“With me?”
“That’s what he said.”
The eyes blinked. The smile went off and on. “Well, I’m astonished. I mean, it’s very flattering and I always thought he was a sweet kid, but really!”
“I didn’t find it that astonishing.”
Her laugh conveyed a wonderful combination of innocence and disbelief “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I’m married. And I’m twelve years older than he is.”
Shit, she was quick-shaving years off her age without pausing to count on her fingers or anything. I’m not that fast at subtraction so it’s probably fortunate that I don’t lie about how old I am.
I smiled slightly. She was pissing me off and I found myself using a mild, deadly tone. “Age doesn’t matter. Bobby’s dead now. He’s older than God. He’s as old as anybody’s ever going to get.”
She stared at me, cuing in to the fact that I was mad. “You don’t have to get nasty about it. I can’t help it if Bobby Callahan decided he was in love with me. So the kid had a crush on me. So what?”
“So the kid had an affair with you, Nola. That’s what. You got your tit in a wringer and the kid was helping you out. The kid was murdered because of you, ass eyes. Now, shall we quit bullshitting each other and get down to business on this or shall I call Lieutenant Dolan down at Homicide and let him have a chat with you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snapped. She got up, but I was already on my feet and I clamped a hand around that dainty wrist so fast she gasped. She gave a little jerk and I released her, but I could feel myself expand with anger like a hot-air balloon.
“I’m telling you, Nola. You’ve got a choice. You tell me what was going on or I’m going to start leaning on you. In fact, I may do that anyway. I’ll whip on down to the courthouse and I’ll start going through public records and newspaper accounts and police files until I get a little background information on you and then I’m going to figure out what you’re hiding and then I’m going to find a way to stick it to you so bad you’ll wish you’d blabbed the whole sfbry out right here.”
That’s when I got the jolt. In the back of my brain, I heard a sound like a parachute catching air. Thwunk … it opened up. It Was one of those extraordinary moments when automatic recall clicks in and a piece of information pops up like a flash card. It must have been the adrenaline pumping through my head because I suddenly retrieved some data from my memory bank and it appeared on my mental screen just as clear as could be … not the whole of it, but enough. “Wait a minute. I know who you are. You were married to Dwight Costigan. I knew I’d seen you somewhere. Your picture was in all the papers.”
Her face drained of color. “That has nothing to do with this,” she said.
I laughed, primarily because sudden recollection does that to me. A mental leap has a little chemical component to it that gives a quick rush.
“Oh come on,” I said. “It does connect. I don’t know how yet, but it’s all the same tale, isn’t it?”
She sank back down on the love seat, one hand reaching for the glass tabletop to steady herself. She breathed deeply, trying to relax. “You would do well to let this pass,” she said, not looking at me.
“Are you nuts?” I said. “Are you out of your tiny mind? Bobby Callahan hired me because he thought somebody was trying to kill him and he was right. He’s dead now and he’s got no way to rectify the situation, but / do and if you think I’ll back off this sucker, you don’t know me.”
She was shaking her head. All the beauty was gone and what remained seemed drab. She looked, then, like we all look in fluorescent lighting-tired, sallow, shopworn. Her voice was low. “I’ll tell you what I can. And then I beg you to drop the investigation. I mean that. For your own good. I did have an affair with Bobby.” She paused, searching for the path she wanted to take. “He was a wonderful person. He really was. I was crazy about him. He was so uncomplicated and he had no history. He was just young and healthy, vigorous. God. He was twenty-three. Even the sight of his skin. He was like a-” Her eyes came up to mine and she broke off with embarrassment, a smile forming and faltering, this time from some emotion I couldn’t read … pain or tenderness, perhaps.
I eased into the chair carefully, hoping I wouldn’t spoil the mood.
“When you’re that age,” she said, “you still think things can be made right. You still think you can have anything you want. You think life’s simple, that you only have to do one or two little things and it will all turn around. I told him it wasn’t like that for me, but he had a streak of gallantry in him. Sweet fool.”
She was silent for a long time.
‘“Sweet fool,’ what?” I said quietly.
“Well, he died for it, of course. I can’t tell you the guilt I’ve felt. …” She trailed off and she looked away.
“Tell me the front end. How does Dwight fit in? He was shot, right?”
“Dwight was much older than I. Forty-five when we were married. I was twenty-two. It was a good marriage … up to a point at any rate. He adored me. I admired him. He did incredible things for this town.”
“He designed Glen’s house, didn’t he?”
“Not really. His father was the original architect when the house was built back in the twenties. Dwight did the restoration,” she said. “I think I need a drink. Do you want one?”
“Sure, that’s fine,” I said.
She reached for the brandy decanter, removing the heavy glass stopper. She laid the neck of the decanter against the edge of one of the snifters, but her hands were shaking so badly I thought she’d crack the glass. I reached over and took the bottle from her, pouring her a stiff shot. I poured myself one too, though at ten in the morning, it was the last thing I wanted. She gave hers a perfunctory swirl and we both drank. I swallowed and my mouth came open automatically as if I’d just risen to the surface of a swimming pool. This was clearly fine stuff, but I didn’t think I’d need my teeth cleaned for a year. I watched her calm herself, taking a deep breath or two.
1 was trying desperately to recall the accounts I’d read of the incident in which Costigan was killed. It must have been five or six years ago. As nearly as I could remember, someone had broken into their Montebello house one night and had shot Dwight to death after a struggle in the bedroom. I’d been off in Houston for a client so I hadn’t followed the events very closely, but as far as I knew, it was still sitting on the books as an unsolved homicide.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Don’t ask and don’t interfere. I pleaded with Bobby to let it go, but he wouldn’t listen and it cost him his life. The past is the past. It’s over and done with and I’m the only one paying for it now. Forget it. I don’t care, and if you’re smart, you won’t either.”
“You know I can’t do that. Tell me what went on.”
“What for? It won t change anything.”
“Nola, I’m going to find out whether you tell me or not. If you lay it out for me maybe it won’t have to go any further than this. Maybe I’ll understand and agree to drop the whole thing. I’m not unreasonable, but you’ve gotta play fair.”
I could see the indecision written in her face. She said, “Oh God,” and put her head down for a moment. She looked at me with anxiety. “We’re talking about a lunatic. Someone so crazy. You’d have to swear … you’d have to promise to back off.”
“I can’t make a promise like that and you know it. Tell me the story and then we’ll figure out what has to be done.”
“I’ve never told anyone except Bobby and look what happened to him.”
“What about Sufi? She knows, doesn’t she?”
She blinked at me, momentarily startled at the mention of Sufi’s name. She looked away from me. “No, not at all. I’m sure she doesn’t know what’s going on. Why would she?” The answer seemed too hesitant to be convincing, but I let it pass for the time being. Could Sufi be blackmailing her?