Reckless Disregard (13 page)

“How did the father manage to shut
The Boatman
down?” I finally ask.

“Oh, well, Howard . . .” And then a gaping stare with a gaping mouth.

“What about Howard?” I say.

He doesn’t answer. He closes his mouth and makes a humming sound. He takes a few audible breaths and shouts, “Felicity McGrath was on that picture!”

Given Harry’s condition, I should stay calm, should show no reaction, but my excitement gets the better of me, and I begin to blather. “So Felicity really did know Bishop? Because if you could testify to that, we could—”

Sonja’s virulent scowl jolts me into silence.

He leans in close, and his hooded eyes narrow. “Don’t tell anyone, kid. No one’s supposed to know but Harmon and me. If Howard and Billy find out that I told you, they’ll . . .” He stiffens and looks down at his hands, and then looks to each side as if he’s being watched. “Wasn’t supposed to tell. I shouldn’t have told.” He looks at Sonja like a contrite third grader and says, “Am I in trouble?”

“Of course you’re not in trouble, baby,” she says.

He smiles and pats her hand. “You’re a good girl, Sonja.”

I don’t want to upset him further, but I’m so close. Just a little more information. “Harry, tell me more about
The Boatman
. Where can I get a copy? And who’s Hildy . . . Hildy Gish?”

His eyes recede in fear, and he shakes his head. “Billy will be pissed. He said not to tell. Harmon . . .” With his index finger he draws a happy face in the condensation on the outside of his iced-tea glass. Then, using the same finger to cover the top of his straw, he pulls the straw out of the glass and dribbles tea across the table in swirls. Sonja grabs his wrist and confiscates the straw. Harry sticks his finger into the tea puddles and draws more curlicues. He alternately looks at Sonja and then at me, turning his head back and forth in a Ping-Pong rhythm.

“
Scavi
,” he hisses.

“I don’t understand,” I say.

He lowers his head and won’t look up.

“Harry?” I say.

No response.

I appeal to Sonja. She shakes her head, not in answer but in reproach. Harry snuffles, the tears welling up in his eyes. Within seconds, he’s sobbing, the desolate, snorting cry of the decrepit. Sonja reaches out and caresses his back.

“It’s OK, sweetie,” she says. “Everything’s OK. I’m here, Harrison.”

He slides over and buries his face in her shoulder. She looks at me and shakes her head.

I stand up, not sure whether to say good-bye, not sure what a good-bye will mean to a man with no memory. It’s like attending a funeral, where the object of the ceremony is inevitably absent, oblivious, irretrievable. But there’s a difference. Now, the shell of the man isn’t lying in a casket but is breathing, moving, uttering sounds, emitting odors. And though he’s just as irretrievable as the dead, no dreams of an afterlife can soften the observer’s horror.

“Thank you both for your time,” I say. “It’s good seeing you.”

Harrison lifts his head from his wife’s shoulder and smiles sadly. “Harmon liked you, Parker. You were his favorite. I miss him. I miss my son.” And then the ever-diminishing light in his eyes dims, and he returns to what I realize is a blissful insensibility to the pain that long life inevitably brings.

Philip pokes at the sizzling roast beef with tongs. “Parker, I want you to know that not many people know how to grill tri-tip properly, especially on an open barbecue. I use a simple dry garlic rub, some kosher salt, finely ground pepper, and cook it over the cooler parts of the grill away from the flame. The fat flare-ups give it enough flavor.”

Though it’s early November, he’s taking advantage of the heat caused by the Santa Ana winds. “It’s why I moved to Southern California,” he says. “To escape the Chicago winters. Backyard cooking and golf year-round.” Fortunately, he’s wearing a baseball cap—he’s a Cubs fan—because otherwise the sweat from his brow would be dripping onto the meat.

As he works, I tell him about this morning’s meeting with Harry Cherry. He merely nods his head and hums like a country doctor examining a patient until I get to the part where Harry used the word
scavi
.

“The
scavi
are the tombs in the necropolis beneath St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican,” he says. “I spent a year away curating a Vatican collection and got to know them well. If you ever go to Rome, you must visit. But you have to reserve months in advance.”

I know about the Vatican’s
scavi
because I looked the word up on my iPhone as soon as I left the Cherrys’ house yesterday.

“Harry couldn’t have meant the necropolis,” I say. “If he meant anything. His thoughts are all tangled up.”

Philip’s wife Joyce pokes her head out the backdoor. She wears her straight gray hair in a short chili-bowl cut, and the jowls on her round face confirm that unlike so many LA women her age, she’s never had cosmetic surgery. She actually could pass for a retired nun. She’s plump and is usually all smiles, though not today.

“We’re ready to eat when you are,” she says. “Come inside.”

“We’re eating outside,” he says.

“No, we are not,” she says. “It’s too cold.”

“It was eighty-four degrees a little while ago.”

“The sun’s about to go down, and the temperature’s already starting to dip. I’ve set us up in the kitchen.” I’m grateful to her—the San Fernando Valley gets cold at night this time of year no matter what the daytime temperature. My long-sleeve soccer jersey kept me too warm for the afternoon, but now a cool breeze is knifing right through it.

I hold a serving plate while Philip puts the beef on it and tents it with aluminum foil. “It needs another rest,” he said. “Ten to twelve minutes. Just enough time to finish our salad.”

We go inside. Joyce and Brenda are standing at the butcher-block kitchen table, filling up salad plates. Brenda pours red wine, a Malbec from Argentina that I brought, into three of the four glasses and sits down near the empty glass. She and I drove over together from The Barrista. We seem only to have the lawsuit in common, and yet that’s OK—I’ve found that I like being near her. She’s earnest and dedicated and idealistic in a way I haven’t been since I was a second-year lawyer. And she respects privacy—there’s no pressure to talk about my life or to ask about hers.

I toast the host and hostess, Brenda sipping water from her wine glass. She’s never said she doesn’t drink, but I’ve never seen her consume alcohol.

“So Joyce, Parker went out to visit Harmon’s father Harry yesterday,” Philip says. “You met him a few times at firm gatherings.”

“Oh yes,” she says. “A nice man. Much more relaxed than his son. Though I remember him swearing a lot.”

“He’s suffering from dementia,” Philip says.

“If I get that Alzheimer’s or whatever, I hope I realize it and have the guts to check myself out and save everyone else the trouble,” Brenda says. “If I live to be old enough to get it, which I probably won’t.”

We’re all quiet, and her neck becomes splotchy. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

I get the impression that Brenda has never been to a dinner party, even a casual one, doesn’t know how to make conversation, and so just blurted something out in an attempt to fight her shyness.

“You did nothing wrong,” Philip says. “So many people believe that today. All human life is sacred no matter how damaged. The way Sonja still dotes on and protects Harry is proof of that.” Philip might have left the priesthood, but he hasn’t abandoned his faith. He’s consistent in his views—capital punishment and euthanasia are as abhorrent to him as abortion.

“What a depressing thing to talk about during dinner,” Joyce says. “I don’t know why you brought it up, Phil.” She’s the only person I’ve ever heard call him Phil.

“It’s relevant to our lawsuit,” he says. “Harry has a long history with Bishop.”

“Ah yes, the lawsuit,” Joyce says, glancing at me with a frown. “I think that’s an even more depressing subject.”

“Alzheimer’s is a terrible affliction,” Philip says. “I just try to keep my mind active and hope. That’s one of the reasons I decided to go back to work. I don’t want my brain to atrophy. It’s been good to get back into the game.”

Joyce’s face tightens, and she purses her lips and raises her shoulders, a woman making a decision. “I have to say this, Parker.”

“Not now, Joyce,” Philip says in his soft voice.

“No, I have to. I didn’t want Philip to go back to work. Or more accurately, I didn’t want him to go back to work for you.”

I’ve always gotten along with Joyce. Or so I thought. But I was arrogant back in the firm days. “Joyce, if I’ve ever said or done anything to—”

“It isn’t because I don’t like you,” she says. “I do. You’re a great lawyer, firm in your beliefs. Admirable. And that’s the problem. The case is too dangerous. You’re a magnet for trouble, and Philip isn’t getting any younger. He’s had some physical problems recently.”

He waves his fork at her and says mid-bite of salad, “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Philip, I truly don’t want to risk your health. I can find someone else.”

“Not as good as I am,” he says. “And I say that in all humility. I agree with Joyce. The case is definitely dangerous and you do attract trouble. Which is exactly why I’m working with you. It keeps me young, and it keeps my brain clear and in shape. And besides, you and Brenda need my help. Now let’s finish the salad so the tri-tip doesn’t rest too long.”

For the rest of the meal—which is excellent, even Brenda’s chocolate chip cookies—I make sure to avoid talking about the case, which is the only thing I really want to talk about. So we discuss sports and art and politics, though we tread lightly on politics based on some engrained disagreements in views. Brenda knows a surprising amount about comic book and graffiti art (hence her admiration for Banksy, the English street artist)—she only half-jokingly talks about a boyfriend who was a tagger—and makes a strong case for why it should be taken seriously. Later, Philip and I recycle some old stories about Harmon Cherry and other former colleagues that neither of us tires of hearing. At around eight o’clock, Brenda and I announce that we’re going to leave.

“Wait,” Philip says. “I want to show you something on
Abduction!
”

“I’ll clean up,” Joyce says. “Just make sure you keep the sound down on that horrible game.”

Philip leads us into a small bedroom that he uses as an office and game room. He turns on his television, powers on his Xbox, and connects to the Internet.

“Video games are the new creative medium,” he says. “One has to know these things to keep current.”

The game launches, depicting an upscale bar, all chrome and glass and din, which I recognize as being located in a Westside mall. Philip maneuvers the viewer toward a man sitting with an attractive redhead in the corner booth. We elbow our way past jostling patrons who form a barrier between the player and the man in the booth. As we approach, it becomes clear that the man is William Bishop. Is the woman Felicity McGrath? We don’t know, because just as we get close, Bishop’s facial features melt and rearrange themselves into those of a faceless demon. The woman transforms into a gap-toothed crone with warts.

Brenda looks at the screen with hands on hips. “How strange,” she mumbles.

“You’re telling me,” Philip says. “I’ve been stuck in this bar for days. No one online has solved it either. Just when you think Poniard is making a point . . .” He takes a couple more passes at approaching the Bishop character, but the same thing happens. He shrugs. “Maybe next time.”

I move close. “Philip, listen, about what Joyce said, I really don’t want you to do this if—”

He puts a fatherly hand on my shoulder. “My wife is a worrier. I’m loving this and grateful that you have the confidence in me to let me work on such an important case.”

For days, Brighton has rattled the front gate outside the rundown building, pressing the intercom button over and over again. A woman with an old hag’s voice keeps saying, “Go away, we don’t want any!” He’s tried circling around to the back alley and climbing the concrete wall, only to have suffered deep wounds from the barbed wire. He knows this because when he disturbed the wire, blood started dripping down from his POV onto the screen, and his movements were restricted for a suitable healing period—Poniard’s way of penalizing the player for stupidity. There seems to be no solution to this level. Brighton has gotten so frustrated that he seriously might give up on
Abduction!