Lemon Reef (19 page)

Pascale saw me eyeing the beer cans and laughed a little, in a way that suggested she understood what prompted the question. “Khila's been with me most days since she was born. Del brought her here to keep her away from the fighting—and God knows whatever else was going on there.” She looked at her cigarette-free hand, ran her thumb against the cuticle of her pointer finger.

Again I thought of asking her if they knew about the puppies. I decided not to. If Doug or Bea had sent the fax, they could get in trouble. I had to keep the information to myself until I knew who had sent it and why. What I asked instead was, “What was Talon's real name?”

Pascale hesitated for a moment, searched around the way one does when trying to recall. She shook her head. “I don't know. I maybe knew once, but I don't know.”

“Do you know if he has a criminal history?”

Another head shake. “I don't think so. But that's only because he's good at putting the blame to other people.”

“Like Sid?”

She nodded.

The front door opened, startling us both. A man entered in the flood of light. He was large necked and thick through his middle with muscles. His jet hair was crewed close to his head, and he had small black eyes. His nose was a perfect triangle out from his tight face. He was tan and clean shaven, and he had bright white teeth. A blue-green falcon's claw—one to two inches in length—was tattooed over his left eye.

“Ma,” he called into the room. Then he saw Pascale. “Oh, hi.” He swung his head around in the direction of the picture window. “It's dark in here,” he said, as he pulled open the shades.

A young girl came in behind him. She was stick thin, with shiny golden hair. She had eyes the color of straw and lips to grow into. As I realized who she was, I felt a pain in my chest so sharp I skipped a breath.

Khila beelined across the room to be near Pascale. She sat down on the arm of the couch that Pascale was leaning back against, tucked her hair behind her ear, and put her hand on Pascale's shoulder. Pascale placed her hand over Khila's.

Following Khila into the house was a tall woman with dark hair and bright lipstick who looked to be in her early twenties. The five-inch strap heels she was balancing in forced each foot into the shape of a waterfall. She moved so she was shoulder to shoulder with Talon and took hold of his arm. Her muguet cologne made my eyes water.

“Sorry to barge in,” Talon said loudly. His broad body diminished the small living room, made it feel suddenly crowded. “Khila said she left a shirt and pajamas here when she slept over on Sunday. We need them because we're packing.”

I leaped up and moved to other side of the room, compelled to put more space between him and me. Also, I think I didn't want to be sitting while he was standing. Near the kitchen now, I backed up until I bumped into the dining room table and rested my hand on it for additional support.

Pascale stood up, too, and with Khila's hand in hers, they walked into the kitchen to get Khila a glass of milk. Passing me, Pascale said, “This is Jenna, Khila. She's an old friend of your mom's.”

Khila stared at me, her face expressionless.

I noticed the sheer glow of Khila's tanned skin and her sunlight hair. Her little fingernails sported the remains of peeling polish, which I imagined she and her mother had put on together, and she wore small gold earrings that caught the light when she tucked her hair behind her ear the way Del used to. I pushed through my sadness and smiled at her. “It's nice to meet you.” She didn't respond.

“Oh,” Talon said. “You knew Del?” He sat on the couch in the place where I had been sitting. The dark-haired woman sat down next to him.

I didn't answer him. I was watching Pascale and Khila in the kitchen, standing side by side. Pascale was filling a glass for Khila, who, unless I was imagining things, had not taken her eyes off me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Talon reach over and put the picture of Del, which was sitting on the end table, facedown.

I watched Del's high school image disappear at his hand.

Realizing I'd seen him, Talon shrugged and said, “Don't want to upset Khila.”

When Pascale and Khila came out of the kitchen, Talon patted the space on the couch between the woman and himself and said, “Khila, come sit down.”

Khila froze.

“Khila,” Talon said again, this time more firmly, “come sit down.”

Khila glanced at Pascale.

Pascale smiled and said to Talon, “Who is your friend?”

Talon mimicked Pascale's accent, saying “My friend ees Marcella. Marcella, this is Pascale.” He laughed a little, a combination of a blurt and a giggle, raised his brows at me in a gesture of imagined solidarity.

Just when I thought Pascale had successfully turned the attention away from Khila, Marcella said in a high-pitched baby voice, “Khila,” patting the couch next to her, “come sit with me.”

Khila shook her head, took hold of Pascale's hand, and pushed her body up against Pascale's. She looked sideways at me, her forehead wrinkled with worry, her lip trembling, losing the battle against her tears. For a moment, I wondered if she knew about me. I decided she was just casting a wide net, seeking support from any possible quarter. She did not want to go near that woman.

“Khila!” Talon warned.

Marcella placed her hand on Talon's thigh, as if holding him back. She turned to Khila, smiled, and said, “Khila, I know you miss your mommy, but we're together now. It's very exciting. We're going to Texas.” Khila was unmoved and Marcella's tone grew more desperate. “I'm going to be your new mommy.”

Talon looked evenly at Khila.

New mommy?
Had I heard her right? Did she just say that to this child whose mother had died only a few days before? Out loud? Without the least bit of self-consciousness? I saw this all the time in my line of work, this annihilation of a child's history after the dissolution of a marriage or, even, a death, the supplanting of one parent with another, making a child accommodate a parent's new life, as though she had never had one of her own, and taking her compliance as evidence that she's in agreement with what's happening to her. But it was usually done with more subtlety. And most people wait a little longer than two days to introduce a new parent, but not this guy. It was obvious by how blatant he was being that Talon knew Del's family was powerless to do anything to stop him. And worse yet—bringing this woman to Del's mother's house, putting Del's picture facedown in Pascale's living room, and mocking Pascale's accent—he clearly took pleasure in forcing them to watch as he got away with murdering Del and now sought to destroy any memory of Del and her family for her daughter.

I thought of the writhing puppies, eyed the photo of Del facedown, pictured Del wearing shirts buttoned to her neck and sunglasses to hide bruises, watched Marcella insistently patting that space next to her on the couch, and I had not a doubt left that Talon had killed Del.

I asked Khila where her shirt and pajamas were. She shrugged.

Pascale took my lead and said, “Come with me, and we'll find them.” It bought me a little time to think about whether there was anything I could do to keep Khila from leaving now with Talon. What Talon had done to the puppies was pretty bad, would give any child-protective-service worker pause, and he had hit Del recently and left bruises. Her friends had already testified to that. The current violence against Del suggested Talon's psychological problems were not limited to his adolescent years. Still, it wasn't enough for me to feel certain authorities would place Khila with her grandmother, even temporarily. The worst thing I could do was act too quickly and without convincing evidence, because then I would lose credibility and put Talon on the alert. If I wanted to help Khila longer-term, I had to suffer her obvious distress for now.

Pascale returned with the pajamas and shirt in hand. “Khila is wondering,” Pascale said, “if she can stay with me while you pack.” Khila was behind Pascale, again with her eyes on me.

Talon said, “No.”

Khila started to cry.

Talon quickly took the clothes, stood up, and began toward the door, expecting Khila to follow him. When she didn't, he stopped and turned around slowly, looking at her questioningly. She crossed the room to him. “That's more like it,” he said to her, guiding her out the door in front of him. He looked back at Pascale and said, “I'm not gonna let her see you if you're gonna make her cry.” Khila walked with her head down and shoulders hunched.

Marcella looked first at me, then at Pascale, and then she rushed out of the house, as if afraid to be alone with us even for a second.

Through the picture window, Pascale and I watched Talon head-tuck Khila into the backseat of the car and slam the door behind her.

“I didn't want to let her go with him,” I said.

“I've been doing it for ten years,” Pascale replied.

Ida pulled up. Upon sight of her, Talon's demeanor shifted instantly from irritated and forceful—as he had just been with Khila—to warm and relaxed. His eyes widened with innocence, his mouth softened into a gentle smile, his shoulders dropped, his arms came in closer to his body. The transformation was startling. One would never have guessed he had been ruffled in any way only moments before. Talon and Ida appeared to exchange niceties. Ida hugged him and shook Marcella's hand. Then she knocked on Khila's window and waved to her inside the car. She did look twice at Khila, I think registering Khila's upset.

Nicole's voice carried from the hallway. “Was that Talon?” Pascale nodded. “What the fuck was he doing here?” Nicole stopped just inside the living room and took measure. “What is that smell?” she said, as if it were a personal affront. “It's like gardenias over death.”

Pascale disappeared into her room.

Nicole rolled open some windows, and then she swept up all the beer cans at once and headed for the garbage. “Pascale's drinking again like she did when we were kids.”

The comment surprised me. “Why, did she stop for a while?”

“Hell yeah. Years. Del didn't want her to drink around Khila. And Khila was always here…so.” Nicole fell into the couch and lit a cigarette. “I'm no shrink,” she said, “but I think Pascale feels really bad about what she did to Del. You remember?” I nodded. “Sometimes I think helping Del with Khila was her way of making up for all that, because she's really different with her than she was with any of us.”

Ida walked in. To me, she said, “Tell me he did not just bring his new girlfriend over here.”

“New? She's moving to Texas with him.” In response to my comment, Ida's face twisted in a mixture of disgust and bewilderment—and pain. I had the oddest feeling she was
jealous
. I told myself it couldn't be.

“He is just out of control,” she said. I waited for her to ask about Khila's upset, but she didn't.

As I righted Del's photo, all I could think about was getting to Beasley as fast as possible. I now knew I had to convince her to hold on to Del's body. I was afraid that once Talon took Khila to Texas, we would never get her back. If there was reason—advances in the investigation, late-surfacing evidence, something in the final toxicology report—to bring Talon back, Khila could be placed with Talon's parents in Texas. I didn't know anything about Talon's parents, except that they had raised him—
The
Collector
. Well, that, along with not wanting Khila to have to be alone with Talon and Marcella for even a day, was enough for me. Pascale did have her shortcomings, but “best interests” is a relative beast. And I was now prepared to do everything I could to help Khila stay with Pascale if she wanted to.

My goal, desperate as it sounded, was to convince the medical examiner to hold on to Del's body long enough to find proof Talon had killed her. If I could produce enough evidence to have Talon become the focus of a murder investigation, then Khila—who was ten years old—could request to stay with the grandmother who had raised her.

Now on a mission, my first stop was Dirk Beasley's office.

The Miami morgue was a huge complex, first occupied by the current chief medical examiner sometime in the 1980s. Frequented by students and experts from around the world, it was a fully operative forensic training facility, with crime-lab services in forensic pathology, toxicology, serology, entomology, and botany. They did fingerprints, DNA testing, firearms examination, and a host of other forensic-science services on the premises. When I realized this, I understood how they had produced Del's preliminary autopsy report so quickly. In San Francisco, it usually took weeks to months. However, it also suggested the people conducting the examination and producing the report may have been students overseen by one of the more experienced medical examiners. Maybe they'd missed something.

The building we entered had an open, relaxed feel to it, more like a college campus than a death-processing factory. The morgue itself was on the first floor, accessible through glass doors that led to a waiting room decorated in pastels and furnished with soft chairs and wall art. I checked the directory of names and found Beasely's office number. The area where the examination rooms were located was highly secure, nearly impossible to access without authority, but the administrative offices were on a separate wing. One lone receptionist's desk stood between us and them. I was about to approach the receptionist and ask for Beasley, hoping Beasley would agree to see us, when the receptionist took a call and then disappeared.

We quickly passed her desk and made our way down a long corridor until we came upon Beasley's door. Just then, the door opened and a tall, square woman in a white lab coat came out. She had short salt-and-pepper hair, was maybe in her mid-fifties, and wore thick-framed glasses and no makeup except for a touch of lipstick. I knew immediately she was gay.