Blood Bond (3 page)

CHAPTER THREE

AT TWO THIRTY IN
the morning, Joe was sitting in Amaris's office with her wireless keyboard in his lap, his feet up on her desk. The sound of glass breaking in the street below had awoken him and he couldn't get back to sleep. He'd had to move a messy stack of mail and a plate bearing the dried crusts of a sandwich off her desk chair, and he had to work hard to resist the urge to further straighten her workspace. Joe was hardly a neat freak, but Amaris's lax attitude about her surroundings led occasionally to alarming conditions, like the moldy takeout cartons crowding the fridge, or the dust and hair lodged into every corner of the bathroom.

Joe had used Amaris's computer before, but never in the middle of the night and never without asking. He was just messing around online, waiting to get tired enough to go back to bed. He'd move the mail and plate back where they'd been, and hopefully she'd never notice. He hadn't intended to stay over, but Amaris had fallen asleep in his arms and it seemed somehow impolite to leave without making his excuses.

Joe had to dig in his wallet for Marva's business card to figure out how to spell her last name. The card was printed on thick, textured blue-gray paper, with an abstract design that turned out, when Google brought up her website, not to be abstract at all, but rather a close-up of a handmade quilt. Earlier, when they talked in her sister's kitchen, she'd said she was an instructor; now he saw that she was an artist as well. He took his time scrolling through her online gallery, admiring her work, which was unlike anything he'd seen before: organic, flowing designs constructed from richly colored fabric and shimmering threads. Reading her bio, he learned that her work hung in galleries all over California, Oregon, and Washington, and a few museums as well.

From the bedroom adjoining the office, he heard a few mumbled syllables followed by a sigh. Amaris talked in her sleep sometimes, occasionally managing to wake herself up, and Joe hastily clicked out of Marva's site. The last thing he needed was to have to explain what he was doing looking at quilts in the middle of the night. He opened a new browser window and typed in Bryce Engler's name and address instead.

The first few results seemed to be related to Engler's business, something called EUI, whose site featured graphics of earthmoving equipment and men in hard hats standing next to a section of pipe disappearing into a raw seam in a hillside. There was a picture of Engler himself, wearing a sport coat and a shorter haircut than he'd had tonight. Not a builder, then, but a related occupation.

The fourth hit linked right to the
Monte Vista Times,
a short piece on a protest that took place at the Engler home on July 1. So Odell had been mistaken—the protest hadn't gone entirely unnoticed. Someone had managed to snap a picture of a few twenty-somethings in T-shirts and sunglasses, carrying signs reading “Don't Kill the Hills” and the words “Sycamore Estates” in a red circle with a slash through it. The brief article said that the environmentalists claimed the proposed development was in violation of Montair's Scenic Hillside and Major Ridgeline Ordinance, and that Bryce Engler was not available for comment.

So Bryce had managed to piss off the tree-huggers. Environmental activism wasn't the furor in Montair that it was in other parts of the Bay Area, but there was an increasingly vocal effort to protect what little unbuilt land remained. These guys were worth a follow-up, certainly, though it seemed like a stretch to go from chanting in front of a guy's house to killing someone on his property.

Joe yawned and stretched. He really needed to try to get some rest, since a case like this was going to have him running hard. He closed down the browser and snapped off Amaris's enormous monitor, and tried to rearrange the desk the way it had been before, leaving no trace of himself behind.

WHEN SHE
heard a key in the door, Marva sat up groggily in her nest of blankets on the couch. Carefully, she folded the quilt she'd been working on when she fell asleep; the hoop had fallen from her lap to the floor. The quilt was a commission piece, a long, narrow panel that would hang in the reception area of the Montair branch of Bank of America.

It had to be Gail. Of course she would come; it was just a matter of time. That was why Marva hadn't bothered to go to bed.

She glanced at the clock on the mantel. When Gail came through the door, jingling car keys and silver bracelets, Marva muttered “Three o'clock?” by way of a greeting.

“Bryce kept me up for ages—he couldn't get to sleep.”

“The kids?”

“Isabel said they went down at eight and never even woke up. Not even with all those people there. Actually we had to wake Isabel up—she says she fell asleep at nine watching TV in her room. The woman detective just loved that, looked at me like I was some sort of ice queen keeping the nanny locked up in her room while we all partied downstairs. Do you mind if I open some wine?”

Marva wrinkled her nose. It was morning. More morning than night, anyway. But she felt a little guilty about having come home while there were still cops at Gail's house. At least she'd waited until the body had been taken away. That was something.

“Whatever. But check—I think there's some fumé blanc open.”

Gail laughed, a faint manic note edging her voice. “Marva, you still drink like such a girl. Fumé
blanc
?”

Marva reached for a different quilt, an Ocean Waves design she'd constructed from scraps of batik fabrics, and spread it on her lap. Wanting a sense of security more than warmth.

“So what's Bryce doing now?” she asked, trying to keep her tone neutral.

“Sleeping. When I left, anyway. He took an Ambien.” Gail brought a bottle over—a cabernet—and the corkscrew. Only one glass. She pushed the folded quilt out of the way and sat down next to Marva, so close their hips touched.

“Aren't you afraid he'll wake up and you won't be there?”

“So? What if he does?”

“It's just—”

“He'll know I'm here. Where else would I be?”

Marva let the unanswered question hang between them. Where, indeed?

But she was never any good at pushing Gail. It was a one-way tug. Despite Marva being a year older, Gail gave the marching orders and always had.

“Are you okay?” Marva asked, relenting.

Gail shrugged, took a sip of wine. “Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be? Anyway, so far it's been just putting one foot in front of the other. You know, dealing with everyone, answering all those questions. You were lucky,” she added, tapping Marva's knee lightly with a fingertip. “You got the cute one; we got creepy Detective Wellington.”

“The woman?”

“Yeah. You should have seen the way she stares at you when she's talking. Oh, and that redneck cop? He's sitting in the driveway, drinking iced tea out of a can. Where do you suppose he goes to, you know, relieve himself? The side of the garage?”

“Did he see you leave? Didn't he wonder what you were doing?”

“I had to tell him I was going out for tampons and Advil,” Gail said.

“And he was okay with that? Why didn't you just say you were coming here?”

“Marva, it's none of his business. And it's not like I'm under house arrest or anything. Besides, any time you say ‘tampons,' they don't want to hear any more about it.” Gail smiled, sipping; she hadn't answered Marva's question, but that was typical. “Anyway, how was
he
?”

Marva knew who Gail meant. Detective Bashir.

Gail had a talent for zeroing in on the most attractive man at any gathering. You could fill up Carnegie Hall, and she'd find him even with the house lights down. And Joe Bashir was a fine-looking man: middle thirties, the right height, right build, walnut-colored skin, glossy thick black hair, everything Marva liked, though she'd never voiced it. She'd covered her rogue tastes well, hadn't she, marrying pale, blond Harmon—and dating only a few bland men before or since then.

She felt heat in her face: imagine noticing, at a time like that. When he was asking questions about a dead man, questions about her sister. But there was something compelling about him, and she could tell that Gail had noticed it, too. He had a way of looking at you that seemed—careful, somehow. Curious, but cautious. As though he was conscious of your sensitivities, the things you weren't comfortable with about yourself, and didn't wish to intrude any more than necessary.

Marva's blush deepened: Gail would never notice something like that. She loved to be looked at, she invited scrutiny. There was nothing about her appearance that made her uncomfortable. What she had seen in Joe had probably been the way he took charge, his confidence. It was immediately clear that he was the more senior detective, even though he didn't lord it over the other one, or tell her what to do. In fact, it was more the way he was deferential to her, observing her work without interfering, wordlessly assessing everyone in the room.

“He was polite,” Marva said noncommittally. “He got me a glass of water.”

Gail raised one well-shaped eyebrow. “You didn't offer him something first?”

Marva rolled her eyes. “Sorry. Next time I'll mix him a drink, okay? Cut him some cake?”

Gail gave her a devilish smile: “A shame about that cake. You didn't think to cover it, did you? I mean, it would be so good with coffee.”

Teasing, now; charming. Marva was increasingly uneasy as her sister slipped further into the role she played so well. “I have to go in tomorrow and do it again. Give an official statement.”

“Oh, I think us, too. I don't know if Bryce and I get some sort of, what do you call it, special inquisition, since it was our house and all.”

“Maybe you'll get a good cop and a bad one,” Marva suggested. She took Gail's glass out of her hand and sipped—the warm yeasty smell suddenly appealed to her. “Or maybe they'll try to get you and Bryce to give each other up.”

Gail flashed a smile, but just as quickly it disappeared and she settled farther into the corner of the couch. Only then did Marva notice something new: a fine web of lines around her sister's eyes, a crosshatching around her lips. Signs of age. So she wasn't impervious after all.

“It was horrible to see Tom like that,” Gail murmured suddenly, her lips trembling. “He was . . .”

She swallowed, hard, and pushed impatiently at a few wisps of hair that had escaped her headband. Marva's heartbeat hitched. This, she couldn't stand—seeing Gail break.

“I know,” she said softly, setting down the wineglass and taking Gail's hands in hers. They were surprisingly cold, and Marva rubbed them gently.

“In the porch light—he just looked so odd, the way he was lying on the ground. And by the time I got close—I was one step away from, from stepping in that
blood,
Marva—and I stopped with my foot in the air, you know, like in freeze tag—because I knew, I just
knew
he was dead.”

She looked up, her pupils so small in the pale depths of her sea-glass eyes, as though she couldn't bear to let in the light.

Marva knew better.

And yet.

“Were you sleeping with him?” Marva asked, as gently as she could. And like that the shutters went up, the invisible ones, and Gail blinked and looked away, tugging back her hands and reaching for the wine.

“You could have waited to ask me that,” she said, suddenly sounding exhausted.

“Gail . . .”

“But that wouldn't be your style. So yes, I slept with him. One time. Though in truth I probably would have done it again, eventually. Come on, Marva, he's two doors down, and Elena's got that awful commute and she's never home, we were two of a kind . . .”

Marva shrugged; there was no point in contradicting her. The words were familiar, from other confidences she hadn't asked to hear:
Neglected spouses. Harmless entertainment. Ultimate discretion
. Gail had been there before.

“Are you going to tell anyone?” Marva asked. Anyone—meaning the cops.

“Is anyone going to ask? I don't think so,” Gail retorted with surprising conviction. “Besides, don't they always suspect the spouse first?”

“But Elena was inside, at the dinner table . . .”

“So she could have hired it done. Or maybe Tom had gambling debts. Or, I don't know, a secret gay lover. Come on, don't you ever watch
Law & Order
?”

Marva sipped at the wine and said nothing.

“Listen, I overheard the detectives talking with the, you know, crime scene guys. All that blood?”

Marva shuddered. “Yeah?”

“They think it's animal blood. They did some sort of test or something. Plus there was too much of it to be from Tom. And it was cold.”

“They think Tom was lying in
animal
blood? But how—”

“Like if someone brought it with them. In a container or something.” Her eyelashes fluttered and she blew out a short breath. “Marva, I think it was those ELF guys again. Bryce swore they wouldn't come back, but . . .”

“Oh. Wow, you really think so? I don't know . . .” Marva had managed to miss the drama with the protestors because she'd been out of town at a quilt show, and it had been nice, for once, not to have to deal with Gail's anxiety. The Earth Liberation Front had never taken credit for any of the vandalism on Bryce's project, but when the protestors had come to Gail's house—what was it, back in June? July?—Bryce had blamed them, embellishing the story every time he told it. Marva had gotten the impression Bryce thought that earning the ire of a handful of disorganized slackers reflected poorly on him, that he preferred to pretend he was the target of a powerful international organization. “I thought that project was dead, Gail.”

She winced at her word choice, but Gail didn't seem to notice. “Well, it got delayed, sure, but Bryce still thinks it'll go through. It's just more environmental studies, and you know how long those take.”