“Fuckin’ Lancaster!. For that she goes out there! Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus Christ!”
He lowered his head between his legs, as if about to vomit, found no comfort in that position and sprang up, running to the wall of french doors, where he turned his back on me and cried silently while facing his swimming pool and his land and the faraway ocean.
“She must’ve really hated me,” he said.
“Why would she hate you, Richard?”
“For not forgiving her.”
“What did she do?”
“No,” he said. “No more of this, don’t strip off my skin, just let me get through this with my skin on, okay? I won’t try to tell you how to do your job, just let it be. Help my kids. Please.”
“Sure,” I said. “Of course.”
CHAPTER 27
THE FOOTSTEPS FROM above resumed. Moments later Joe Safer knocked on the doorjamb. Richard was still staring through the glass. He turned.
Safer said, “Everything all right?”
“Joe, I’m really bushed, think I’ll lie down.” Trudging to the sofa, Richard removed his shoes, lined them up at the base of the couch, stretched out.
“Why don’t you go upstairs to bed?” said Safer.
“Nah, I’ll just sack out here. This is my relaxation spot.” Richard reached for a remote control, clicked on seventy inches of the Home & Garden channel. Someone wearing a plaid shirt and a massive tool belt building a redwood deck. Making it look as easy as licking an envelope, the way those types always do.
Within seconds, Richard seemed hypnotized.
“Ready for the children?” Safer asked me.
“Ready.”
I followed him up a rear staircase, arranging the file cards in my head.
Guilt, expiation. I didn’t forgive her.
Joanne transgressing—probably exactly what I’d guessed: an affair.
Eric, close to his father, aligned with his father. Had Joanne’s transgression led her son to despise her? Spending time with her as she destroyed herself, loving her but also hating her? Could that explain the Polaroids? Documenting her descent—her punishment—then passing the pictures to Richard …
That level of filial contempt was hard to imagine, but Eric was explosive and impulsive and he had the genes for it. Now, months later, was he coming to grips with what he’d done? Seeking his own expiation?
Richard had just admitted paying Quentin Goad to murder the death doctor.
Make it look bloody . . . the wrong guy to cheat on. With Richard’s need for control, how could Joanne have expected anything but rejection and retribution?
Attempted murder as closure . . . and, if Mate hadn’t helped Joanne die, a grand mistake.
If he hadn’t, who had?
Do-it-yourself job? As a microbiologist, Joanne had access to lethal chemicals, the skills for self-injection. But given her physical condition I couldn’t see driving to Lancaster by herself…
She hated me. Now I had a reason she’d died in the Happy Trails Motel.
So maybe Mate had been there, agreeing to revert back to rented rooms in order to respect Joanne’s wishes. Same for the lack of publicity: perhaps Joanne had requested he keep it quiet. For the sake of the kids? No, that made no sense. If she’d wanted to shield Eric, why choose such a conspicuous suicide?
Why kill herself by any means?
One thing seemed clear: Mr. and Mrs. Doss had suffered through a troubled relationship. Mrs. had sinned and Mr. had refused to forgive her. Joanne had bought into Richard’s rage. Hating herself enough to self-destruct. But she hadn’t gone out without a parting shot. Taking control of the last day of her life. Contacting Mate—or someone else—on the sly. Dying on her own terms.
Lancaster. The ultimate screw-you to Richard.
Because she knew Richard well, knew he’d try to direct his anger everywhere else and a corpse in a cheap motel would be something he couldn’t escape. Or so she’d hoped. If funneling Richard toward crushing introspection had been Joanne’s goal, she’d failed miserably. As Judy had said, Richard was a blamer. And Richard liked to crush his adversaries.
A few minutes before, spinning his “hypothetical” tale, he’d brushed off the deal with Quentin Goad as an act of folly, denied he’d made a second attempt.