In the doorway next to him was Abby Turnbull. What in God’s name did Marino think he was doing? Had he lost his mind? Abby Turnbull, the ace reporter, the shark that made jaws seem like a goldfish.
Then I noticed she was wearing sandals, a pair of blue jeans and a white cotton blouse that wasn’t tucked in. Her hair was tied back. She wasn’t wearing makeup. She carried no tape recorder or notepad, just a canvas tote bag. Her wide eyes were riveted to the bed, her face twisted by terror.
“God, no!”
As she placed her hand over her open mouth.
“It’s her, then,” Marino said in a low voice.
She moved closer, staring. “My God. Henna. Oh, my God…”
“This was her room?”
“Yes. Yes. Oh, please, God . . .”
Marino jerked his head, motioning a uniformed man I couldn’t see to come upstairs and escort Abby Turnbull out. I heard their feet on the stairs, heard her moaning.
I quietly asked Marino, “You know what you’re doing?”
“Hey. I always know what I’m doing.”
“That was her screaming,” I numbly went on. “Screaming at the police?”
“Nope. Boltz had just come down. She was yelling at him.”
“Boltz?”
I couldn’t think.
“Can’t say I blame her,” he replied unemphatically. “It’s her house. Can’t blame her for not wanting us crawling all over the damn place, telling her she can’t come in . . .”
“Boltz?” I asked idiotically. “Boltz told her she couldn’t come in?”
“And a couple of the guys.”
Shrugging. “She’s going to be something to talk to. Totally off the wall.”
His attention drifted to the body on the bed, and something flickered in his eyes. “This lady here’s her sister.”
The living room was filled with sunlight and potted plants. It was on the second floor, and had been recently and expensively refurbished. The polished hardwood floor was almost completely covered with a dhurrie rug of pale blue and green geometrical designs against a field of white, and the furniture was white and angular with small pillows in pastels. On the whitewashed walls was an enviable collection of abstract monotype prints by Richmond artist Gregg Carbo. It was an impractical room, one Abby designed with no one in mind but herself, I suspected. An impressive frosty lair, it bespoke success and a lack of sentiment and seemed very much in character with what I’d always thought of its creator.
Curled up in a corner of the white leather couch, she was nervously smoking a long thin cigarette. I’d never seen Abby up close, and she was so peculiar looking she was striking. Her eyes were irregular, one slightly greener than the other, and her full lips did not seem to belong on the same face as the prominent, narrow nose. She had brown hair, which was graying and just brushing her shoulders, and her cheekbones were high, her complexion finely lined at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Longlegged and slender, she was my age, perhaps a few years younger.
She stared at us with the unblinking glassy eyes of a frightened deer. A uniformed man left and Marino quietly shut the door.
“I’m real sorry. I know how hard this is . . .”
Marino started in with the usual windup. He calmly explained the importance that she answer all questions, remember everything about her sister – her habits, her friends, her routines-in as much detail as she could. Abby sat woodenly and said nothing. I sat opposite her.
“I understand you’ve been out of town,” he was saying.
“Yes.”
Her voice trembled and she shivered as if she were cold. “I left Friday afternoon for a meeting in New York.”
“What sort of meeting?”
“A book. I’m in the process of negotiating a book contract. Had a meeting with my agent. Stayed over with a friend.”
The microcassette recorder on top of the glass coffee table silently turned. Abby stared blindly at it.
“So, you have any contact with your sister while you was in New York?”
“I tried to call her last night to tell her what time my train was coming in.”
She took a deep breath. “When I didn’t get an answer, I was puzzled, I guess. Then I just assumed she’d gone out somewhere. I didn’t try after I pulled into the station. The train station. I knew she had classes this afternoon. I got a cab. I had no idea. It wasn’t until I got here and saw all the cars, the police . . .”