by Jan Burke
“Right. Reed wants to question him. Based on what Two Toes told you, we think he might have been the last person to see Lucas alive. Then we picked up word on the street that the guy has Lucas’s ring and—”
“His ring? Wait—Carlos said the ring was taken after Lucas died. So you think Two Toes was there when Lucas died?”
“Maybe. If nothing else, Two Toes robbed a dead man. He also seems to hold you responsible for bringing the police into the Angelus. A couple of people heard him ranting that you had desecrated Lucas’s tomb.”
I wasn’t paying strict attention to what Frank was saying. I was still wondering if Two Toes killed Lucas for a lousy college ring. “Has Carlos come up with a cause of death?” I asked.
“He says Lucas had a heart attack, but—”
“Heart attack!”
“Hang on, let me finish. Carlos and Reed worked this out from the patterns of bruising. Carlos said Lucas might have grown dizzy, stumbled, grazed his forehead on the radiator, then collapsed to his knees, probably clutching his chest as he died. He said it would have been quick. There’s only one thing that’s bothering him.”
“What?”
“Lucas’s liver wasn’t in great shape. But his heart—Carlos can’t figure out why the heart gave out on him.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” he said, “that you might not have won Reed over, but Carlos was impressed by your concerns. With or without your concerns, he’s a very thorough man. He wants to make sure the heart attack wasn’t induced.”
“Induced… you mean by some chemical means? A poison? Maybe a drug?”
“Maybe.”
“Did Carlos check for injection marks?”
“Yes. There were no injection marks. Not even old ones, so your friend wasn’t a junkie.”
“The others said that. He hit the bottle, stayed away from drugs. He had real problems with booze, I guess, but even his street friends said he had been staying sober.” I thought for a moment. “He had a thermos with him in the hotel—”
“Carlos has ordered toxicological reports on the body. I’m sure they’ll check any food or drink that was in the room as well.”
“When did Lucas die?”
“Carlos isn’t positive, but he thinks it was probably about three days before you found the body.”
“The day Allan Moffett resigned.”
“Yes.”
I mulled this over. “Did Roberta have any information about Lucas?”
“No, not that she’s sharing with us. She said he didn’t give any family information when he signed up with the center—claims confidentiality about anything else.”
“Even though he’s dead?”
“It’s still privileged. We may get a warrant.”
I wondered if Roberta would tell me more about what was going on with Lucas, then I remembered my last conversation with her. Roberta probably wasn’t willing to speak to me about anything. Maybe I could try mending fences. That brought my thoughts back to my husband.
“Frank, about tonight—”
“Look, before you make up your mind, let me apologize about coming on so strong. I guess I sort of panicked. This Two Toes has a reputation for using his fists. I didn’t want him using them on you. I couldn’t reach you, and I started making arrangements. I wanted you to be safe.”
Safety. There’s no such thing, I wanted to say. Instead I said, “I understand, Frank. But Lisa Selman is coming over for dinner, remember? She’s coming over to the house at seven. I was going to cook dinner for the three of us.”
“Hmm. I forgot about that. Look,” he said, “could you reschedule the dinner?”
“I don’t know. Her dad’s in the hospital and—”
“You’re right. So she meets Rachel instead of your domineering, overprotective husband.”
“Somehow it won’t be the same. I’ll call Lisa and see if she’s willing to let Rachel sub for you.”
“Thanks, Irene.” There was relief in his voice.
NEITHER LISA NOR RACHEL objected to the change in dinner plans. That settled, I took out the photographs that Claire and Tyler gave me and studied them for the one hundredth time. I dialed Booter Hodges.
“Hello, Irene! How nice to hear from you! What can I do for you?”
“I was thinking about Allan Moffett. You’re old friends, right?”
“Well, yes, although I hardly move in Allan’s circles.”
“Oh, c’mon, Booter. You’re even fishing buddies, aren’t you?”
There was the slightest pause before he said, “Oh, I may have gone fishing once or twice with him.”
“When?”
“Nothing lately. Five or six years ago we went once or twice, that’s all.” He forced a laugh. “Who has time to go fishing now?”
“Andre Selman has a boat.”
“No kidding? Well, what do you know about that?”
“You didn’t know?”
“Oh, maybe I heard something about it. Why do you mention it? Did you want me to ask Andre Selman to take you fishing?”
I laughed at that. “No, no thanks, Booter. I just thought you might have been out on his boat.”
“No, sorry. Never. I’ll have to ask him to show it to me—if I ever find a free moment. Now, I’m sure you’re busy, too. Don’t let’s waste time talking about fishing. Is there some way in which I may be of assistance to you?”
“Yes, I think you may. Tell me if the Alumni Foundation has heard from a graduate named Lucas Monroe.”
There was another pause, then Booter said, “I couldn’t give that information out, as I’m sure you know—privacy laws, of course. I know they’re a bother to you reporters—they can be pretty darn tough on an alumni foundation, too.”
“You remember him?”
“Who?”
“Lucas Monroe.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of him.”
“Worked with Andre. Used to share an office with him.”
“How long ago?”
“Oh, back when you were fishing with Allan and the other boys.”
“Well, then, no wonder. We have thousands of students here, and I can’t be expected to recall a man who went to school here back in the 1970s.”
You blew it, I thought. Once or twice five or six years ago. Sure. “You haven’t heard from Lucas Monroe since the 1970s?”
“No—I mean, I’ve never heard from him.”
“But you mentioned the 1970s, not me, Booter.”
There was a pause, then he said, “I guess I assumed you were asking about one of your old friends, someone who went to school here when you did.”
I tapped my pencil. “That’s strange, Booter. I mean, strange that you don’t know him.”
He laughed nervously. “Why? Why do you keep mentioning this fellow?”
“Oh, this brings us back to the dinner party, I believe. And a few other matters. If I were to ask Mr. Monroe if he’s seen you lately, I suppose I’d get a different story. He might be able to name a date and place and time.”
I heard the chair creak. I could picture him, leaning back, stroking his tie.
“If someone named—what did you say his name was?”
“Monroe. Lucas Monroe,” I said.
“Well, if he claims he knows me, or has been to see me, he’s lying, pure and simple.”
“Lying.”
“Yes, the man’s a liar.”
“A liar,” I repeated. “Well, you should know. By the way, Booter, did I ever tell you that I know how you got your nickname?”
“Oh, I suppose you’ve heard I was something of a pugilist in my day,” he said with a laugh.
“Pugilist? You mean boxing? I thought your sport was hurling.”
“Hurling? Why, no! You mean pitching, a baseball player?”
“Not exactly.”
“Oh, maybe you said ‘hurdling.’ I never went out for track and field. I’m slow as molasses.”
“Whatever you
say, Booter. Well, if you remember anything about Lucas Monroe, let me know.”
Poor Booter. A man builds a certain kind of reputation, thinks no one will learn his secrets, then one day some stupid little story catches up to him. Suddenly his name is mud—or something worse.
Booter was a strange man. Not as dumb as he acted, but not as smart as he thought he was, either. I didn’t think he knew Lucas was dead, but I couldn’t be sure.
I needed to step back a little. I had been sort of mean to Booter, partly because I didn’t like hearing him call Lucas a liar.
Perhaps I had taken it all wrong. Coming from Booter, calling someone a liar could have been a statement of admiration.
18
DEKE AND DUNK were snoozing after a hard run on the beach. I had showered and changed, a chicken was roasting in the oven, and Rachel had set the table. Now she sat at the counter, drinking a glass of white wine, scratching Cody’s ears, as I worked on a batch of biscuits.
“So, tell me about this group you’re in,” Rachel said, obliging Cody when he lifted his chin to be scratched where he wanted to be scratched. “This SOS—Pete thought Frank was crazy to let you go to that meeting the other night. I told him it was none of his business, but you know Pete. If he thinks something is bothering his partner—”
“What? Bothering his partner? Frank told Pete that my going to SOS bothered him?”
Her hand stilled. “Uh-oh. Listen, I don’t know that for a fact. Pete borrows trouble, you know?”
I went back to kneading biscuit dough, she went back to spoiling the cat. I decided to set aside my worries about Frank, since there was nothing I could do about them until I had a chance to talk to him.
“SOS is Save Our Shelter, a group that supports the battered women’s shelter,” I said, “but I’m guessing that you’re not asking about that group.”
“No, Pete called it something else.”
“‘Survivors of Selman’?”
“Yeah, that was it.”
“That’s a joke that I regret letting Frank in on. It’s just what brought a few of us together years ago. Even then, calling it that was intended to be a joke. Women who had gone on with their lives after being with Lisa’s dad.”
“You make it sound like a crowd. How many old girlfriends does this guy have?”
“How many? Let’s see. Every now and then, Andre lasted a year with someone. He’s been with his current wife for about five years now. But before that, the man averaged two or three girlfriends and a dozen quick affairs each year for twenty or twenty-five years …”
“Merda, well over a hundred women! What derailed this freight train of love? Fear of AIDS?”
“No, I don’t think so. Maybe. There are several theories floating around. I don’t care, really.”
I knew she was studying me, but I kept my eyes on the biscuit dough, as if its white sameness inspired fascination. I was hoping she would let this line of questions drop. That went the way of a lot of hopes.
“So you still haven’t told me how the ex-girlfriends managed to meet each other the first time.”
“Lisa—the woman you’ll meet tonight?”
She nodded.
“She asked about five of Andre’s ex-girlfriends to attend her high school graduation. I was one of them. Later, Lisa’s mom invited us back to her house for coffee, while Lisa and her friends went on to a party.”
“You knew these other women were Andre’s ex-girlfriends?”
“No. It was the first time I had met most of them. I knew Marcy, Lisa’s mom, of course. And Sharon, Jerry’s mom—Jerry is Andre’s son. But the others were women I’d never met before. I turned to one of the others and asked, ‘So how do you know Lisa?’ and that was that.”
“Must have been weird.”
“Not really. In fact, it was a relief. Here were some other women who—” I stopped, felt the heat rise in my cheeks.
“What’s wrong?”
I shook my head. “Rachel, of all the stupid relationship moves I’ve ever made, getting involved with Andre was the stupidest. In the end, I felt—I don’t know, conned, I suppose. So here I was—meeting smart, strong women—and every one of them had been conned in exactly the same way.”
“He took money from you?”
“No. I was a student. I didn’t have money.”
“Your virginity?”
I laughed. “No, the precious prize of my virginity was long gone.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t. Andre took my pride. That’s all. Just my pride.”
Rachel didn’t say anything for a while, just kept scratching Cody. I realized that I was kneading the dough a little too vigorously, and decided to roll it out while it would still make something resembling biscuits.
“Andre always courted and broke up with women in the same way. In fact, he always arranged—with the help of his best friend, Jeff—that you’d walk in on him having sex with another woman. It had happened exactly the same way for all of us.”
“Good God!” Rachel said. “I’m surprised he hasn’t been killed by one of those women—Andre and his friend!”
“As far as I know, I’m the only one who didn’t leave it at shouting obscenities or running away in tears. Some even tried to get back together with him.”
“What did you do?”
I smiled. “I grabbed one of his prized fishing poles and started flailing his naked behind with it.”
She laughed. “Literally whipped his ass, eh? So then what happened to you?”
“I moved to Bakersfield. I worked the police beat for a local paper for a couple of years before the Express offered me a job down here. My father’s health was starting to fail, so I moved back home.” I started cutting out biscuits, putting them on a baking sheet, allowing the memories of my father’s illness to get lost in a more pleasant recollection, that of standing next to my mother when I was little, watching her make biscuits. Mom made the biscuits from scratch. I was using a mix, telling myself that was one step closer to homemade than popping open a tube of refrigerated dough.
“Maybe it was just time to come home, anyway,” Rachel said quietly, bringing me back to the memories of my father’s illness.
“Maybe.” Think of something else.
“Isn’t Frank from Bakersfield?” she asked.
“Yes. We were just friends in those days. It took us another dozen years to meet up again, but that’s where I first met him.”
“So—I guess I still don’t understand why you formed this SOS.”
“We all said things like, ‘I wish I had talked to you back then. It would have helped to know I wasn’t the only one.’ Becky—one of the women there that night—suggested we go around picking up survivors after Andre broke up with them. You know, let them know that they weren’t the first person to go through this routine. Someone said that the only thing Andre didn’t do was batter us.”
“Hmm.” She shook her head.
“Well, the comment made us think. ‘There but for the grace of God,’ and all that. As it happened, around the time we were having this conversation, the battered women’s shelter had lost some grant funding. We decided to make something positive out of what had been a negative experience for us. Sort of mushroomed after that.”
Cody protested as Rachel stopped scratching him. I looked up to find her staring at me. “Tell me the truth. This Andre didn’t hit you, did he?”
“No, Rachel. As far as I know, he never physically abused anyone. Psychologically—that’s another story.”
She looked as if she wanted to comment on that, but the dogs started barking. The doorbell rang.
“I’ll answer it,” she said. “Your hands are covered with dough.”
IF I HAD ANY WORRIES about Lisa and Rachel feeling comfortable with one another, those fears were proven groundless within the first few moments after Lisa’s arrival. Throughout dinner, they talked as much to one another as with me, discussing Rachel’s move to Las Pie
rnas and Lisa’s upcoming candidacy. If Rachel thought it strange that Andre’s name didn’t come up until the meal was nearly finished, she didn’t show it.
“By the way, Andre’s condition hasn’t changed much,” Lisa said. She turned to Rachel. “I don’t know if Irene has told you about the person who is nominally my father. He suffered a heart attack the other night.”
“Yes, I know about his illness,” Rachel said. I knew her well enough to see that she was displeased by Lisa’s flippancy. At first, I doubted Lisa saw it. I was wrong.
“I’m sorry. I’ve offended you. I did the same thing with Irene the other day at lunch. The problem is, I don’t think very highly of my father. Among friends, I tend to let my guard down. My father’s illness hasn’t changed my relationship with him. No miraculous healing of old wounds or finishing of unfinished business. To Jerry, his son, he has been a very affectionate father. To me, worthless.”
“That seems a little harsh,” I said.
She lifted a brow. “Does it? Think back to when you were dating him. When it was my father’s weekend to have custody, what happened?”
“We all shared—”
“Not we, Irene. You and I. I’ll grant you, there was always the ‘doting father’ show. It drove me crazy for years. He put this big act on whenever he first dated a woman. I was baffled—going from being adored to ignored, unable to comprehend what was triggering the change. What was I doing that made him suddenly turn cold? Until I grasped the fact that his affection was connected to the impression he wanted to make on his date, and not on my behavior, I never knew what to expect.”
“You seemed to have that figured out by the time I met you,” I said.
She laughed. “Rachel, when Irene first met me, I was an absolute monster.”
“You were not,” I protested. “You just tested me. Kids do that to adults.”
“Oh, sure. But most women in their twenties didn’t catch on. Trust me. I tested lots of them.”
“Tested how?” Rachel asked.
“At first, just by whining a lot and generally being obnoxious. Irene would pretend to be bored by it—she’d just yawn and say things like, ‘Most people quit that baloney by the time they’re three years old.’ So then I moved into phase two. Let’s see… there was the time I put cod liver oil in your shampoo bottle—”