carpet and fell to the ground with a thud. I saw Al’s hand fumbling with his holster as I ran to help him subdue Matthew. I had just reached the two when I heard a pop like a piece of wood snapping in two. Suddenly, Matthew was pointing the gun at Al, who knelt, hunched over, holding his right hand against his chest. His index finger was bent at an unnatural angle, and he groaned.

“Get over there with him,” Matthew said, swinging the gun in my direction. It wobbled in his trembling hand, and I was terrified that he would accidentally pull the trigger. I walked quickly over to Al and helped him to his feet. We backed away from Matthew. Al and I both stared at the gun. Matthew followed our gaze and suddenly pulled back the safety.

“I can shoot it now,” he said, and he made a sound halfway between a giggle and a groan. Sweat was pouring freely down his forehead, and he hitched up his shoulder to wipe
it away. At that moment, his parents walked into the room. Susan gave a strangled cry and began to run to her son, but Patrick yanked her back.

“Matthew! What the hell do you think you’re doing? Put that gun down!” Patrick bellowed.

Matthew’s back was to the door, and he turned slowly, keeping the gun aimed at Al and me.

“You go stand with them, too,” he said, the words hissing from his throat.

“What the devil—” his father began.

“Do it!” he shrieked, and the Sullivans joined us where we stood, backed against the long sofa.

“Sit,” he said, his voice almost gleeful, as though he was relishing the opportunity to force us to comply. Patrick did not seem a man who took orders willingly, certainly not from his son. It was obviously an unusual pleasure for Matthew to feel power over his father.

Al, Susan, and I sat, but Patrick remained standing. “Sit down, Dad.”

“Look here, Matthew. This is ridiculous. Hand me the gun.”

“No.”

Patrick took a step forward. “Come on, son. Give me that gun.”

“I’ll shoot. I will. Stop!” The young man’s teeth were gritted shut as he tried to keep his voice from quavering. Patrick kept moving forward, and Matthew suddenly swung the gun in the direction of his mother.

“I’ll shoot her!” he screamed. And his father stopped stock-still. Susan whimpered.

“Shut up!” her son screamed at her. “This is your fault. All of it. You’re a . . . a slut! That’s what you are. You’re a whore!”

The woman’s chest rose and fell with her sobs. Matthew kept talking. “I knew you’d done it. I knew it as soon as the genetic counselor told me I had that Jew disease.”

“Son, son, what are you saying?” Patrick’s voice had lost its authoritative swagger. He sounded afraid.

“It’s not what you think, Matthew,” I said calmly and slowly. Everyone looked at me except Al, who kept his eyes fixed on the gun in Matthew’s hand.

“What do
you
know?” Matthew snarled.

“You tested positive for Tay-Sachs, right? You’re a carrier?”

“No! You’re not. You can’t be,” Susan cried. “You said you weren’t. And you can’t be.”

“I lied! Of course I lied. You and P. J. each said you didn’t have any of the three diseases. And then Dad said of course you didn’t because Sullivans are a strong breed. How the hell was I supposed to tell you that I had it? How? Particularly since I know what it means!”

“You
don’t
know, Matthew. You’re making a mistake,” I said.

“What are you talking about?” Patrick said. “Matthew, Susan, what the hell is she talking about?”

I didn’t reply to Patrick. I kept talking to Matthew quietly but firmly. “Bobby got in touch with you, didn’t he?”

The young man nodded. “He said he was my brother. He asked me to meet him, and I did. He told me that she didn’t
want to have anything to do with him but that he hoped I might. He told me about the Tay-Sachs, and that’s when I knew I had to do it.”

My chest tightened, and I could feel my eyes begin to burn as tears collected in them. “Matthew, did you hurt Bobby?” I asked in a soft, gentle voice.

“I had to,” he whined.

I could hear Susan’s harsh, ragged sobs and willed her silently to keep her mouth shut. Patrick seemed stunned and unable to speak.

“I had to,” he repeated. “He wasn’t going to leave it alone. He wasn’t going to go away. He was going to make her tell Dad, and then Dad would find out about me. I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t let that happen.” He turned to his father. “I know you hate me. I know you’re just looking for a good reason to cut me off. You want to throw me out, but you don’t think you can, right? Right?”

This time it was Patrick who sobbed. I turned to look at him, expecting to see him reduced to tears. His eyes were absolutely dry.

“You were afraid that if Bobby forced your mother to tell your father about him, then Patrick would find out about you, too?” I asked, again keeping my voice low and calm.

He nodded.

I continued. “You’re afraid that you’re not your father’s son, aren’t you?”

“I’m
not
his son. She had an affair. She had an affair, and she got pregnant, and she had Bobby and gave him away. And then she kept on seeing the guy, and she had me. I
don’t know why she didn’t give me up, too.” He stared at Susan and cried, “Why did you keep me? Why didn’t you give me away like you gave away my brother?”

Susan didn’t answer. She had her hands clasped over her mouth, and she rocked back and forth, moaning. Patrick stared at his wife, rage and disgust warring on his face.

“You’re wrong, Matthew. You
are
your father’s son. And so was Bobby. Your mother did have an affair while your father was in Vietnam, and she did give Bobby up for adoption, but you’re wrong about the rest, Matthew.”

Matthew shook his head furiously, but his eyes narrowed as he looked at me.

“Bobby didn’t come from the affair your mother had. Bobby is Patrick’s son, too. Just like you are. Tay-Sachs doesn’t just affect Jews, Matthew. Anyone can have it. Anyone, especially the Irish. It’s almost as common in the Irish population as in the Jewish. You inherited the Tay-Sachs from your father.”

“What?” the young man whispered. “What?”

“Patrick
is
your father, Matthew. And he was Bobby’s.”

“No. No he’s not. Is he? Is he?” The young man shrieked, first at me and then at his mother.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Susan whispered.

At that moment we all heard the faint sounds of sirens. We stiffened as they grew closer and closer. Matthew’s arm began to sink to his side so slowly that it was at first almost imperceptible. Al and I both rose to our feet, also slowly. Matthew said nothing, he just continued to lower his arm. I stepped to one side of him and Al to the other. Al reached
out his hand and carefully and deliberately removed the gun from Matthew’s now limp palm. He slipped it back into the holster attached to his belt. The police found us thus, Al with the gun securely clipped in its place, Matthew trembling, just barely managing to keep to his feet, and Susan and Patrick sitting next to each other on their lovely and expensive sofa, frozen in despair.

T
HE
police kept us there for quite a while. I’m sure it was Al’s status as a retired member of the LAPD that finally convinced them that it was safe to take our names and telephone numbers and let us go on our way. We drove in silence down Sunset Boulevard. I wasn’t thinking about what had happened so much as I was trying to figure out the best way to break the news to Bobby’s fiancée and his family. I knew the police would inform them, but that could take some time, and I certainly owed it to Betsy and Michelle to tell them myself. I didn’t realize how distraught Al was until he cleared his throat. I looked over at him sitting in the passenger seat. His face was blotchy under a sheen of sweat.