“Police.”
Lights on in the entry illuminated the peephole in the door. The door opened, and the woman said, “Police? What’s going on?”
She was in her midforties, trim but wide in the hips, wore green velour sweats, glasses on a chain, and nothing on her feet. Ash-blond hair was texturized to faux carelessness. At least four shades of blond that I could make out in the light over the doorway, blended artfully. Her nails were painted silver. Her skin looked tired. She squinted and blinked. The house behind her was silent.
There’s no good way to do what Milo had to do. She sagged and screamed and tore at her hair and accused him of being crazy and a goddamn liar. Then her eyes bugged and her hand snapped across her mouth and a retching sound forced its way through her fingers.
I was the first to follow her into her kitchen, where she vomited into a stainless-steel sink. Milo hung near the doorway, looking miserable but still taking the time to examine the room.
As she threw up convulsively, I stood behind her but didn’t touch her. When she was finished, I got her a paper towel.
She said, “Thank you, that was very . . .”
She started to smile, then she saw me for the stranger I was and began to shake uncontrollably.
*
When we finally made it to the living room, she remained on her feet and insisted we sit. We perched on a blue brocade sofa. The room was pretty.
She stared at us. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her face had gone white.
“Can I get you coffee and cake?”
Milo said, “Don’t go to any trouble, Mrs. Quick.”
“Sheila.” She hurried back to the kitchen. Milo clenched and unclenched his hands. My eyes ached. I stared at a Picasso print of an old guitarist, a reproduction cherrywood grandfather clock, pink silk flowers in a crystal vase, family photos. Sheila Quick, a thin, gray-haired man, a dark-haired girl about twenty, and the boy in the Mustang.
She returned with two mismatched mugs of instant coffee, a jar of powdered whitener, a plate of sugar cookies. Her lips were bloodless. “I’m so sorry. Here, maybe this will make you feel better.”
Milo said, “Ma’am—”
“Sheila. My husband’s in Atlanta.”
“Business?”
“Jerry’s a metals dealer. He visits scrapyards and smelters and whatever.” She fooled with her hair. “Have one, please, they’re Pepperidge Farms.”
Lifting a cookie from the plate, she dropped it, tried to pick it up, crushed it to crumbs on the carpet.
“Now look what I did!” She threw up her hands and cried.
*
Milo was gentle, but he probed, and he and Sheila Quick fell into a routine: short questions from him, long, rambling answers from her. She seemed hypnotized by the sound of her own voice. I didn’t want to think about what it would be like when we left.
Gavin Quick was the younger of two children. A twenty-three-year-old sister named Kelly attended law school at Boston University. Gavin was a very good boy. No drugs, no bad company. His mother couldn’t think of anyone who’d want to hurt him.
“It’s really a pretty stupid question, Detective.”
“It’s just something I have to ask, ma’am.”
“Well it doesn’t apply here. No one would want to hurt Gavin, he’s been hurt enough.”
Milo waited.
She said, “He was in a terrible car crash.”
“When was this, ma’am?”
“Just under a year ago. He’s lucky he wasn’t—” Her voice choked. She lowered her head to her hands, and her back hunched and trembled.
It took a while for her to show her face. “Gavin was with a bunch of friends—college friends, he was just finishing his second year at the U., was studying economics. He was interested in business—not Jerry’s business. Finance, real estate, big things.”
“What happened?”
“What—oh the crash? Pointless, absolutely pointless, but do kids listen? They denied it, but I’m sure drinking had something to do with it.”
“They?”
“The boy who was driving—his insurance company. They wanted to reduce their liability. Obviously. A kid from Whittier, Gavin knew him from school. He was killed, so we couldn’t very well harass his parents, but the time it took the insurance company to compensate us for Gavin’s medical was—you don’t need to hear this.”