Killer (7 page)

She let out a dry laugh.

I said, “You believe one of them is Rambla’s father.”

“Neither will come forward and attest to such, nor will my sister shed light on the matter, but she’s been intimate with both of them over the years. During the same time period, which should tell you something.”

“You know this because—”

“I’ve seen them with her. The way they touched her. My sister
loves
attention.” She shuddered.

“Ree won’t confirm paternity.”

“Yet another indication of poor character,” she said. “Isn’t knowledge of paternity any child’s birthright? A vital component of a child’s proper development?”

“Both these men are bad influences but Rambla needs to know which one’s her father.”

“If for no other reason than to be wary.”

“How did you meet Melandrano and Chamberlain?”

“My sister introduced me to them. Prevailed upon me to hear them.” She huffed. “They’re alleged musicians. An alleged band called—are you ready for this? ‘Lonesome Moan.’ The only moaning in question is that which arises upon being assaulted by the noise they create.”

“Not virtuosos.”

“Good grief,” she said, covering her ears. “The entire situation—my sister’s milieu—is repellent. For her whole life she’s made decisions that have left her bereft of the normal material and emotional nutrients enjoyed by decent individuals. Now she’s made the supreme error of delivering a child out of wedlock. I cannot, in good conscience, visit her sins upon her offspring.”

“You believe she puts Rambla in danger.”

Giving her a chance to use the toddler’s name.

“I don’t believe it, I know it. Because unlike you and the judge and the attorneys—all of whom are intelligent enough and, I hope, well intentioned—I’m the only one able to draw upon a comprehensive data bank that offers the complete picture.”

Her foot nudged the briefcase.

I said, “All those years with your sister.”

“Must you do that?” she said. “Paraphrase everything I say? This isn’t psychotherapy, it’s fact finding.”

I said, “What’s in the briefcase?”

“The chronicle of a lifetime spent with my sister. May I summarize?”

“Please do.”

“I was close to eight when she was born. Soon it became apparent that she wasn’t up to Connor and myself intellectually.”

“Not as smart as her sibs.”

“No doubt you think my remark was unkind. But the facts back it up. I was a straight-A student, graduated as high school salutatorian, and the only reason they didn’t make me valedictorian was I hadn’t accumulated enough ‘social points.’ Whatever that means. I attended Occidental College on a full scholarship, graduated with a four point oh, Phi Beta Kappa, summa cum laude, departmental honors in chemistry, advanced to medical school at UC San Francisco, where I also served my internship and my residency in pathology.”

“You were always academically gifted.”

“Quite. After residency I enjoyed a stint at Harbor General Hospital, then I obtained an executive position with a private lab. Ten years ago, I began my own lab and experienced immediate and consistent success. Currently, I specialize in the analysis of esoteric tropical diseases as well as immune disorders, including but not limited to HIV. My referrals emanate from private physicians and institutions as well as several governmental agencies secure in the knowledge of my total discretion. Since completing my residency, I’ve earned six figures consistently, have invested wisely, and I enjoy a comfortable lifestyle, including ownership of my own thirty-five-hundred-square-foot house in Westwood. I am able to provide anything a child could possibly desire. A fact my sister was well aware of when she abdicated the care of her child to me for three months while she went gallivanting across the country with Melandrano and Chamberlain and engaged in who-knows-what. It was only after she returned and apparently experienced some feeble variant of maternal
pangs
that she changed her mind and began making a fuss.”

She put her glasses back on, sat back.

Long speech and an obvious invitation for me to ask more about the details of the “fuss.”

I said, “Tell me about your brother.”

“Connor was also an excellent student. Not at my level, but solid A’s and B’s. He attended Cal State Northridge, obtained a degree in accounting. With honors … I’m not certain if it was magna or just cum, but definitely honors, I distinctly remember the asterisk next to his name in his graduation program—a ceremony that my sister did not attend, because, apparently, she had better things to do. More like worse things … in any event, Connor was always a
solid
boy.”

“He’s an accountant?”

“Much better, Doctor. He’s an executive at a firm up in Palo Alto. Very successful. So you see.”

“You and Connor,” I said. “Then there’s Ree.”

“She was never close to our level and I’m certain the discrepancy affected her. No doubt that’s why she ran away. When she was fifteen. Did she mention that?”

“What led her to run away?”

“You’d have to ask her.” Sly smile. “If you already haven’t. No, won’t fall into that trap, Doctor. Giving you unsubstantiated information—innuendo, rumor. I want you to be certain that when I say something it’s based on fact. Why did she run away? Obviously, she was unhappy.”

“With family life.”

“We had a fine family. If my sister was a poor fit, all the pity for her. But a child shouldn’t be made to suffer.”

“Tell me about your parents.”

“Fine people. Working people.”

“What kind of work?”

“Father was a teamster, Mother did bookkeeping.”

“You all got along pretty well.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’ve heard different?”

“Tell me how you remember family life.”

Her arms clamped across her chest. One foot pushed the briefcase farther to the side. She said, “Fine, but that’s no excuse for
her
behavior. There were three of us, only one turned out immoral.”

“What’s no excuse?”

“Drinking. They both drank. Not during the day, it never impeded their work, they supported us in fine form during our entire childhoods. We had food on the table, clean clothes, the home was beautifully kept. Mother was a first-rate homemaker. Back when that meant something.”

“They drank recreationally.”

“They drank to wind down after long, grueling workdays. Yes, it was excessive. No, it doesn’t excuse
her
lifestyle choices. I grew up in the same environment and I am a teetotaler. Furthermore, I’ve never seen Connor indulge in more than a single beer, cocktail, or glass of wine. He says so, explicitly, when waiters attempt to peddle a refill. ‘I’m a one-drink guy.’ So don’t let her avoid responsibility by blaming Mother and Father.”

“Did your parents’ behavior change when they drank?”

“Not really,” she said.

I said nothing.

“I’m telling you, there were no drastic changes, Doctor. Not in a way one would consider unexpected.”

“The change was predictable.”

“She went to sleep. He did, as well.” Tug on a hair wave. “Except for those very few times when his mood got the best of him. In any event, that’s not relevant to the current issue: my sister’s fitness. Or lack thereof.”

I pictured her, sitting at her desk, trying to study. Wondering if tonight books would get turned into confetti.

I’d lived through worse, could well understand wanting to block
that out. If she hadn’t decided to wrest her sister’s child away, she’d never have been forced to confront the past.

But …

I said, “Your father’s moods changed when he drank.”

“Wouldn’t anybody’s?” she said. “All right, he could get a bit … surly. But never violent. No matter what you’ve heard.”

“No child abuse.”

“Not one instance. Did
she
claim that?”

“Still,” I said, “that kind of unpredictability can be frightening to a child.”

“It wasn’t unpredictable, Doctor. One knew that when he drank there was a distinct possibility of some sort of mood upset.”

Now her lips did cooperate and she flashed me a wide, engaging smile.

“In fact,” she said, “the entire issue made me curious. The precise rate of mood upsets. I decided to approach the question scientifically. Began keeping records and attained a result. Thirty-two point five percent of the time he’d grow surly.”

“About a third of the time.”

“Not about, Doctor. Precisely thirty-two point five. My data collection was meticulous. I went over it, trying to see if I could find a pattern. Day of the week, time of day, any other variable. I came up with nothing and I believe it was at that point that I decided to devote myself to science on a cellular level rather than deal with anything as imprecise as human behavior. So you see, Father did me a favor. By directing me to what has turned out to be a rewarding career path, he proved extremely helpful.”

“Lemons into lemonade.”

“Now contrast that, Doctor, with
her
. Blaming everyone but herself for her deficiencies. It’s fortunate that we’re talking about this because it allows you to delineate the difference between myself and my sister: I
face reality, she escapes. Well, this is one time she’s not going to find that quite so easy, eh? Now, what else can I help clarify?”

“Nothing,” I said.

She flinched. Smiled. “I’ve given you more facts than you expected? Well, that’s fine. And here’s a written record of all the background material I’ve just presented verbally, so you can take your time, study carefully, really educate yourself.”

A black-bound folder emerged from the briefcase. She placed it next to my appointment book, squaring the volume’s edges with those of the desk. “This has been a very
profitable
hour. Good day.”

Next step: a home visit to Cherie Sykes and her daughter.

She lived in a studio apartment near Western and Hollywood, a five-hundred-square-foot share of a not-so-great ten-unit building in a marginal neighborhood.

She was ready at the door, beckoning me inside with a flourish. The air smelled of Lysol and I assumed she’d prepped for the appointment.

Not much to tidy. A foldout bed was covered by a thin white spread and dressed up by a couple of batik pillows that looked brand-new. Nearby stood a crib. A well-worn tweed love seat crowded the rest of the tiny room. A two-seater folding table straddled the kitchenette and the front room. Propped up against a space-saver fridge was a vacuum cleaner. In front of the sink was a plastic high chair.

Much of the floor was taken up by a neat stack of toys. A closet door left open revealed stacks of disposable diapers, jars of baby food and “beginner” toddler victuals, boxes of graham crackers and organic “healthy apple juice,” a collapsible stroller.

“Kid Central,” said Ree Sykes. The tremor in her voice would’ve done a Hammond organ proud. The drowsy child in her arms stirred.

I said, “Is she about to nap or just waking up?”

“Waking,” she said. “She does it slowly, never cries. Sometimes I wake up and she’s standing in her crib, just looking at me. I hold her for a while, let her blossom like a flower.”

She stroked dark, wavy hair. What I could see of Rambla Pacifico Sykes’s face was plump-cheeked, slumber-pink, dewy with sweat. She had on pink pajamas patterned with cats, polka-dot hats, and beach balls. The way she molded to her mother’s chest compressed her face, turning full lips into rosebuds.

I made mental notes. Pretty child. Average size. Well nourished. Relaxed.

Her tiny chest heaved as she sighed. One hand touched Ree Sykes’s chin. Ree kissed her fingers. Rambla’s eyes remained closed.

Ree said, “
This
is my heart.”

I sat on the tweed love seat and Ree perched near the edge of the foldout bed, Rambla still molded to her. The child’s breath quickened, then slowed, as she sank into deeper sleep.

“Guess she’s still tired,” said Ree. “She’s a great sleeper, made it through the night at two months.”

“That’s great. Any change when you picked her up from Connie?”

“You mean did she get worse being with Connie? I’d like to say yeah, but honestly no, she was fine. She
was
real happy to see me, she like
jumped
into my arms. Which I wasn’t sure would happen, you know like maybe she forgot me? But she didn’t.”

“She reconnected instantly.”

“Yup.” Her eyes shifted to the ceiling. “That’s not exactly true. She was quieter than usual. I’d try to kiss her and she’d turn her head. But that didn’t last long, maybe half a day and then she was herself.”

Medea Wright would probably use that to show Connie Sykes had done a great job of interim parenting. If Myron Ballister was smart, he’d skew it as evidence of the durable attachment between Ree and her child.

I’d note the facts and save interpretation for later.

Ree bit her lip. “I have to say this, Doctor. So you won’t think I’m crazy or cruel: I screwed up, okay? By leaving in the first place. By staying away that long. Connie kept telling me everything was fine, it was the first time we—me and Connie—ever did anything together, you know? I liked that. Not just was Rambla taken care of but me and Connie, we … whatever.”

“You felt Rambla had brought you and Connie closer.”

“I could hope. Because we never … she always made me feel stupid. I know she’s the smart one, but … I guess I coulda studied harder but it didn’t come easily. Reading, numbers. Everything. It was hard. I did my best but it was hard. Still, she didn’t have to make me feel stupid.”

Her eyes grew moist. She began rocking Rambla. A small hand grasped the braid and squeezed. “She loves it. My hair. Kind of a security thing, don’t you think?”

“I do.”

“Anyway …”

“You were hoping Connie and you could be closer.”

“Because she was acting different. I know now it was phony but how could I tell at the time? I’m a trusting person.”

“Different, how?”

“Paying attention to me, Dr. Delaware. Talking to me like I was a grown-up—like normal sisters. So when she offered to care for Rambla and then she’d always tell me when I called that Rambla was doing great, I deserved a vacation, just go have a good time—it was like she approved of me. For the first time in my life.”