Carlo tried to look stoic. ‘Stuff about me and Elena.’ His voice became deliberate. ‘It’s bullshit.’
Monk glanced at Paget, then back to Carlo. ‘Did you and your father discuss that?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Carlo propped his chin on his hands. ‘He said that Tern’s husband was using this stuff to try to break her.’
‘Did you and he discuss what to do about it?’
Carlo seemed to choose his words. ‘Only that we might have to go to court. To prove it was a lie.’
‘Did you discuss the possibility of publicity?’
‘Yes.’ Carlo looked down now. ‘Dad said the papers might be there.’
‘What was his attitude?’
A quick glance at Paget. ‘He was pretty upset about it. So was I.’
‘Were you willing to testify?’
Carlo nodded. ‘If I had to. I told Dad that.’
‘And what did he say?’
Carlo seemed to breathe in. ‘My dad said he was sorry. And that he was proud of me.’
Monk studied Carlo with new concentration. ‘Do you remember the night before your father went to Italy?’
Carlo shifted in his chair. His answer came in an undertone. ‘Uh-huh.’
‘Where were you?’
Lynch, Paget realized, seemed just a little more tense.
‘With friends,’ Carlo answered slowly.
What was this? Paget wondered: surely they did not suspect Carlo. But Monk’s face showed nothing.
‘Between when and when?’ he asked.
Carlo shrugged. ‘I’m not sure, exactly. But my dad makes me get in by twelve-thirty. So maybe from around seven.’
Paget was momentarily amused; even talking to Monk, Carlo was annoyed enough by his curfew to complain about it. But Monk’s next question cut him short.
‘When you left,’ he asked Carlo, ‘was your father here?’
‘Yes.’
Carlo’s repeated nods, Paget noticed, seemed like a nervous tic. It was hard to watch a son as if you were assessing a witness, unable to coach him.
‘What about twelve-thirty, when you returned?’ Monk asked. ‘Was your father also here?’
Another quick nod.
‘You’ll have to speak up.’
‘Yes.’ Carlo’s voice was a shade too loud now. ‘He was here then too.’
Lynch’s gaze had turned to Paget. ‘And where,’ Monk asked Carlo, ‘were you in the meanwhile?’
A moment’s hesitation. ‘With friends. Like I said.’
Monk’s voice seemed a little colder. ‘Give me their names.’
‘There were a bunch of us.’ Carlo looked reluctant to go on. ‘My girlfriend, Katie,’ he said finally. ‘Katie Blessing. Danny Spellman, Darnell Sheets, Jenny Havilland, Joey Arroyo. Maybe Rachel Rubenstein – I’m not sure about her.’
‘Were you with them the whole time?’
A longer pause. ‘Mostly,’ Carlo answered.
Monk watched Paget’s face. ‘Was there a period,’ he asked Carlo, ‘when you weren’t with them?’
The nod again, quick and nervous. It was the time, Paget knew, when an inexperienced witness would start to demonstrate his sincerity, giving voluble answers to the question and a half-dozen others that Monk had never asked. So that Carlo’s terse ‘Yes,’ coming after a pause, disturbed him.
‘When was that?’ Monk prodded.
‘Maybe eight-thirty.’ Carlo had begun to fidget; when Monk did not fill the silence, Carlo added, ‘It wasn’t very long.’
Monk let the answer sit there awhile. ‘And what were the circumstances?’
‘We were all at Darnell’s house, and we decided to go to a movie. Maybe later, Katie and I were going to a pizza place.’ He shot his father a quick glance. ‘I’d forgotten my wallet.’
Paget felt himself becoming very still.
‘What did you do?’ Monk asked.
Carlo folded his arms, looking down. ‘Tried to borrow money.’
Carlo, Paget saw, was trying to stretch this out, hoping that the reckoning would never come. His heart went out to him: the questions would come, and for the first time, Paget knew where they would end.
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing,’ Carlo’s voice was lower now. ‘There wasn’t enough to cover us.’
‘What did you do?’
Answering, Carlo would not look at Paget. ‘We decided that I’d meet the rest of them at the theater – you know, the Empire in West Portal.’
Monk, Paget knew, would have to drag this out of him. Monk watched Carlo intently now. But for the last five questions, Lynch’s eyes had not moved from Paget’s face.
‘And between Darnell’s house and the Empire,’ Monk asked softly, ‘how long were you gone?’
Carlo’s brow furrowed; it was the expression of someone stalling for time. ‘Forty-five minutes, maybe.’
‘Were you alone?’
Carlo seemed quite miserable. The nod, when it came, was brief; the ‘Yes’ almost inaudible.
Monk leaned forward. More softly yet, he asked, ‘And where did you go, Carlo?’
Carlo turned to his father. Paget knew that Carlo could not help this. But Paget’s face could tell him nothing.
Carlo faced Monk again. Suddenly composed, he said simply, ‘I came home.’
‘And what did you do here?’
Carlo leaned back. ‘I went to my room and got my wallet. Then I left.’
‘Where did you park?’
Carlo looked puzzled; only Paget, it was clear, understood the question. ‘In the driveway,’ Carlo answered.
A slight pause. ‘Was there any other car here?’
Comprehension appeared as a stain on Carlo’s cheeks. ‘My dad parks in the garage,’ he said. ‘I didn’t go there.’
Tensely watching, Paget thought that Carlo’s body was in retreat, Monk’s in pursuit. ‘While you were home,’ Monk asked quietly, ‘did you see anyone?’
Carlo stared back at Monk. He did not look at Paget now; this seemed as deliberate as turning to his father, just a moment before, had seemed involuntary. In his son’s silence, Paget implored Carlo not to lie.
‘No,’ Carlo answered. ‘I was just looking for my wallet. I ran upstairs to my room, got the wallet, and ran back down the stairs again. It took less than two minutes.’
‘To get to the stairs,’ Monk asked, ‘you pass the library and living room, right?’
The nod again, slower now. ‘Right.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
Carlo shrugged. ‘I wasn’t looking.’
Monk’s face was stony; only the rhythm of the questions changed, a little faster now. ‘But someone in those rooms could see you, right?’
The nod again, barely perceptible. ‘Yes.’
‘Where is your dad’s room?’
Carlo seemed to blink; Paget willed himself not to move. ‘Next to mine,’ Carlo answered.
‘And no one called out to you?’
Slowly, Carlo shook his head.
‘You have to give me an audible answer, son.’
He’s not your son, Paget thought. ‘All I can tell you,’ Carlo said, ‘is that I didn’t hear anyone call me.’
‘Did you hear noises in your father’s bedroom?’
Carlo leaned back, folding his arms. To Paget, he looked suddenly pale. ‘I can’t remember,’ he said.
That, Paget was certain, was true; most people quickly forget non-essentials, and the memories of police witnesses are often the well-intentioned imaginings of those to whom the normal absence of recall suddenly feels like a sign of guilt. But Carlo could not know this: he had begun to watch the spinning tape as if it were an enemy.
‘Tell me,’ Monk asked him softly, ‘was there any sign that your father was even here?’
Paget’s stomach felt tight. Carlo’s mouth opened; Paget saw him straining to think. ‘All that I remember,’ he said in a low voice, ‘is thinking maybe I heard footsteps in the attic, above my room.’
‘So you’re not sure.’
‘No.’ Carlo’s voice was cool now. ‘But that would make sense. The attic’s where Dad and I keep extra suitcases.’
‘Did you hear Carlo?’ Monk asked abruptly.
It was a moment before Paget realized that Monk had turned to him. ‘No,’ he answered.
Monk glanced at the tape. In a voice that seemed almost indifferent to the answer, he asked Paget, ‘Where were you, anyhow?’
To Paget, Carlo’s eyes seemed almost pleading. ‘I’m not sure,’ Paget said evenly. ‘But Carlo’s right: we keep our bags in the attic. So I spent some time there.’
‘How much time?’
‘Five minutes, perhaps. It wasn’t an eventful trip.’ Paget looked at Lynch and then back to Monk. ‘If we’re through with Carlo, and on to me, I believe that Carlo had some plans.’
Carlo shot him a quick glance. ‘If that’s all right,’ he said to Monk.
Monk paused. Then, drawn by the trade that Paget offered – Carlo’s freedom for a shot at Paget – he nodded.
Rising, Carlo gave his father a look that mingled concern with apology. No, Paget told him with a look, it’s I who should be sorry. Even before Monk stopped Carlo from standing, asked him to stay for a moment, and took a set a fingerprints.
Rising, Carlo gazed at his ink-smudged fingers. Much, his father thought, as Terri had.
‘Have a nice time,’ Paget told him easily. ‘And wash your hands.’
Carlo managed a smile. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
Taking his cue, Carlo had made his voice sound close to normal. Paget wondered where Carlo, who had no plans, would choose to go. Then the boy left, and Paget turned to Monk.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s get this done.’
Chapter 4
‘Did you ever meet Ricardo Arias?’ Monk asked quietly, and Paget felt everything change.
He was in a field of evidence not yet discovered: questions yet to be asked, facts not yet sifted, connections yet to be made. But the questions would be asked – of Terri, of Carlo, of people Paget had never met and perhaps did not know existed – and the connections drawn, like lines between dots in a child’s puzzle, until a picture emerged. Paget could not yet see the picture, and perhaps never would: it was Monk who would ask the questions, and draw the lines. Paget’s role was to stare at the tape as at some coiling snake, and guess.
‘No,’ he answered.
‘Did you ever see him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
A moment’s pause. ‘In the Inquisitor. With a touching caption beneath him. Something like “For ten thousand dollars, you can feed this boy.”’
Monk sat back, staring at him. Even Lynch’s face hardened; no one was screwing around anymore.
‘Where were you that night?’ Monk asked.
‘Here.’
‘Did you ever visit his apartment?’
Paget’s temples began to feel constricted, as if in a vise. ‘No,’ he answered.
Monk handed the tape machine to Lynch; the gesture was like that of a man loosening his tie, settling in for a while. ‘Do you believe your son sexually abused Elena Arias?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Do you know why Mr Arias made that charge?’
‘Yes.’ Paget’s voice was firm now. ‘He was a worthless deadbeat who wanted to live off child support. The best way was to trash his wife and anyone who might help her.’
Monk leaned back. His eyes were an unusual brown, Paget thought, almost a shade of muddy yellow. ‘Mr Arias,’ he said, ‘filed papers in his child custody proceeding charging your son with child abuse and you with adultery. Are you aware of that?’
Paget squinted; the noontime sun had begun to hurt his eyes. ‘Of course.’
Monk pushed the gold-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. ‘Let’s start with Teresa Peralta. Did you take her from her husband?’
For the first time, Paget understood what his clients must feel as they saw their lives sliced and diced and rearranged to suit the police, their pettiest and most private acts exhumed for use in court. ‘Take?’ he said. ‘Terri’s not for taking – or keeping. And our relationship – other than as friends – didn’t start until she left Richie.’
‘You’re running for the Senate, aren’t you?’
There was a faint undertone in Monk’s voice, perhaps the bone-deep distrust of a cop for a defense lawyer, his opponent in a world too morally complex to allow for a common view of justice. ‘I may,’ Paget answered more easily. ‘But the race is almost two years away.’
Monk gazed at him, silent: Paget sensed that the message Monk intended to convey was that he should not run. But whether that reflected a weariness of lawyers and politicians, or something deeper and more specific, Paget could not tell. Then, quite slowly and deliberately, Monk asked, ‘Why did Ricardo Arias file these papers under seal?’
That Paget was expecting this did not numb the jolt he felt. ‘I can only speculate,’ he answered. ‘Clearly, he intended to put pressure on Terri to give him permanent custody. Through me, if necessary.’
Monk leaned forward. ‘Was Mr Arias blackmailing you?’
It was as if Richie were not dead; his plans and schemes lived on in the minds of the police, entwining those he had plotted against. ‘No,’ Paget answered.
Monk seemed to stare right through him. ‘Tell me,’ he asked in a tone of mild curiosity, ‘did Ricardo Arias ever ask you for money?’
A second jolt: the insidious beauty of the question was the question buried beneath it – whether Paget and Ricardo Arias had ever spoken.
‘No.’
Monk sat back, waiting for Paget to say that he had never talked to Richie. Watching the recorder in Lynch’s lap, Paget saw that the tape appeared to be close to ending. ‘Care for some iced coffee?’ Paget asked.
‘No. Thank you.’ Monk’s voice was very polite now. ‘Did you and Mr Arias ever speak by telephone?’
The recorder clicked.
Monk fumbled in his pocket for another tape. It gave Paget a brief moment to ponder whether Ricardo Arias might have recorded phone calls. And then he realized, quite certainly, that Richie could not have done so.
Monk inserted the new tape, identified Paget as the witness, and handed the machine back to Lynch. ‘Did you and Mr Arias ever speak by telephone?’ he repeated.
‘No,’ Paget said.
‘So,’ Monk said, ‘the night before you left for Italy, you didn’t speak to Ricardo Arias by phone.’
‘No.’
‘Or see him?’
‘No.’
‘Or visit his apartment?’
‘No.’
Monk’s rapid-fire cadence made Paget feel cornered. ‘Did Richie ever call your home?’ Monk asked.
Paget hesitated. ‘I wouldn’t know. Theoretically, it’s possible.’
‘Who, besides you, answers the telephone.’
‘Carlo, obviously. Sometimes Cecilia, the housekeeper. And, when it’s working, the answering machine.’
‘What are Cecilia’s hours?’
‘Two-thirty to six-thirty, five days a week. She runs the laundry, cleans the house. Sometimes fixes dinner for us.’
‘Have an address for her?’ Lynch asked.
Paget turned to him. ‘You can talk to her here. When I’m present, after I’ve spoken to her, at our convenience. I’m not going to have you scaring her to death.’
Monk glanced at Lynch. ‘We’ll get back to you.’ Lynch said.
Monk folded his hands. ‘Do you own a gun?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever had one in your possession?’
‘Only in the army.’
‘Ever fire one?’
‘Again, not since the army. I don’t like them.’
Monk leaned back. ‘How about Ms Peralta?’
It took Paget by surprise. ‘Terri told you already. She hates guns too. I can’t imagine her owning one and have no reason to th
ink that she did.’
‘What about Ms Peralta’s family?’
Paget tried to decipher the question. But Monk’s face, as usual, was opaque. ‘Gun ownership, you mean? Terri’s father has been dead for years. In San Francisco, that leaves her mother. And I somehow doubt she’s supplying Terri with weapons. If that’s your question.’
Monk shrugged. ‘Have you ever met her?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know what her relationship to Richie was like?’
‘No . . . Of course, she knew him. So I’d have to guess she didn’t like him.’
From Lynch, a shadow of dark laughter. Monk’s expression did not change. ‘What about Ms Peralta?’ Monk asked. ‘How would you classify her relationship to Mr Arias?’
‘Strained. Although, for Elena, Terri tried her best.’
Monk’s gaze was attenuated and unimpressed. ‘Do you think that Ms Peralta intended Mr Arias any harm?’
Paget shook his head. ‘All the time we were in Italy, Inspector, Terri worried that he hadn’t shown up. Again, for Elena’s sake and in spite of everything.’ Paget decided to give them a piece of his personal life, to divert them from Terri. ‘While we were there, we had long and agonized discussions about whether our relationship was possible in light of Richie’s malice. You don’t put yourself through that for a dead man.’
Monk’s gaze hardened into a stare. ‘Unless one of you is an actor.’
It jarred Paget, as Monk intended, putting a different spin on Italy: the charade of a murderer building an alibi by toying with the emotions of a lover, hoping that the decay of Richie’s body would obscure the date of his death.
‘How did you feel about Arias?’ Monk asked abruptly. ‘You weren’t exactly forthcoming with us about your reasons for disliking him. Your son, for example.’
‘I didn’t like him then, and I still don’t.’ Paget folded his arms. ‘You weren’t asking me about Carlo but about a death. About which, as it happens, I know nothing.’
Monk appraised him. ‘So you don’t have any information on how he might have died?’
‘None. Except from you.’
‘On whether someone might have killed him?’
‘No.’
‘Not even a theory?’
Paget stared back at him for a while. ‘Theories are your job. Not mine.’ He tilted his head. ‘Although suicide’s not a bad one. If I were you, I might take Richie’s note as a sign of his sincerity.’
Eyes of a Child Page 19