Liar (27 page)

“He already knows that,” Rachel said quietly.

Richmond went back to jabbing his blotter.

“I can’t give you my client’s name,” he said again. “Report me if you want to.”

“There’s something else you
can
give us,” Rachel said, moving from behind Travis, strolling a little closer to the desk.

He looked up at her. “What?”

“Your files on the murder of Gwendolyn DeMont.”

He shook his head, went back to his attack on the blotter. “Open case. You’ll have to contact the Los Alamitos Police Department for that information.”

She moved so fast, I didn’t see exactly how it happened, but within the next few seconds she managed to reach across the desk, snatch the pencil from Richmond’s hand and snap it in two.

Richmond looked up at her, slack-jawed.

“Don’t push your lousy luck,” she said. “Get the files!”

“I’m not turning them over to somebody who stands to gain from that woman’s murder!” he shouted.

“You’ve had over a decade to prove your point,” she shot back, “and you haven’t come up with jack shit.”

“That’s not my fault!”

“Oh, really?”

“It’s his fault,” he said, pointing at Travis. “His and his mother’s.”

“And all the people in the emergency room that night,” I said quietly.

He sat back in his chair.

“You’re not going to let go of it,” I said. “No one expects you to. But we want to find out who killed her-even if it turns out to be Arthur.”

He gave a snort of disbelief.

“If you won’t give us the files,” Rachel said, “make copies.”

“That would take all day!”

“You and I will work on it together,” she said. “Irene and Travis have other things to do.”

“So do I.”

“No, you don’t,” she said flatly.

He looked among the three of us. He didn’t find anyone in sympathy with him.

“Go on, Irene,” she said. “I’ll drop them off at your house later.”

Travis stood up. Richmond looked at his bandaged hand and said, “I didn’t plant that bomb. I’d never do something like that, especially not right outside a cop’s house.”

“So you’ve checked out our backgrounds,” I said.

“Yours,” he acknowledged.

“Then I should tell you that not only is Rachel a licensed PI, she’s-”

“An ex-cop,” he finished. “I could guess that much.”

“A former homicide detective,” I said.

He looked surprised.

“Phoenix,” she said. “Retired.”

“You’re too young!”

She smiled. “Save your flattery for your society columnist.”

He looked at me and said, “You’ll tell her, won’t you? Margot, I mean?”

“Tell her what?”

“That she doesn’t have any reason to be afraid of me.”

“I don’t know that for a fact, do I?” I said, and left with Travis.

“You need to take a pain pill?” I asked Travis, who was looking down at his hand as it rested in his lap.

“No. Maybe later.” He glanced over his shoulder as we pulled out of the parking lot. “Maybe we shouldn’t leave Rachel alone with that guy.”

“She can take care of herself. Or are you worried about his safety?”

He smiled a little, then lapsed back into silence.

“What’s on your mind, Travis?”

“My uncle lives here in Los Alamitos. He raised my dad, but I’ve never met him. I guess I was just thinking about what Father Chris said.”

“You’ve never met Gerald?”

“No. I’m not even sure where he lives. I just know it’s somewhere in Los Alamitos.”

Knowing I was going to hate myself for not going straight home and crawling into bed, I said, “Reach into my purse, and hand me the little notebook you find in there.”

He did as I asked, and at the next stoplight, I flipped to the page where I had written the addresses Rachel gave me for the DeMonts and Gerald Spanning. We hadn’t reached Spanning’s street yet.

“I can take you there right now if you want to go,” I said.

“But-you need to rest-”

“A short visit to your uncle won’t do me in. Just call Rachel at Richmond’s office and let her know what’s up.”

He hesitated, then made the call.

When he finished, he said, “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”

“Nervous?”

“Yes,” he admitted, then added, “I’ll be all right.”

But a few minutes later he said, “Maybe we should call first.”

“The only time I called him, I got the number off the computer, so I don’t have it with me.”

“You’ve talked to him?”

“Only very briefly, when I was looking for you.”

“Oh.”

“He said to ask you to give him a call someday.”

“He did?”

There was so much hope in those two words, I wondered if I had set him up for disappointment.

He saw my hesitation and said, “Maybe he was just being polite.”

“I don’t know,” I said, trying for a little more honesty, although polite was hardly the word I would use for my brief conversation with Gerald Spanning. “I hope he’s home. I want to talk to him before I talk to the DeMonts.”

“Why?”

“Several reasons. Your uncle was around the DeMont family for many years. He must know something about what your father’s life with Gwendolyn was like, and that may be of help to us.”

He seemed lost in his own thoughts.

As I slowed to search for Spanning’s street, Travis said, “You haven’t asked me many questions about the money.”

“What money?”

“My father’s money.”

I made a right onto a street lined with a mixture of small wood-frame homes and two-story apartment buildings. “What about it?”

“Aren’t you curious about what’s going to become of his millions?”

“Millions?”
I pulled over to the curb. We were nowhere near the address I was looking for, but this called for some discussion. I turned off the engine and said, “I guess that shouldn’t surprise me, but it does.”

“Of course, millionaires are fairly common these days-”

“Oh, sure. Thick on the ground.”

“You’re sitting next to one,” he said.

We eyed one another for a moment. I blinked first. “Don’t you need to talk to your father’s lawyer before you start calling yourself a millionaire? See a will or something?”

“No. Like I said, he gave most of it to me before he died, through trusts. That was one reason my mother and I had a falling out. She told me it was blood money.”

He fell silent, brooding for a moment.

“She must have changed her mind about that,” I said. “I can’t believe she married him if she thought he was a killer.”

“Maybe. It wasn’t for his money. Mr. Brennan said I had almost everything. When my father became…” He faltered, then said, “unable to care for himself because of the illness, he sold his properties, even his home. He kept enough to pay off his obligations. He-he died sooner than expected, so perhaps there was some small amount of money left in his estate.”

“So you’re this millionaire, riding around in a pickup truck, sleeping in the camper?”

He stared straight ahead, not answering.

“Jesus.” I leaned my head back against the headrest. “And here I thought you were smart.”

He looked back at me. “What I choose to do-”

“Travis,” I interrupted, “why are you wasting your time with Rachel and me?”

“What?”

“You could hire dozens of people to help you out. And a couple dozen bodyguards while you’re at it.”

For some odd reason, this seemed to amuse him. “If I did,” he asked, “would you stop looking for the person who killed my mother?”

“No, but that has nothing to do-”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” I repeated blankly.

He nodded.

I opened my mouth, shut it again.

“Tell me what you were going to say,” he insisted.

“You wouldn’t like it,” I said, then muttered, “Probably wouldn’t believe it.”

He waited.

In the silence that followed, I suddenly found myself thinking of my mother-not one of the carefully sorted out memories I had of her, but an unbidden, sharp and perfect memory from an imperfect time: My mother is thin and fragile; her skin the color of ashes; her beautiful auburn hair thinned and dulled by chemotherapy; there are dark circles beneath her green eyes. As she lies propped up against the pillows in my parents’ bed, she reminds me of a young bird fallen from its nest. Briana is with her, sitting next to her, on the edge of the bed.

Hoping to redeem myself with the angry God who has made her so ill, during these days I’m trying to be helpful, to not argue with Barbara, to be the good and quiet daughter I have never been. I’ve made tea, brought it in to them. I’m watching my mother. I’ve felt frightened for her for weeks, but for the last few days especially. She seems so tired, and at eleven, almost twelve, I’m old enough to see that she has considered a previously unthinkable notion-she has thought of giving up, of letting go. And now, entering the room with a small tray, I see that Briana has told her something that has made her cry. I’m upset until I realize they are happy tears.

“You must help us think of a name for your new cousin,” Briana says, and seeing my confusion, my mother tells me my aunt is expecting a child.

I’m amazed at this news, and look at Briana’s stomach, which doesn’t look pregnant; I begin to refocus my attention on the adults’ conversation only when I hear my mother say, “Yes, of course, I would be proud to be the baby’s godmother.” And the two of them are looking at one another, my mother’s hand clasped in Briana’s, as if they have pledged something to one another.

Travis said my name, bringing me back to the present, and I quickly wiped the back of my hand across my eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes.” I started the van again.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “What wouldn’t I believe?”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“You said you’d keep looking for my mother’s killer,” he said patiently, “and that I wouldn’t believe your reason for doing so.”

“Let’s just say it has something to do with who was able to attend my twelfth birthday party,” I said. “Or that I owe something to your mother because the two of you once helped me through a rough patch.”

He was quiet, then surprised me by saying, “You mean, when your mother was in the hospital?”

“I had forgotten that your mother told you about that.”

“Yes,” he said. “But she seemed to think she was in your debt for that.”

I couldn’t talk. I shook my head.

“There are undoubtedly lots of investigators who’d be happy to take my money,” he said. “But I’d rather work with you and Rachel than with people who will never really give a damn about my mother.”

“Thanks,” I managed to say.

I pulled away from the curb again. As we reached the end of the block, I tried to find 12457 Acorn Street, the address Rachel had given me. At first I thought the number didn’t exist, since there was nothing across the street from 12456,12458 and 12460 except a long brick wall. But as we doubled back, I realized why I had missed it-12457 was a mobile-home park.

“There must be over a hundred trailers in there,” Travis said. “Do you have a lot number?”

“No, but don’t despair.”

There were two security gates at the front entrance of the park, one for key card entry, one with a telephone for guests to use. There was a directory of residents last names and first initials. I saw one for “Spanning, G.” Code number thirty-six. I picked up the receiver. No dial tone.

I tried entering thirty-six anyway. Nothing.

I sighed, put the receiver back in place.

“Don’t give up yet,” I said, and pulled the van around to the residents’ gate. Travis grinned and we waited in a companionable silence. Within moments, a car pulled up behind me. A man, whose patience quickly wore thin. He honked at us.

“Allow me,” Travis said, getting out of the van. He cradled his hand and walked up to the other driver. I kept my window down and watched him.

With a rueful look he approached the other driver and said, “I’m so sorry, sir. I cut my hand, and on our way out to the hospital, I guess we rushed off without our key card. If you’ll just back up a bit, we’ll move out of your way. My sister is due home from work any time now, and we’ll just wait over there-” He began to point vaguely with his bandaged hand, winced, then appeared embarrassed. “Ah, we’ll just get out of the way and wait for her to show up and let us in.”

The other man was out of the car and inserting his key card to let us in almost before Travis could get back to the van.

“You take care of that hand now,” he said, waving off our profuse thanks.

“You little conniver,” I said admiringly, as the gate closed behind us.

He smiled, but said, “Be sure to act like you know where you’re going.”

“I do.”

“What?”

“We’re looking for the neatly kept space, with a few flower pots, perhaps a whirligig, but most definitely a little American flag.”

“A whirligig?”

“You know, those little lawn decorations that whirl with the wind- from ducks with wind-milling wings to dairymaids that milk cows whenever a little breeze blows.”

“God help us. Whose trailer will that be?”

“Our informant’s.”

“I thought you’d never been here before?”

“I haven’t. But I’ve had to interview plenty of people who live in trailer parks. You learn.”

Most of the homes in the park were double-wides and fairly neatly kept, but we didn’t have to go far before we found a trailer that fit the bill; immaculate, appropriately decorated and-best of all-an aged but recently washed Ford Escort was parked in the carport. The owner was probably home. I did a little more cruising around to make sure it was the leading candidate. There were some contenders, but I decided the first one was our best choice.