“Can’t really say, because I’ve been out here the whole time. They insisted—the boy insisted—that they be by themselves. He seems to be the boss.”
“Thanks, Sheila,” said Milo. “Take a break.”
“Sure. I’ll be at my desk if you need me.”
Marchesi made her way to the detective’s room. Milo said, “All yours,” and I turned the handle.
The room wasn’t much different from an interrogation cell, had probably been converted from one. Tiny, win-dowless, hemmed by high-gloss mustard walls. Three chairs upholstered in mismatched floral cotton prints instead of county-issue metal. In place of the steel table with the cuff bolts was a low wooden slatted thing that resembled a picnic bench with the legs cut off. Magazines: People, Ladies’ Home Journal, Modern Computer.
Eric and Stacy sat in two of the chairs.
Stacy stared at me.
Eric said, “Get out.”
Stacy said, “Eric—”
“He’s the fuck out of here—don’t argue, Stace. He’s obviously part of this, we can’t trust him.”
I said, “Eric, I can understand your thinking—”
“No more bullshit! The fat cop’s your pal, you set my dad up, you fuck!”
I said, “Just give me—”
“I’ll give you dick!” he shouted. Then he rushed me as Stacy cried out. Suffused blood darkened his skin to chocolate. His eyes were wild and his arms were churning and I knew he’d try to hit me. I backed away, got ready to protect myself without hurting him. Stacy was still shouting, her voice high and feline and frightened. I’d made it out the door when Eric stopped, stood there, waved his fist. Spittle foamed at the corners of his mouth.
“Get out of our lives! We’ll take care of ourselves*.” Over his shoulder, I saw Stacy, bent low, face buried in her hands.
Eric said, “You’re off the case, you fucking loser.”
CHAPTER 22
I DROVE HOME, cold hands strangling the steering wheel, heart punching against my chest wall.
Try to forget the kids, they are no longer my affair. Concentrate on facts.
Milo was right. The facts fit. His instincts had aimed him at Richard. Time to be honest: so had mine. The first time I’d heard about Mate’s death, Richard had popped into my head. I’d run from the truth, hidden behind the complexities of ethical conflict, but now reality was spitting in my face.
I recalled Richard’s gloating after bringing up Mate’s death: festive times. The sonofabitch finally got what he deserved.
Finally. Did that mean he’d turned to someone else when Goad had failed to follow through?
Means, motive. Vicarious opportunity. Ready with an alibi. Milo had pegged it right away. People like Richard didn’t do their own dirty work.
For all my theories about co-optation and irony, did the van butchery boil down to stupid, bloody revenge?
But why? What could lead someone as bright as Richard to risk so much over a man who’d been no more than an accomplice to his wife’s last wishes? Was he one of those skillful psychopaths bright enough to channel his drives into high finance?
Distressed properties. A man who profited from the distress of others. Had Richard been running from a truth of his own? The fact that Joanne had frozen him out of her life, shut him out completely, chosen death in a cheap motel room over a life with him in the Palisades?
Dying in the company of another man . . . the intimacy of death. The feminist journal—S(Hero)—wondered about the preponderance of female travelers, speculated about the sexual overtones of assisted suicide. Had Richard seen Joanne’s last night as the worst kind of adultery? I supposed it was possible, but it still seemed so… clumsy.
Was Richard behind the phony book and the broken stethoscope? You’re out of business, Doc?
A sick uneasiness slithered over me. Happy Traveling, You Sick Bastard. . . . Why had Richard contacted me within a week of the murder? Stacy’s college future, as he’d claimed, or, knowing that Quentin Goad had been arrested, was he preparing himself for exactly what had happened?
Asking me to see Eric, too.
Take care of the kids while I’m gone. . . . Look how that had turned out.