E is for Evidence (21 page)

I scanned the crowd. “What happened to Ebony? I don't see her.”

“She left just after the service. God, she's so cold. She sat there like a stone, never cried a tear.”

“Bass says she was a mess when she first heard the news. Now she's got herself under control, which is probably much closer to the way she lives. Were she and Olive close?”

“I always thought so. Now I'm not so sure.”

“Come on, Ashley. People deal with grief differently. You never really know what goes on,” I said. “I went to a funeral once where a woman laughed so hard she wet her pants. Her only son had died in a car accident. Later, she was hospitalized for depression, but if you'd seen her then, you never would have guessed.”

“I suppose.” She let her gaze drift across the courtyard. “Terry got another phone call from that woman.”

“Lyda Case?”

“I guess that's the one. Whoever threatened him.”

“Did he call the police?”

“I doubt it. It came up a little while ago, before we left the house to come here. He probably hasn't had a chance.”

I spotted Terry talking to the minister. As if on cue, he turned and looked at me. I touched Ash's arm. “I'll be right back,” I said.

Terry murmured something and broke away, moving toward me. Looking at him was like looking in my mirror . . . the same bruises, same haunted look about the eyes. We were as bonded as lovers after the trauma we'd been through. No one could know what it was like in that moment when the bomb went off. “How are you?” he said, his voice low.

“Ash says Lyda Case called.”

Terry took my arm and steered me toward the entrance to the social hall. “She's here in town. She wants to meet with me.”

“Bullshit. No way,” I whispered hoarsely.

Terry looked at me uneasily. “I know it sounds crazy, but she says she has some information that could be of help.”

“I'm sure she does. It's probably in a box and goes boom when you pick it up.”

“I asked her about that. She swears she didn't have anything to do with Olive's death.”

“And you believed her?”

“I guess I did in a way.”

“Hey, you were the one who told me about the threat. She scared the life out of you and here she is again. If you won't call Lieutenant Dolan, I will.”

I thought he would argue, but he sighed once. “All right. I know it's the only thing that makes any sense. I've just been in such a fog.”

“Where's she staying?”

“She didn't say. She wants to meet at the bird refuge at six. Would you be willing to come? She asked for you by name.”

“Why me?”

“I don't know. She said you flew to Texas to talk to her. I can't believe you didn't mention that when the subject came up.”

“Sorry. I guess I should have. That was early in the week. I was trying to get a line on Hugh Case, to see how his death fits in.”

“And?”

“I'm not sure yet. I'd be very surprised if it didn't connect. I just can't figure out how.”

Terry gave me a skeptical look. “It's never been proven he was murdered, has it?”

“Well, that's true,” I said. “It just seems highly unlikely that the lab work would disappear unless somebody meant to conceal the evidence. Maybe it's the same person with a different motive this time.”

“What makes you say that? Carbon-monoxide poisoning is about as far away from bombs as you can get. Wouldn't the guy use the same method if it worked so well the first time?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. If it were me, I'd do whatever was expedient. The point is, this is not something we should fool around with on our own.”

I saw Terry's gaze focus on something behind me. I turned to see Bass. He looked old. Everybody had aged in the wake of Olive's death, but on Bass the lines of weariness were the least flattering—something puffy about the eyes, something pouty about the mouth. He had one of those boyish faces that didn't lend itself to deep emotion. On him, sorrow looked like a form of petulance. “I'm taking Mother home,” he said.

“I'll be right there,” Terry said. Bass moved away and Terry turned back to me. “Do you want to call Lieutenant Dolan or should I?”

“I'll do it,” I said. “If there's any problem, I'll let you know. Otherwise, I'll meet you down at the bird refuge at six.”

I was home by 3:35, but it took me almost an hour to track down the lieutenant, who was certainly interested in having a chat with Lyda Case. He said he'd be there at 5:00 in an unmarked car, on the off-chance that she was feeling truly skittish about contact with the police. I changed into jeans and a sweatshirt and pulled on my tennis shoes. I was tired, and the residual pain from my injuries was like a slow leak from a tire, depleting. Over the course of the
day, I could feel myself go flat. In some ways I shared Terry's sentiments. It was hard to believe Lyda was responsible for the package bomb, let alone her husband's death two years before. In spite of her accusations and the veiled threat to Terry, she didn't seem like the homicidal type, for whatever that's worth. I've been surprised by killers again and again, and I try not to generalize, but there it was. Maybe she was just what she claimed to be . . . someone with information that might be of help.

By the time I reached the meeting place, the sun was almost down. The bird refuge is a landscaped preserve near the beach, established to protect geese, swans, and other fowl. The forty-three-acre property abuts the zoo and consists of an irregular-shaped freshwater lagoon, surrounded by a wide lane of clipped grass through which a bike trail runs. There's a small parking lot at one end where parents bring little children with their plastic bags of old popcorn and stale bread. Male pigeons puff and posture in jerky pursuit of their inattentive female counterparts who manage to strut along just one step away from conception.

I pulled into the lot and parked. I got out of my car. Sea gulls swirled and settled in an oddly choreographed dance of their own. Geese honked along the shore in search of crumbs while the ducks paddled through the still waters, sending out ripples
around them. The sky was a deepening gray, the ruffled silver surface of the lagoon reflecting the rising wind.

I was glad when Lieutenant Dolan's car pulled in beside mine. We chatted idly until Terry appeared, and then the three of us waited. Lyda Case never showed. At 8:15, we finally gave it up. Terry took Dolan's number and said he'd be in touch if he heard from her. It was a bit of a letdown, as all three of us had hoped for a break in the case. Terry seemed grateful for the activity and I had to guess that it was going to be hard for him to spend his first night alone. He'd been in the hospital Friday night and with his mother-in-law on Saturday while the bomb squad finished their crime-scene investigation and a work crew came in to board up the front wall of the house.

My own sense of melancholy had returned in full force. Funerals and the new year are a bad mix. The painkillers I'd been taking dulled my mental processes and left me feeling somewhat disconnected from reality. I needed companionship. I wanted lights and noise and a good dinner somewhere with a decent glass of wine and talk of anything except death. I fancied myself an independent soul, but I could see how easily my attachments could form.

I drove home hoping Daniel would appear again. With him, you never knew. The day he walked out of
the marriage eight years before, he hadn't even left a note. He didn't like to deal with anger or recrimination. He said it bummed him out to be around people who were sad, depressed, or upset. His strategy was to let other people cope with unpleasantness. I'd seen him do it with his family, with old friends, with gigs that no longer interested him. One day he wasn't there, and you might not see him for two years. By then, you couldn't even remember why you'd been so pissed off.

Sometimes, as in my case, there'd be some residual rage, which Daniel usually found puzzling. Strong emotion is hard to sustain in the face of bafflement. You run out of things to say. Most of the time, in the old days, he was stoned anyway, so confronting him was about as productive as trying to discipline a cat for spraying on the drapes. He didn't “get it.” Fury didn't make any sense to him. He couldn't see the connection between his behavior and the wrath that was generated as a consequence. What the man did really well was play. He was a free spirit, whimsical, inventive, tireless, sweet. Jazz piano, sex, travel, parties, he was wonderful at those . . . until he got bored, of course, or until reality surfaced, and then he was gone. I had never been taught how to play, so I learned a lot from him. I'm just not sure it was anything I really needed to know.

I found a parking spot six doors away. Daniel's car was parked in front of my place. He was leaning against the fender. There was a paper bag with twine handles near his feet, a baguette of French bread sticking out of it like a baseball bat.

“I thought you might be gone by today,” I said.

“I talked to my friend. It looks like I'll be here a couple days more.”

“You find a place to stay?”

“I hope so. There's a little motel here in the neighborhood that will have a room free later. Some folks are checking out.”

“That's nice. You can reclaim your stuff.”

“I'll do that as soon as I know for sure.”

“What's that?” I said, pointing at the baguette.

He looked down at the sack, his gaze following mine. “Picnic,” he said. “I thought I'd play the piano some, too.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Since six,” he said. “You feel all right? You look beat.”

“I am. Come on in. I hope you have wine. I could use some.”

He pushed away from the car, toting the bag as he followed me through the gate. We ended up at Henry's, sitting on the floor in his living room. Daniel had bought twenty-five votive candles and he
arranged those around the room until I felt like I was sitting in the middle of a birthday cake. We had wine, pâté, cheeses, French bread, cold salads, fresh raspberries, and sugar cookies the size of Frisbees. I stretched out afterward in a food-induced reverie while Daniel played the piano. Daniel didn't play music so much as he discovered it, calling up melodies, pursuing them across the keys, embroidering, embellishing. His background was in classical piano, so he warmed up with Chopin, Liszt, the intricacies of Bach, drifting over into improvisation without effort.

Daniel stopped abruptly.

I opened my eyes and looked at him.

His expression was pained. He touched at the keyboard carelessly, a sour chord. “It's gone. I don't have it anymore. I gave up drugs and the music went with 'em.”

I sat up. “What are you talking about?”

“Just what I said. It was the choice I had to make, but it's all bullshit. I can live without drugs, babe, but not without music. I'm not made that way.”

“It sounded fine. It was beautiful.”

“What do you know, Kinsey? You don't know anything. That was all technique. Mechanics. I got no soul. The only time music works is when I'm burning with smack, flying. This is nothing. Half-life. The other is better . . . when I'm on fire like
that and give it all away. You can't hold back. It's all or nothin'.”

I could feel my body grow still. “What are you saying?” Dumb question. I knew.

His eyes glowed and he pinched his thumb and index finger together near his lips, sucking in air. It was the gesture he always used when he was about to roll a joint. He looked down at the crook of his elbow and made a fist lovingly.

“Don't do that,” I said.

“Why not?”

“It'll kill you.”

He shrugged. “Why can't I live the way I want? I'm the devil. I'm bad. You should know that by now. There isn't anything I wouldn't do just for the hell of it . . . just to stay
awake
. Fuck. I'd like to fly again, you know? I'd like to feel good. I'll tell you something about being straight . . . it's a goddamn drag. I don't know how you put up with it. I don't know how you keep from hangin' yourself.”

I crumpled up paper napkins and stuffed them in the sack, gathered paper plates, plastic ware, the empty wine bottle, cardboard containers. He sat on the piano bench, his hands held loosely in his lap. I doubted he'd live to see forty-three.

“Is that why you came back?” I asked. “To lay this on me. What do you want, permission? Approval?”

“Yeah, I'd like that.”

I started blowing out candles, darkness gathering like smoke around the edges of the room. You can't argue with people who fall in love with death. “Get out of my life, Daniel. Would you just do that?”

 

 

 

 

 

I got up Monday morning at 6:00 and did a slow, agonizing five-mile jog. I was in bad shape and I had no business being out there at all, but I couldn't help myself. This had to be the worst Christmas I'd ever spent and the new year wasn't shaping up all that great as far as I could see. It was now January 3, and I wanted my life back the way it was. With luck, Rosie would reopen later in the day, and maybe Jonah would return from Idaho. Henry was flying home on Friday. I recited my blessings to myself as I ran, ignoring the fact that my body hurt, that I had no office at the moment, and a cloud of suspicion was still hanging over my head.

The sky was clear, a torpid breeze picking up. The day seemed unseasonably warm even at that hour, and I wondered if we were experiencing Santa Ana conditions, winds gusting in from the desert, hot
drafts like the blast from an oven. It was the wrong time of year for it, but the air had that dry, dusty feel to it. The sweat on my face evaporated almost at once and my T-shirt was clinging to my back like a hot, soggy rag. By the time I got back to my neighborhood, I felt I'd blown some of the tension away. Kinsey Millhone, perpetual optimist. I jogged all the way to Henry's gate and took a few minutes walking back and forth, catching my breath, cooling down. Daniel's car was gone. In its place was a vehicle I hadn't seen before—a compact, judging from the shape, anonymous under a pale-blue cotton car cover. Off-street parking in the area is restricted and garages are rare. If I ever got a new car, I'd have to invest in a cover myself. I leaned against the fence, stretching my hamstrings dutifully before I went in to shower.