When the Day of Evil Comes (23 page)

I
MOVED MY CAR TO THE GARAGE
, then followed Liz through the back door into the kitchen. She cleared Spaghetti-O-crusted plates from the table and stacked them in the sink, moving easily among the pleasant kid clutter and opening the Sub-Zero for a bottle of wine.

“Join me?” she said.

“Sure.”

“I swear. Three kids under age five would turn any sane woman to drink. I’m thinking of bagging the whole thing and becoming an alcoholic.”

“You’d need to find yourself a good codependent first,” I said. “Someone to over-function for you so you can become passive and irresponsible.”

“I’ll work on that,” she said laughing. “Andy’s pretty responsible. Maybe if we found a really good nanny …”

She poured us both a glass of white and raised her glass.

“To Erik,” she said.

“To Erik.”

We both took a sip. “He was a great kid,” she said. “A really great kid.”

“I know he was,” I said.

“Why do you think he did it?”

“I was hoping you could tell me. I didn’t know him very well. I only saw him three times. A year ago.”

Liz leveled her eyes at me. “I thought you’d been seeing him regularly since he got to school. That’s what Joe’s telling everyone.” She took a sip of wine, holding the taste on her tongue and closing her eyes. “So you don’t know why he did it.”

“No. I didn’t even remember him at first,” I admitted. “I had to look up his records.”

“The way Joe talks about it, you’re the one that drove him off the balcony. You might as well have shoved him off yourself. He’d love to blame the whole thing on you.”

“Do you think that’s true? I mean, do you believe him?”

“Erik had plenty of reasons to commit suicide,” she said. “I doubt seriously that you’re one of them.”

I waited silently. I didn’t want to push.

“It was a tough family to grow up in,” she said at last. “Andy’s completely estranged from his father.”

“Joe seems like a hard man to be close to.”

“Delicately put. You’ve met him?”

“Once. Today At the Vendome hotel.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You went to the Vendome?”

“I wanted to see the room.”

“I hate that room,” she said. “I won’t stay there anymore. Christine won’t go past the doorway.”

“Mommy.” It was Punkin.

“Yes, Punkin.”

“Jamie took the movie out and he’s pulling all the tape out of it and Mikey’s eating my purple. My favorite.”

Liz looked at me. “We go through hundreds of purple crayons. I’ll be right back.”

I waited in the kitchen while she got the kids under control.
She came back a minute later with all three in tow. “I’m going to try to get them down. Mind waiting for a minute?”

“Can I help?”

Liz turned to her daughter. “You want Miss Dylan to tuck you in?”

Punkin came over and grabbed my hand. “Will you say my prayers with me?”

I looked over at Liz for permission. She nodded at me.

“Sure, honey,” I said.

I got up and tagged upstairs with her, following her into her pink and yellow bedroom while Liz carried both the boys down the hall. I wondered why Liz Zocci trusted me to be alone with her kid. Not that I wasn’t trustworthy, but how could she know that?

Letter-shaped pillows on Punkin’s bed spelled Christine. She yanked the covers back, pushed all the pillows into a heap on the floor, grabbed a worn teddy bear missing its nose and one eye, and stuck her thumb in her mouth.

“I knew you’d come,” she said.

She’d said that earlier.

“How did you know, sweetie?”

“The angel told me.”

“What angel?”

“My angel,” she insisted, as though that were plenty of information for anyone. “He told me you would come to see me. He said you knew my uncle Erik.”

“When did you see the angel?”

“I always see him.”

“Do you see him now?”

She took her thumb out of her mouth and rolled her eyes. “No, silly-bean. He’s not here now.”

Surely Peter Terry hadn’t gotten to sweet little Punkin. If he
was coming around this kid, I’d hunt him down and skin him myself.

“What does the angel look like? Is he all white?”

“He looks like Mr. Martin.”

“Is he all white and sick looking?”

“No.” She shook her head emphatically. “He looks like Mr. Martin.”

That was as far as we were going to get with that.

She stuck her thumb back in her mouth and said, “Pray.”

“I’m supposed to pray? Don’t you pray when you say your prayers?”

“No, you,” she said.

“Who do you want to pray for?”

“Mommy and Daddy and Mikey and Jamie and Erik. And Gramma.”

I dutifully prayed for Mommy, Daddy, Mikey, Jamie, and Erik. And Gramma. “Anyone else?” I said.

“You. Pray for you.”

The kid had good instincts. I needed praying for. I prayed for myself.

I opened my eyes again. “Anyone else?”

“The babies in Africa.”

I prayed for the babies in Africa. “Anyone else?”

She stuck her bear in my face. “Kiss No-Nose.”

I kissed No-Nose.

“Amen,” she said.

“Amen,” I said.

She stuck her thumb back in her mouth. I was clearly being dismissed. I told her good night and turned off the bedside light.

“Door open or closed?” I said.

“Open.”

I left the door open and went back downstairs to wait for Liz.

In the kitchen, I busied myself cleaning up the supper dishes. I wondered if Liz had a maid or anything. The house was sort of a wreck. Not dirty, just cluttered with kid gear. I got the feeling she was on her own. For a family with Zocci-level money, Liz and Andy seemed very down to earth.

“Oh, thanks,” Liz said as she came into the room. She started the dishwasher. “Leave the rest. Housework can always wait.” She handed me my glass and we sat again at the table.

“Has Christine mentioned an angel to you?” I asked.

She nodded. “She talks about him all the time. That’s how she knew you were coming. Her angel told her.”

“Who is Mr. Martin?”

“He’s her school principal.”

“Is he bald and white, sort of sickly looking, by chance?”

“As a matter of fact, he’s black. Full head of hair. Why?”

“Christine said the angel looks like Mr. Martin.”

“News to me.”

“Do you believe her?” I asked.

“What, that he looks like Mr. Martin?”

“No. That there’s an angel. That he’s real.”

She shrugged. “Don’t know. Christine has always had a good radar. She sees things no one else sees. That’s why I let you tuck her in. If you’d been dangerous, she would have known it.”

“I wondered.”

“She won’t go into that twelfth-floor room unless her angel is there.”

“At the Vendome?”

“Yep.”

“Andy took the kids there last week. I was at my mother’s.
Christine wouldn’t go in. Said the bad man was there.”

“Who’s the bad man?”

“I have no idea.” She took a sip of wine. “Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Neither have I.”

She got up and dug in the Sub-Zero for a minute, producing a plate of lunchmeat, cheese, and fruit and set it between us on the table. She tossed a napkin across the table for me and sat herself down.

“How did you know Joe was gunning for me?” I asked. “Did he tell you?”

She shook her head. “I never see the man. At the funeral, of course. And later at the house. Mariann told me.”

“Are the two of you close?” I asked.

“Mariann is sort of a broken woman. She’s not close to anyone. But we talk a few times a week. More since Erik died. She spends a lot of time with the kids. Christine loves her.”

“What broke her, do you think? Erik’s suicide?”

“Erik is just the last stick on the pile,” she said. “Joey her first son, died when he was three. And she’s had almost forty years living with Joe Zocci.”

“What’s he like?”

She reached for a piece of cheese. “Joe? Cruel would be accurate, I think.”

“Abusive?”

“Very.”

“Physically, emotionally, verbally? What?” I asked.

“Pick one. Erik didn’t tell you?”

“Erik never said a word about his father.”

“I’m not surprised. Lots of silence in this family. Everyone’s afraid of him.”

“You don’t seem to be afraid of him. Otherwise you wouldn’t be talking to me.”

She looked at me. “I’m through being afraid of things.”

“Why did you want to talk to me? Why did you invite me in?”

She thought a minute. “I think because Christine had said you’d be coming. I’m learning to listen to her. And because Erik was a good kid. I’d like to know what really happened to him.” She drained her wine glass and reached for the bottle. “Top you off?” she asked.

“No, thanks.”

She filled her glass, corked the bottle, and returned it to the fridge.

“How long have you and Andy been married?”

“Seven years,” she said. “Andy’s a good man. Nothing like his father.”

“How long have he and his dad been estranged?”

“Seven years.”

“Since you married.”

“Easy math,” she said. “Joe’s not too crazy about me. He didn’t want Andy to marry me.”

“Why not?”

“I think it’s because I stood up to him.”

“To who? Andy or Joe?”

“Both, I guess. But Andy doesn’t need much standing up to.”

“How’d you stand up to Joe?”

“I convinced Andy not to help him run the airline.”

“And Joe wasn’t too happy.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“How did he react?”

“He cut Andy off.”

“Financially?”

“Every dime.”

“But …” I looked around. They were obviously doing very well.

“Andy’s done this on his own,” she said.

“What does he do?”

“He owns an oil and gas drilling company.”

“Garret Industries?”

She looked at me. “How do you know about Garret Industries?”

“Long story,” I said.

“Andy’s company is called A&E Oil. Garret Industries is Joe’s attempt to put Andy out of business.”

“Joe started a rival company?”

“Just a subsidiary. Garret has been around for a long time. But it didn’t go into the oil and gas business until Andy did.”

“Wow.”

She took another drink of wine. “Yeah. Wow.”

“I’d like to talk to Mariann,” I said. “I stopped by the house earlier. I pretended to be a UPS delivery person. Hoping to get my face in front of hers so I could talk to her.”

“You’d never get past security.”

“I figured that out.”

“I’ll call her for you.”

“Would you? I’d really appreciate it.”

“When do you want to see her?”

“What time is it?”

“Almost nine,” she said. “You want to see her tonight?”

“I’d like to. Joe’s out of town. I don’t know when he’s coming back.”

She picked up the phone and exchanged a few words with
Mariann Zocci, then hung up the phone and looked at me. “She’s waiting for you.”

“Should I—”

“Just ring the bell at the family gate. The first one you tried.”

I looked at her.

“She saw you the first time you were there. She would have let you in.”

“Did she know it was me?”

“She’d already looked up your picture on the SMU website. She recognized you.”

I needed to check out that picture. Everyone had seen it but me.

“Thanks, Liz. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”

We exchanged phone numbers.

“Good luck,” she said. “You have no idea what you’re up against.”

T
HE TRIP TO THE ZOCCI ESTATE
seemed shorter this time. Probably because I was so nervous. I didn’t really want to get there, I don’t think.

My planless state persisted along with the inevitable accompanying panic. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say to Mariann Zocci.

Hi, I’m the psychologist your husband is blaming for your sons suicide.

So sorry for your loss, but could you put your grief aside and help me, because my career is going down the tubes?

Have you seen a scary white man with a big slash on his back?

I pulled my Neon up to the family gate and cranked down my window to press the button. The gate opened before I even got my hand out of the window. So much for my theory that there were no video cameras at this entrance. I looked around for the cameras, but never spotted them. Which made me even more nervous. I was tired of the continuing unease of being watched. And how did I know Joe Zocci wasn’t lying in wait for me, watching my little smiley-face flag as I curved along the driveway to his home?

The house was enormous and sang of old money, which intimidated me immediately, of course. Grey stone walls were laced with ivy. The slate roof was speckled with the unmistakable signs of pennanence—blue-green lichen, small patches of bright green moss, and coppery water stains. Gargantuan marble planters guarded the doorway, each spiked with a spiral, groomed topiary and spilling over with more ivy.

Mine was the only car in the drive. I shoved the door open with my shoulder, grabbed my bag and what remained of my courage, and stepped onto the flagstone walk. The front door opened before I made it up the steps.