Death Match

by Lincoln Child

  Turning from the window, he let his eyes roam over the room’s features: a baby grand, bookcase, couch. Lack of furniture made the room appear larger than it was. The house had a spare, ordered cleanliness he’d cultivated in the years since he’d moved in. The simplicity had become part of his personal armor. God knew the lives of his patients were complicated enough.

  Lash glanced once more at his reflection, decided he looked the part, and went out the front door. He looked around, cursed good-naturedly when he noticed that the delivery man had forgotten to leave the Times in his driveway, then headed for his car.

  An hour’s worth of wrestling with I-95 traffic brought him to New London and the low silver arch of the Gold Star Memorial Bridge. Exiting the freeway, he made his way toward the river and found parking on a side street. He thumbed once more through a sheaf of papers on the passenger’s seat. There were black-and-white head shots of the couple, a few printed sheets of biographical information. Mauchly had given him precious little data on the Thorpes: address, dates of birth, names and locations of beneficiaries. But it, along with a few telephone calls, had been enough.

  Already, Lash felt a stab of remorse for the small deception he was about to perpetrate. He reminded himself it might well yield insight that would prove critical to his investigation.

  In the backseat was his leather satchel, well padded now with blank sheets of paper. He grabbed it, exited the car, and—after a final self-inspection in the front windshield—started toward the Thames.

  State Street lay dozing beneath a mellow autumn sun. At its foot, beyond the fortresslike bulk of the Old Union railroad station, the harbor glittered. Lash walked down the hill, stopping where State Street ran into Water. There was an old hotel here, a Second Empire with a hulking mansard roof, that had recently been converted into restaurants. In the closest window he made out a sign for The Roastery. A public location, near the water, had seemed best. It had a low threat-factor. Lunch had seemed inappropriate, under the circumstances. Besides, recent inpatient studies at Johns Hopkins showed that grieving people were more responsive to external stimuli during the morning hours. Midmorning coffee seemed ideal. It would be calm, conducive to talk. Lash glanced at his watch. Ten-twenty, on the dot.

  Inside, The Roastery was all he’d hoped for: high tin ceilings, beige walls, a low hum of conversation. The delicious fragrance of freshly ground coffee hung in the air. He’d arrived early to make sure he got a suitable table, and he chose a large round one in a corner near the front windows. He took the seat facing the corner; it was important for the subject to feel in control of the situation.

  He’d barely had time to place the satchel on the table and arrange himself when he heard footsteps approaching. “Mr. Berger?” came a voice.

  Lash turned around. “Yes. You’re Mr. Torvald?”

  The man had thick, iron-gray hair and the leathery sunburnt skin of a man fond of the water. His faded blue eyes still bore the dark circles of heartbreak. Yet his resemblance to the picture Lash had just viewed in his car was remarkable. Older, masculine, shorter hair; otherwise, it could have been Lindsay Thorpe, returned from the dead.

  Out of long habit, Lash betrayed no expression. “Please, take a seat.”

  Torvald settled himself into the corner chair. He looked briefly around the restaurant, without interest, then settled his gaze on Lash.

  “Allow me to convey my deepest condolences. And thank you very much for coming.”

  Torvald grunted.

  “I realize that this must be a very difficult period for you. I’ll try to make this short—”

  “No, no, it’s all right.” Torvald’s voice was very deep, and he spoke in short, staccato sentences.

  A waitress approached their table, offered them menus.

  “I don’t think we’ll need those,” Torvald said. “Coffee, black, no sugar.”

  “Same for me, please.”

  The woman nodded, swirled, and left them in peace. She was attractive, but Lash noticed Torvald did not even glance at her departing form.

  “You’re an insurance readjustor,” Torvald said.

  “I’m an analyst for a consulting firm employed by American Life.” One of the first pieces of information Lash sought out on the Thorpes had been their insurance policies. Three million dollars each, payable to their only daughter. As he’d anticipated, it was a quick and relatively easy way to get neutral access to the closest relatives. He’d gone to the trouble of having phony business cards printed up, but Torvald didn’t ask to see one. Despite his obvious pain, the man retained a habitual air of gruff command, as if he was used to having orders quickly obeyed. A naval captain, perhaps, or a corporate executive; Lash had not dug deep into the family background. Corporate executive seemed more likely, though: given the amount Eden charged for its service, it was likely daddy had helped bankroll Lindsay Thorpe.

  Lash cleared his throat, put on his best sympathetic manner. “If you wouldn’t mind answering just a few questions, it would be very helpful to us. If you find any of them objectionable, or if you feel it necessary to stop for a while, I’ll certainly understand.”

  The waitress returned. Lash took a sip of his coffee, then opened the satchel and pulled out a legal pad. “How close were you to your daughter as she was growing up, Mr. Torvald?” he began.

  “Extremely.”

  “And after she left home?”

  “We spoke every day.”

  “Overall, how would you characterize her physical health?”

  “Excellent.”

  “Did she take any medications on a regular basis?”

  “Vitamin supplements. A mild antihistamine. That’s about it.”

  “What was the antihistamine for?”

  “Dermatographia.”

  Lash nodded, made a notation. A skin condition that caused itchiness: his next-door neighbor had it. Completely benign. “Any unusual or serious diseases or childhood illnesses?”

  “No, none. And this would all be in the applications she originally filled out with American Life.”

  “I understand that, Mr. Torvald. I’m simply trying to establish some independent frame of reference. Did she have any living siblings?”

  “Lindsay was an only child.”

  “Was she a good student?”

  “Graduated magna cum laude from Brown. Got her master’s in economics from Stanford.”

  “Would you call her shy? Outgoing?”

  “Strangers might think her quiet. But Lindsay always had more friends than she needed. She was the kind of girl who had many acquaintances, but was very choosy about her friends.”

  Lash took another sip of coffee. “How long had your daughter been married, Mr. Torvald?”

  “Just over two years.”

  “And how would you characterize the marriage?”

  “They were the happiest couple I’ve ever seen, bar none.”

  “Can you tell me about the husband, Lewis Thorpe?”

  “Intelligent, friendly, honest. Witty. Lots of interests.”

  “Did your daughter ever mention any problems between herself and her husband?”

  “You mean, fights?”

  Lash nodded. “That, or other things. Differences of opinion. Conflicting wishes. Incompatibilities.”

  “Never.”

  Lash took another sip. He noticed Torvald had not touched his own cup.

  “Never?” He allowed the slightest hint of incredulity to enter his voice.

  Torvald rose to the bait. “Never. Look, Mr.—”

  “Berger.”

  “Mr. Berger, my daughter was . . .” For the first time, Torvald seemed to hesitate. “My daughter was a client of Eden Incorporated. You’ve heard of them?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Then you’ll know what I’m getting at. I was skeptical at first. It seemed like an awful lot of money for some computer cycles, a statistical roll of the dice. But Lindsay was firm.” Torvald leaned forward slightly. “You have to under
stand, she wasn’t like other girls. She knew what she wanted. She was never one to settle for second best. She’d had her share of boyfriends, some of them really nice boys. But she seemed to get restless, the relationships didn’t last.”

  The man sat back abruptly. It was by far the longest statement he’d made so far. Lash made a notation, encouragingly, careful not to meet Torvald’s eyes. “And?”

  “And it was different with Lewis. I could tell from the very first time she mentioned his name. They hit it off from the first date.”

  Lash looked up just as a faint smile of reminiscence crossed the old man’s face. For a moment the sunken eyes brightened, the tense jaw relaxed. “They met for Sunday brunch, then somehow ended up Rollerblading.” He shook his head at the memory. “I don’t know whose crazy idea that was, neither of them had ever tried it. Maybe it was Eden’s suggestion. Anyway, within a month, they were engaged. And it just seemed to get better. Like I said, I’ve never seen a happier couple. They kept discovering new things. About the world. About each other.”

  As quickly as it had come, the light left Torvald’s face. He pushed his coffee cup away.

  “What about Lindsay’s daughter? What kind of an impact did she have on their life?”

  Torvald fixed him with a sudden gaze. “She completed it, Mr. Berger.”

  Lash made another notation, a real one this time. The interview was not progressing quite as he’d expected. And the way the man pushed away his cup made Lash think he might be limited to just a few more questions.

  “To the best of your knowledge, have there been any recent setbacks in the life of your daughter or her husband?”

  “No.”

  “No unexpected difficulties? No problems?”

  Torvald stirred restlessly. “Unless you call the approval of Lewis’s grant and the arrival of a beautiful baby girl problems.”

  “When was the last time you saw your daughter, Mr. Torvald?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  Lash took a sip of his coffee to conceal his surprise. “Where was this, may I ask?”

  “At their house in Flagstaff. I was on my way back from a yacht race in the Gulf of Mexico.”

  “And how would you characterize the household?”

  “I would characterize it as perfect.”

  Lash scribbled another note. “You noticed nothing different from previous visits? No appetite loss or gain, perhaps? Changes in sleep patterns? Lack of energy? Loss of interest in hobbies or personal pursuits?”

  “There was no affective disorder, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  Lash paused in his scribbling. “Are you a clinician, Mr. Torvald?”

  “No. But before her death, my wife was an occupational therapist. I know the signs of depression when I see them.”

  Lash put the legal pad to one side. “We’re just trying to get a grasp of the situation, sir.”

  Suddenly, the older man leaned toward Lash, bringing their faces very close. “Grasp? Listen. I don’t know what you or your firm hope to learn from this. But I think I’ve answered enough questions. And the fact is there’s not a damn thing to grasp. There is no answer. Lindsay wasn’t suicidal. Neither was Lewis. They had everything to live for, everything.”

  Lash sat silently. This was not just grief he was seeing. This was need: a desperate need to understand what could not possibly be understood.

  “I’ll tell you one thing more,” Torvald said, his face still close to Lash’s, speaking low and fast now. “I loved my wife. I think we had just about as good a relationship as a married couple could ever hope to have. But I’d have cut off my right arm without a thought if that could’ve made us as happy as my daughter and Lewis were together.”

  And with that, the man pushed back, rose from the table, and left the restaurant.

  FIVE

  Flagstaff, Arizona. Two days later.

  T he carport was already taken up by two Audi A8s, so Lash left his rented Taurus at the curb and started up the flagstone walk. Brown pine needles crunched underfoot. 407 Cooper Drive was an attractive bungalow with a broad low roof and fenced backyard. Beyond the fence the hillside fell away, revealing a panorama of downtown, faintly blurred by morning mist. Behind and to the north rose the purple-and-brown bulk of the San Francisco Peaks.

  Reaching the front door, Lash tucked several large envelopes under one arm and sounded his pocket for the key. He fished it out, white evidence tag dangling from its chain. The chief of the Phoenix field office had been a classmate in the drab gray dorms of Quantico and fellow-sufferer on the obstacle courses of the Yellow Brick Road, and owed him several favors. Lash had turned one of them in for the key to the Thorpes’ house.

  He glanced up, noticing the security camera bolted beneath the eaves. It had been installed by the previous owner of the house and was deactivated for the police investigation. Since the house would go on the market once the investigation was officially closed, the system remained off.

  Lash looked down again, fitted the key to the door, and unlocked it with a twist of his hand.

  Inside, the house had that peculiar watchful, listening quality he found in homes that had seen unnatural death. The front door opened directly onto the living room, where the bodies had been found. Lash walked forward slowly, looking around, noting the location and quality of the furniture. There was a butternut-colored leather sofa with matching armchairs, an antique armoire, an expensive-looking flatscreen television: clearly, the Thorpes weren’t hard up for cash. Two beautiful silk rugs had been arranged over the wall-to-wall carpeting. One still bore powder traces from the medical examiner’s team. This unexpected sight stirred memories of the last crime scene he’d witnessed, and he moved quickly onward.

  Beyond the living room, a hallway ran the width of the house. To his right was a dining room and kitchen; to his left, what looked like a couple of bedrooms. Lash dropped his envelopes on the sofa and walked down as far as the kitchen. It was as well appointed as the living room. There was another door here, with a view of the narrow side yard and the neighboring house.

  Lash moved back up the hallway in the direction of the bedrooms. There was a nursery, all blue taffeta and lace; a master bedroom, its night tables littered with a typical assortment of paperback novels, medicine bottles, and television remotes; and a third room, which was apparently a guest room doubling as a study. He paused at this last room, looking around curiously. Japanese woodblock prints of thinnest rice paper decorated the walls. On a desk sat several framed photographs: Lewis and Lindsay Thorpe, arm in arm in front of a pagoda; the Thorpes again, standing on what looked like the Champs-Elysées. In each photo, the couple was smiling. He’d seen smiles like that before, rarely: simple, unfeigned, undiluted happiness.

  He moved to the far wall, which was completely taken up by bookshelves. The Thorpes had been eclectic, voracious readers. Two upper shelves were completely taken up with textbooks in varying degrees of decrepitude; another with trade journals. Below these were several shelves of fiction.

  One shelf in particular caught Lash’s eye. The books here seemed to be given preferential treatment, bookended by statues of carven jade. He glanced over the titles: Zen and the Art of Archery, Advanced Japanese, Two Hundred Poems of the Early T’Ang. The shelf above it was empty except for an unframed picture of Lindsay Thorpe riding a merry-go-round, surrounded by children, laughing as she stretched her arm toward the camera. He picked it up. On the back had been scrawled, in a masculine hand:

  I wish I were close

  To you as the wet skirt of

  A salt girl to her body.

  I think of you always.

  He carefully replaced the photo, exited the study, and returned to the living room.

  Outside, the morning mist was quickly burning off, and slanted bars of sunlight now lay across the silk rugs. Lash moved to the leather sofa, pushed the envelopes aside, and sat down. He’d done this many times before, as an agent with the Investigative Support Unit: gone thro
ugh a house, trying to get a feel for the pathology of its occupants. But that had been very different. He’d been doing criminal personality profiles for NCACP, studying the personal hells of mass murderers, serial rapists, “blitz” attackers, sociopaths. People, and houses, who had absolutely nothing in common with the Thorpes.

  He’d come here in search of clues to what had gone wrong. Over the last three days, he had performed what clinicians referred to as a psychological autopsy, conducting discreet interviews with family members, friends, doctors, even a minister. And what had at first seemed like an easy case formulation quickly turned otherwise. There were none of the stressors, the risk factors, normally associated with suicide. No history of prior attempts. No history of psychiatric disorders. Nothing that should have triggered one, let alone two, suicides. On the contrary, the Thorpes had everything to live for. And yet, in this very room, they had written a note, tied dry cleaning bags around their heads, embraced on the carpet, and asphyxiated themselves in front of their infant girl.

  Lash pulled one of the two envelopes toward him, ripped it open with the edge of a finger, and dumped the contents onto the couch: documentary evidence compiled by the Flagstaff police. There was a thin packet of glossy photographs held together with a clip, and he leafed through them—scene-of-crime photos of the husband and wife, together in death, rigid on the beautiful carpet. He put down the eight-by-tens and picked up a photocopy of the suicide note. It read simply, “Please look after our daughter.”