SUMMER of FEAR (37 page)

"You hateful thing," said Amber.

"Russell," Grace said, training her fearful eyes on m
"Can you please make her go away?"

"No. But you can listen."

I came right out with what we had discovered: the ripped nail at
Amber's, the nine matching it in Grace's wastebasket. I saved Brent Sides's
recanted testimony, should it be needed later.

"Explain," I said.

Grace
moved her disdainful eyes from her mother to me "Twin horrors," she
said. "It's like being raised by wolves."

"We were talking about July the third," I said.

"If
you're accusing me of murder because you think nails in my bathroom match one
found at
her
house—you're even dumber than I thought, Russ."

'Funny," I said. "No one mentioned murder at all. I was just
wondering what you were doing at Amber's that night."

"I was not
at
Amber's that night. I was
with Brent."

"We just came from his apartment. He said you didn't show up until
real late. You were frightened. You smelled bad. He was afraid to ask where
you'd been. So, now I'm asking— where were you?"

Grace colored deeply but not with shame. It was anger that showed
through her skin and fueled a tiny fire in each eye. "I hate you
both."

"That's nice," I said. "Where were you? And if you
weren't at Amber's, how did your fingernail manage to get there without you?
Grace—I'm tired of your crap."

The anger in Grace's eyes looked, for a moment, almost flamelike. I had
never seen this in her, and yet it didn't surprise me. My own temper was a
fierce, though temporary, thing. Amber's was, too. And as I looked at my
daughter then, I saw that she was, both literally and figuratively, up against
a wall.

Amber, silent throughout until now, turned to look at me. "Welcome
to your girl," she said.

"You're
the thing from hell," said Grace.

"I know, dear," answered Amber. "I know. But I'm trying
hard to be something else. What were you doing in my house that night, Grace?
You may as well tell us, since we have proof that you were there. Let me
guess—you came to apologize for not talking to me for six months, for acting
like I was dead."

"To beg your forgiveness and take your money, as suggested by
those big oafs you sent. Here,
Mother,
do you like their
handiwork?" Grace lifted a foot bottom toward her mother.

I heard the slight intake of breath as Amber understood what she was
seeing.

"It worked," said Grace. "That is exactly what I was
doing at your house on July the third. I was there to surrender to you.

I had had enough.
I was scared enough of you by then to carry that gun in my purse. I admit that
the idea of shooting you came to mind, and it wasn't a totally unpleasant
thought. But what I wanted that night was to tell you I'd given up. I was done.
You had won. I didn't want any more burned body parts. I didn't want your
money, either. All I wanted was to be able to sleep at night without worrying
who might be outside my door."

Grace looked steadily at me, then at her mother. The fires of anger were
gone. "What I saw in your bedroom terrified me. I thought it was you. I
called Martin, but he wasn't home, called Russell, but you weren't home. Then I
went to Brent's and tried to sleep. I wasn't going to call the police and talk
to some rookie patrolman about my own mother's murder. Why? Because when I looked down at you,
Mother;
the terror didn't come from what had happened to you; it came from
how.. fitting it seemed to be. Looking at your dead body made me a little bit
happy. And I knew by the time all the news of our bad blood got out—Grace
Wilson would be the number-one suspect So I hid out, then came here to
Russell."

I listened to the motor of the ceiling fan, the gentle whoosh of the
blades. "The nail, Grace."

Grace looked down now, at her knees still covered by the blanket. Her
voice was suddenly weaker. "And I'll tell you some thing I have never told
another human being, Russell and Amber. It almost hurts me to say it, but I will
because it explains why I was there, and why my nail stayed behind."

She looked up at Amber now with an expression so different from before,
I could hardly believe it belonged to the same person. Tears welled in her
lovely dark eyes and her lips so capable of scorn and sarcasm, simply trembled.

"I...
I have always ... in a
way...
I have always loved You,
Mother. And when I saw you lying there, after I felt the relief of knowing you
were dead and I was safe, and after I felt that
horrid...
satisfaction at what had happened to you, I fell down
to the floor on my knees and cried and prayed and cried and prayed and I dug my
fingers so hard into your carpet, the nail broke off. I didn't notice it until
I was leaving. I looked for it but couldn't find it. Back home, I took off the
others and threw them away so that if the police came to me, they'd see I
didn't wear nails. I was too upset and too afraid to realize they'd be as easy
to find in the dumpster as they would have been on my fingers. I think I probably
left a fresh pack around, anyway. I'd make a lousy criminal."

Amber took a step toward Grace, then stopped. "When Russell told
you it was Alice, why didn't you call me, Grace? Why didn't
you...
weren't you at least relieved I was
still alive?"

"Mother," said Grace, "I believed you would blame it on
me, as you and Russell are trying to do right now. What I wanted, more than
anything, was a few days' rest with Russell—or anywhere, really—then a long
vacation somewhere alone. You can't believe how horrible it
was...
seeing what I saw and feeling what I
felt. I love you. I hate you, too, but not enough to kill you like that.
Believe what you want."

Amber stared at Grace but said nothing. There was more damnation in her
silence than in any words she might have said.

Grace looked back down at her knees, sighed deeply, and rested her head
against them. "And you, Russell?" she asked quietly.

"I've always believed you, girl. How much of this have you told
Martin?"

"All," she answered, still not looking up.

Of course, I thought, it explained Parish's initial fingering of Grace
at the scene, and his final decision to frame me—not her.

"Did you know he's going to charge me with
Alice's murder?"

She looked up then, with a look on her face as close
hopelessness as I had ever seen from her. "I had no idea that what he was
doing. He told me very little. I thought Martin was a decent man. He always
was—to me, anyway. But you should know, Russell, I'll do whatever I can to help
you."

"I'm going to need your help.
Parish killed Alice.
Do you
understand that?"

She shook her head. "Why?"

"Because he was in line for money if Amber died,
because, quite frankly, Martin Parish hates your mother more than you ever did.
He hates me, too. And he found a way to knock us all down with one shot. He
thought he could pull off a perfect crime."

"I'm so sick of everything," Grace
whispered. Tears ran down her cheeks. "Amber, I love you, but I still hate
you. Russell, I'll do whatever I can to help you with Martin. I'll testify.
I'll to the police."

"You already have."

"Then what can I do?"

Audacity, I thought. Meet Martin on his own turf, not
sure yet," I said.

Amber had already left the room.

I walked past my father in the living room, fully
unconscious on a couch. I caught up with her on the deck outside. She was
lighting a cigarette and her hand was shaking. I lighted it for her.

"She needs you," I said.

"It wasn't clear to me until now."

"You can go to her."

"You don't understand. She's in it with Martin.
She's his partner. I'm positive. Nothing on earth interested her more as a
child than my men. It's her and Martin, working together. With me out of the
way, it would have been millions for them both. And all the jolly good fun they
could have bashing my brains all over my bedroom. I think I'm going to puke,
Russell."

She ran up into the brush of the canyon and vomited.

A few minutes later, she came back down, her shape materializing from
the darkness. "I'm going home with Theodore," she said. "And in
the morning, I'll see the State Attorney General again. Now that I understand
Grace's role, it makes all the more sense. I will not allow Martin Parish and
my loving daughter to get away with this. Not at your expense, and most
certainly not at mine."

I hardly slept
that night—or rather, morning—but the dreamy wakefulness offered me the clarity
of mind that one enjoys just before falling asleep and just before fully
waking. I wondered about Izzy, then wondered some more. I called the IC Unit
eve: hour for reports. When I could momentarily assuage my worries about
Isabella, I did my best to consider other actualities, wondered whether Amber's
tack to the Attorney General might be a sound one. But again, I had no desire
to meet Martin Parish on the playing field of the law—his advantage was too
great.

Instead,
I dreamed—or imagined—meeting Parish in Amber's house. The scene played like
this: He had come to finish what he'd started on July 3. He would have the
club. I would be there, a witness to his second attempt. There, I could make a
citizen's arrest for burglary, which would lead to questioning, investigation,
and an eventual unmasking of Parish.

I
liked the directness of this action, but, at the same time Grace and I clearly
needed help. Would Amber participate, perhaps help us lure Martin back to her
home? Maybe. But where could we find an ally with power outside of the system?
Just as the first light brought forth the basic shapes in the room around me, I
thought of Erik Wald. At first, the idea seemed ridiculous, Erik being so
ensconced within the court of the department. But looked at another way, I
could see that he might cooperate, because taking down Martin Parish would not
only clear Wald's appointment to undersherifTbut would also be the glitziest
coup he might pull. Imagine the headlines when the homicide captain lay exposed
by the cleverness of Professor Erik Wald and journalist Russell Monroe! And I
thought, too, that Erik's natural boldness might suit him perfectly. The
question was, Would he believe us, and, if so, would he help us trap Parish?

I called him at 6:00
a.m
.
and told him we'd be at his house in one hour. He was too mystified to protest.

Then I called the ICU nurses again.

No change.

Wald lived in a
ranch-style home in the Tustin hills, a swanky area that boasted an equestrian
flavor, smatterings of sweet-smelling orange groves, and $5 million
Spanish-style mansions on large parcels of land. His modest house sat back from
the road, at the end of a drive lined by eucalyptus trees. The gate was locked,
and I announced myself through an intercom speaker. Wald said nothing, but the
gate swung open and we drove in. "Can he help us?" Grace asked.

"I think so. The question is, will he?"

"I remember him as being swashbuckling. In his own mind, that
is."

"There is that side of Erik."

We parked. Wald was waiting at the door, dressed in corduroy pants and a
thin T-shirt that accentuated his tanned, well-muscled arms. His golden mop of
hair was still wet from a shower. He looked at me as I walked past him into the
house, then he rather formally hugged Grace.

"Nice to see you," he said.

"Nice to see you, too, Erik," she replied. "Have any
coffee on?"

In the smallish kitchen, Erik poured us three cups. I could see the
living room, which was large and furnished in heavy Mexican-style ranch chairs
and sofas. A large trunk that looked quite old served as a coffee table. The
fireplace at the far end was of brick—dark and well used.

Wald led us through a sliding glass door, across a small backyard with a
fountain and plantain trees and giant birds paradise, then into his study,
which was likely built as maid quarters. He pushed open the door without
unlocking it and followed us inside.

All the rustic charm of the house proper was lost upon Erik's study. The
walls were white, the floor was gleaming hard wood, the furnishings looked more
corporate than domestic was clearly a place of work. Two computers sat at two
differant gray metal desks, two printers beside them. There were fax, a copy
machines; file cabinets lining three walls; two telephone, a large video
monitor; two video cameras, each mounted on tripod; a film screen. It was also
a place of pride and self-absorption, as I noted the big portrait of Wald that
hung on
the far wall, the dozens of plaques and trophies
(marksmanship, tennis), the custom-made cabinets that displayed Wald's
certifcates, badges, awards, pins—every commendation he might have collected in
fifteen years of academic and law-enforcement work. Even the larger newspaper
stories were available for viewing, spread on foam, then shrink-wrapped and
framed. A dozen copies of his much-lauded doctoral dissertation, "Aspiring
to Evil: Transference Identification in the Violent Felon," which had been
published by the university after Wald's and Winters's spectacular snaring of
the rapist Cary Clough, took up an eye-level shelf in one of the cases.