She waited for him to begin.
For a moment he said nothing, listened to the house. Her delay in removing the security chain from the door led him to suspect that she was not alone. She had hurriedly consulted with someone and had obtained permission before letting Dan in. But the rest of the house was quiet and apparently deserted.
Half a dozen photographs were arranged on the coffee table, and all were of Willy Hoffritz. Or at least the three facing Dan were of Hoffritz, and he imagined that the others were too. It was the same unremarkable face, the same wideset eyes, the same slightly plump cheeks and piggish nose that Dan had seen in the driver’s license photo in the wallet of one of the dead men in Studio City, the previous night.
He finally said, ‘I’m sure you know that your husband is dead.’
‘Willy, you mean?’
‘Yes, Willy.’
‘I know.’
I’d like to ask you some questions.’
‘I’m sure I can’t help you,’ she said softly, meekly, looking at her hands.
‘When was the last time you saw Willy?’
‘More than a year ago.’
‘Divorced?’
‘Well…’
‘Separated?’
‘Yes, but not … in the way you mean.’
He wished that she would look at him. ‘Then in what way do you mean it?’
She nervously shifted positions on the sofa. ‘We were never … legally married.’
‘No? But you have his name now.’
Still considering her hands, she nodded. ‘Yes, he let me change mine.’
‘You went to court, had your name changed to Hoffritz? When, why?’
‘Two years ago. Because … because … you won’t understand.’
‘Try me.’
Regine didn’t answer at once, and as Dan waited for her to form her explanation, he looked around the room. On the mantel above the white brick fireplace was another gallery of photographs of Willy Hoffritz: eight more.
Although the house was warm, Dan felt as though he were in a Rocky Mountain January night as he stared at those silver-framed, carefully arranged images of the dead psychologist.
Regine said, ‘I wanted to show Willy that I was his, completely and forever his.’
‘He didn’t object to your taking his name? He didn’t think you might be setting him up for a palimony case?’
‘No, no. I’d never have done something like that to Willy. He knew I’d never do something like that. Oh, no. Impossible.’
‘If he wanted you to have his name, why didn’t he marry you?’
‘He didn’t want to be married,’ she said with unmistakable disappointment and regret.
Although Regine’s face was bowed, Dan saw sadness, like a sudden gravitational force, pull at her features.
Amazed, he said, ‘He didn’t want to marry you, but he wanted you to carry his name. To indicate that you … belonged to him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Taking his name was like … being branded?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said in a hoarse whisper, and upon her face blossomed a smile of genuine pleasure at the memory of this strange act of submission. ‘Yes. Like being branded.’
‘He sounds like a sweetheart,’ Dan said. But she was unaware of his ironic tone, so he decided to needle her, hoping to break through her whipped-dog demeanor. ‘Jesus, he must’ve been a real egomaniac!’
Her head jerked up, and she met his eyes at last. ‘Oh, no,’ she said, frowning. She did not speak with anger or impatience but with a warmth, eager to correct what she saw as his misapprehension of the dead man’s character. ‘Oh, no. Not Willy. There was no one like Willy. He was wonderful. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t have done for Willy. Not anything. He was so special. You didn’t know him, or you wouldn’t say a word against him. Not against Willy. You couldn’t. Not if you’d known him.’
‘There are those who did know him who don’t speak so highly of him. I’m sure you’re aware of that.’
She lowered her gaze to her hands again. ‘They’re all just envious, jealous, lying bastards,’ she said, but in the same soft, sweet, breathlessly feminine manner, as if she had been forbidden to mar her perfect femininity with a shrill tone of voice or any other display of anger.