To my eye, nothing close to “almost sleeping.”
I returned the picture, and we approached the Quick house.
A woman in a black pantsuit answered. Younger than Sheila Quick, she was slim and angular and brunette, with firm features and an assertive posture. Her dark hair was short, feathered in front, sprayed in place.
Her hands clamped her hips. “I’m sorry, they’re resting.”
Milo showed her the badge.
She said, “That doesn’t change the facts.”
“Ms.—”
“Eileen. I’m Sheila’s sister. Here’s my badge.” She slid a cream-colored business card out of a jacket pocket. The diamond on her finger was a three-carat pear.
Eileen Paxton
Senior Vice President and
Chief Financial Officer
Digimorph Industries
Simi Valley, California
“Digimorph,” said Milo.
“Ultratech computer enhancement. We do film work. On the biggest pictures.”
Milo smiled at her. “Here’s a picture, Ms. Paxton.” He showed her the death shot.
Eileen Paxton’s gaze didn’t waver, but her lips worked. “She’s the one who was found with Gavin?”
“Do you recognize her, ma’am?”
“No, but I wouldn’t. I thought Gavin was found with his girlfriend. That little hook-nosed thing. That’s what Sheila told me.”
“Your sister assumed,” said Milo. “A reasonable assumption, but she was mistaken. That’s one of the reasons we’re here.”
He kept the photo in Eileen Paxton’s sight. She said, “You can put that away.”
“Is Mr. Quick back from Atlanta?”
“He’s sleeping. They both are.”
“When do you think they’ll be available?”
“How would I know that? This is a terrible time for the entire family.”
“Yes, it is, ma’am.”
“This city,” said Paxton. “This world.”
“Okay then,” said Milo. “We’ll check back later.”
We turned to leave, and Eileen Paxton began to close the door, when a male voice from inside the house said, “Who’s out there, Eileen?”
Paxton was halfway inside when she said something unintelligible. The male voice retorted. Louder. Milo and I faced the house. A man emerged, his back to us, talking to the doorway. “I don’t need to be protected, Eileen.”
Muffled response. The man closed the door, swiveled, and stared at us. “I’m Jerry Quick. Any news on my boy’s murder?”
Tall, thin, round-shouldered, he wore a navy blue crewneck sweater over khakis and white Nikes. Thinning gray hair was arranged in a careless comb-over. His face was long, deeply seamed, lantern-jawed. Bluish smudges stained the crinkled skin beneath wide-set blue eyes. His eyelids drooped, as if he were having trouble staying awake.
We returned to the front steps. Milo held out his hand. Quick shook it briefly, glanced at me, said, “Do you have anything yet?”
“Afraid not. If you’ve got time—”
“Of course I do.” Quick’s lips twisted as if he’d tasted something bad. “My executive sister-in-law. She met Spielberg once and thinks her shit doesn’t stink—come on in. My wife’s totally out of it, our doctor gave her Valium or something, but I’m fine. He wanted to dose me up, too. I want to be focused.”
*
Milo and I sat on the same blue sofa, and Jerome Quick took a Chippendale-repro armchair. I studied the family photos again. Wanting to imagine Gavin as something other than the thing in the Mustang.
In life, he’d been a tall, dark-haired, pleasant-looking kid with his father’s long face and wide-set eyes. Darker eyes than his father’s—gray-green. In some of the earlier pictures he wore glasses. His fashion sense never changed. Preppy clothes, designer logos. Short hair, always, in either a conservative crew cut or gelled and spiked cautiously. A regular kid with a tentative smile, not handsome, not ugly. Walk down any suburban street, check out a mall or a multiplex theater or a college campus, and you’d see scores just like him. His sister—the law student in Boston—was plain and serious-looking.
Quick saw me looking. “That was Gav.” His voice caught. He cursed under his breath, said, “Let’s get to work.”
*
Milo prepared him for the picture, then showed it to him.
Quick waved it away. “Never seen her.” Quick’s eyes dropped to the carpet. “Did my wife tell you about the accident?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That and now this.” Quick sprang up, strode to a mock-Chippendale coffee table, studied a crystal box for a while, then opened it and pulled out a cigarette and lit up with a matching lighter.