But Caroline had come no nearer to clearing Carlo. Furthermore, the Ricardo Arias who emerged from Gates’s depiction – resourceful and pathologically vindictive – was a man worth killing. And the ultimate damage, which Victor Salinas was surely about to underscore, was that Gates seemed certain that Ricardo Arias had not decided to kill himself.
‘There goes Richie,’ Paget whispered as Caroline sat next to him. But in her face he saw the same doubts he had.
Salinas was already on his feet. ‘As I understand it,’ he said, ‘you saw no sign that this psychological testing, whatever the result, had driven Mr Arias to suicide?’
‘None.’
‘Did you see any indication that it ever would?’
Gates contemplated him, looking suddenly weary. ‘Again, no. Mr Arias was perfectly capable of weighing his self-interest and giving up if the price seemed too great. Including deciding to negotiate some new arrangement rather than face embarrassment.’ Gates paused for a moment and then quietly finished her answer. ‘The clear picture I had, from over thirty sessions with Mr Arias, was of a man who’d harm another person before he’d ever harm himself.’
Abruptly, Salinas sat down. Paget was still staring at the words of Richie’s note when Judge Lerner’s gavel banged, and then he realized that the first week of his murder trial was over.
Chapter 7
Parking in front of Rosa Peralta’s, Christopher Paget got out, looking around him.
It was close to nine on Friday night; Paget had arranged to meet Terri at Rosa’s so that she could put Elena to bed upstairs and, oddly, because Rosa had requested this. Paget wondered why Rosa wished to see him now; after all that had happened, this was the first time he would meet Terri’s mother, or enter the home where Terri had been raised.
It was a modest two-story stucco, neatly maintained, with concrete steps climbing to a covered porch. Paget stopped on the sidewalk, gazing down the slope of Dolores Street. After the entombment of the trial, it felt as though he were reopening his senses. The night was dark, the wind chill on his face; the tall palm trees running down the median strip of grass swayed and rustled in the shadow of streetlights; the night had the fresh smell that came with a cold breeze. On the other side of the street were two dark figures beneath a palm – homeless men, Paget thought, or drug dealers. But in another part of Paget’s mind, he saw Ramon Peralta walking his daughters to school at Mission Dolores while Terri’s mother lay battered on the second floor.
Gazing up, Paget saw a soft glow from an uptairs window, which must be Elena’s night-light in the bedroom where Terri had once slept. He could feel the muted tragedy that had run through from mother to daughter to Elena. Yet it was Ramon Peralta and Ricardo Arias who had died, and Paget who might spend his life in prison; at whatever cost, only the women seemed to endure.
What would Terri and he say tonight, or do? And whatever it was, would it be any more than the reflex of a man facing prison and the lover too loyal to desert him until the trial was over? He could already feel the difference between his desperation to escape, if only for one night, and the small moments, unconsidered and serene, that create the heedless rhythm of a couple’s settled life.
Enough, Paget told himself. His task for the next few minutes was to meet his lover’s mother, and to do it with grace. No matter what she thought of him, or he thought of himself, he was intently interested in Rosa Peralta.
He turned and climbed the front steps to the house.
But when the door opened, Paget was speechless.
Even in the dim light, the woman he saw startled him. She returned his gaze with silent dignity, as if the moment did not require words.
‘I just found out,’ Paget said finally, ‘how Terri will look someday. In that, at least, she’s lucky.’
Rosa acknowledged the compliment. ‘Please come in,’ she said, and Paget stepped into the living room.
It was small and dimly lit, with a mantel above a fireplace framed in baked enamel. Paget felt the absence of the crucifix and the stiffly posed family pictures Terri had described; what had replaced them were more recent photos of Terri and her sisters and, Paget realized, a copy of the same school portrait of Elena that the police had found near Richie’s note.
The other surprise was less jarring but was interesting for its own sake: an unframed oil painting, in the style of a Haitian primitive, of a native woman with a child in her arms, staring out to sea. Something in the woman’s expression, cool and impassive, reminded Paget of Rosa Peralta.
They were alone. ‘Teresa is upstairs with Elena,’ Rosa explained, ‘and I wanted to see you. Please, sit down.’
Paget took a chair across from the sofa. As Rosa sat, her face came more fully into the light. There were shadows beneath her eyes, as if to mark the passage of joy. But she had reached the equipoise between beauty and time which, for moments in the lives of certain women, gives a face an interest and refinement that can be neither hurried nor preserved. Perhaps only Paget would know how to find the faint white line above her lip, the slight ridge in her nose, which was more crooked than the one she had once had and passed down to Terri. But then studying Rosa Peralta was important to him on several counts.
‘You’re different from your pictures,’ Rosa told him. ‘Golden, just as Teresa said.’
Paget smiled a little; he did not know the rules for this conversation. ‘Less golden by the day.’
Rosa nodded. ‘I’m sorry for what has happened to you. That is much of what I wished to say.’
Rosa’s English, while lightly accented, had the formality of someone who had learned to speak it carefully. It lent their conversation a certain air of diplomacy, two ambassadors from different worlds, searching each other out.
‘It’s been difficult,’ Paget said simply.
Rosa gave him a considered look. ‘You love my daughter very much, I know. For a time, I was not sure.’ She paused, arranging her skirt. ‘And she needed to be away from Ricardo, and to get Elena away. I understand that now.’
Paget found that he did not feel like mere politeness. ‘Was that so hard to understand before?’
Rosa seemed to stiffen: there was something withheld about her, as if tempered by time and hardship, and Paget sensed that she did not care to be questioned. ‘I was afraid of what Ricardo would do. Getting away did not seem easy.’
‘It still isn’t.’
‘Yes,’ Rosa answered in a level voice. ‘You are paying the price for us. I know that too.’
Paget did not choose to argue. ‘What Terri did took courage,’ he said. ‘She broke away from Richie, against your advice and, whether or not you accept this, without my help. If nothing else, the trial has justified her.’
Rosa raised her head. ‘Perhaps. But now she has you.’
It was a probe, Paget sensed. ‘Perhaps,’ he answered. ‘Perhaps not.’
Rosa appeared to study his face. ‘Do you think,’ she asked at length, ‘they will accept that Ricardo killed himself?’
The question surprised him; it could be understood on different levels. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘In the end, they’ll decide whether or not I killed him.’
Rosa’s lids lowered, half covering her eyes. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because there is no one who believes that Richie committed suicide, and a medical examiner to say that the circumstances of his death add up to murder.’
Rosa sat back, and then something in her face became remote and almost hard. ‘It shouldn’t matter how Ricardo died,’ she said. ‘Only that he’s dead.’
There was in Rosa’s voice the tone of absolute dismissal; the idea of Richie’s death held no more awe or mystery for her than the swatting of a fly.
‘I can never express to you,’ Paget said softly, ‘how much I wish he were still alive.’
Across the room, Rosa Peralta regarded him impassively. ‘He would be,’ she answered, ‘if Teresa had not left him.’
The words had an eerie conviction; Page
t did not know whether they were offered in irony or consolation. Rosa Peralta, he had become quite certain, was not a simple woman.
Paget watched her. ‘“Character is fate,” someone once said. I think that’s true. For all of us.’
Rosa was silent for a moment, appraising him. ‘Long ago,’ she told him in a quiet voice, ‘I stopped believing in God. But I still believe that, in some terrible way, there is a balance in life. I know Ricardo’s death is part of that. Just as I know that, in the end, you will survive.’
Perhaps it was her voice: for a superstitious moment, Paget felt as if a palmist had read good fortune in the lines of his hand. But when he gave a soft laugh, Rosa Peralta was not smiling.
‘You will see,’ she said. ‘In the meanwhile, I will believe that for both of us. And for your son.’
The mention of Carlo, accused of molesting this woman’s granddaughter, startled him. And then he heard Terri’s footsteps on the stairs.
Entering the living room, she looked from Rosa to Paget, as if surprised to find them together.
Paget tried to smile at her. ‘Relax,’ he said. ‘Your mother just told me I’ll be acquitted.’
Rosa shook her head. ‘No. I said you will be absolved. To me, it is not quite the same.’
Terri gave Paget a veiled look, then turned to her mother. ‘We’d better go, Mom.’
She bent over the sofa, kissing her mother; in profile, Paget could see how alike they were, yet how they might yet become different. At forty-nine, there might still be light in Terri’s face.
‘I’ll be back in the morning,’ she told Rosa. ‘By seven at the latest, so Elena doesn’t worry.’
Rosa faced them in the pale light; Paget thought he saw regret and a trace of sadness on her face, though he was not sure for what. ‘You look well together,’ she said softly.
All at once, Paget felt this woman’s love for Terri. ‘Thank you,’ he answered. There was nothing else to say.
Leaving with Terri, Paget was aware of Rosa Peralta watching until she gently shut the door behind them. It was a while before either of them spoke.
‘What an interesting woman,’ Paget said.
Terri did not look at him. ‘Sometimes,’ she said at last, ‘my mother’s like a mystic. Perhaps it’s all the secrets she kept. Even from herself.’
Chapter 8
Charles Monk sat in the witness stand, wearing his trademark gold glasses, a crisp gray pinstripe that looked tailored for a football player, and a silk breast-pocket handkerchief Paget had never seen him wear before. He wondered if Monk, observing that Paget’s own silk handkerchiefs had vanished for the trial, meant this as an ironic joke.
‘How did it come about?’ Salinas asked Monk, ‘that you first went to Ricardo Arias’s apartment?’
Monk seemed to look about, as if orienting himself to another Monday morning. ‘I was contacted by a uniformed policeman on the scene,’ he told Salinas. ‘Mr Arias’s mother-in-law had called in: he hadn’t been seen for a week or so, and she asked if we’d perform a well-being check. When no one answered, they broke in the door and found Mr Arias.’
‘When you arrived, what did you observe?’
Monk gazed at the ceiling. ‘The body, of course. Near Mr Arias’s hand was a Smith and Wesson thirty-two safety revolver – the second model, manufactured between 1902 and 1909.’ Monk paused, regarding Salinas calmly. ‘The age of the gun was unusual. On inspection we found that one of the rounds had misfired and that the bullet which killed Mr Arias was the second attempt at firing. Which meant that if Mr Arias had killed himself, he was one determined man.’
The sardonic twist caused Caroline to make a note. Sitting next to her, Paget saw Luisa Marin fold her hands and force herself to pay attention; it reminded Paget that Monk was perhaps the witness he most feared.
‘Did you observe anything else?’ Salinas asked.
‘Yes. The dead man had been shot through the mouth, and there was a note on Mr Arias’s desk, next to a picture of a little girl who turned out to be his daughter.’ He looked briefly at Paget. ‘In addition, someone had turned off Mr Arias’s answering machine.’
At the corner of his eye, Paget saw Joseph Duarte open his note-book, Marian Celler glancing over his shoulder. Paget decided to focus on Monk.
Salinas moved forward. ‘After you made these observations, what did you do?’
‘Dr Shelton and the crime lab people were doing their work – inspecting the body, lifting fingerprints. So we began to search the apartment.’
‘What did you find?’
‘To start, there was no sign of forced entry. That could have meant suicide, but it could also mean that Mr Arias had been killed by someone he let into the apartment, particularly because the building had an intercom for visitors. Then we started finding things that didn’t add up.’ Monk paused, sipping casually from the glass of water in front of him. ‘Mr Arias had a laundry ticket in his pocket, which turned out to be dated the last day anyone had seen him. It seemed kind of strange that a man who meant to kill himself wanted five clean shirts, with medium starch.’
It was a blow, Paget knew at once. With an air of satisfaction, Salinas asked, ‘Did you find other anomalies?’
‘Yes,’ Monk answered. ‘There was a full pot of coffee. Someone had set the automatic coffeemaker to brew some coffee that Mr Arias never got to drink. When we got into his computer, we found a calendar showing appointments for after anyone had seen him and, we calculated from the pile of mail and newspapers, after he’d been shot.’ Monk ticked them off on his fingers. ‘There was a notation for eleven the next day: “Coffee with Leslie.” Then there was an appointment with a Dr Gates on Monday and, a hearing in the family court. If this man was winding up his life, he seemed to have left a few loose ends.
‘Then there was nothing which tied Mr Arias to the gun – no permit, no record of purchase, nothing. Not even any ammunition, or oil, or anything you’d need to maintain a gun.’ Monk peered at the jury. ‘Man wants a gun to kill himself, he’s not going to make any secret about buying it. I mean, what’s the point, especially when you mean to leave a note.
‘Of course, it could have been a robbery. But the apartment wasn’t torn up, and Mr Arias still had his watch and his wallet, with cash and credit cards inside.’ Monk gazed down for a moment. ‘Also, in a gym bag in the bedroom closet, we found ten thousand dollars. Cash.’
Caroline looked up from her notes. ‘Colt,’ Paget whispered. ‘They must have paid Richie off in cash.’
Almost imperceptibly, Caroline nodded. ‘Watch Victor,’ she whispered back.
Salinas had paused. ‘So accordingly to what you found, Mr Arias also was not financially desperate.’
Monk gave him an even stare; Paget sensed some private form of communication. ‘Sure didn’t look like that,’ Monk said coolly. He stopped, as if interrupting himself, and then shrugged ‘We also found a passbook showing another ten thousand or so. In an account at the B of A. So he had some money even without support from Ms Peralta. However he got it.’
‘Brooks called Monk off,’ Paget murmured to Caroline. ‘Monk wanted to know where the money came from, and they made him stop when he couldn’t trace it to Terri or me.’
‘Sounds right.’ Caroline made another note. ‘I wonder if Victor knows about that.’
‘And when,’ Salinas asked, ‘did you first speak to Mr Paget?’
The prosecutor, Paget realized, had quickly changed the subject. ‘Victor knows something,’ he said under his breath.
‘Three days later,’ Monk was answering. ‘At his home, after he and Teresa Peralta flew back from Italy. She was there too.’
Paget leaned closer to Caroline. ‘I remember Monk asking if I still meant to run for the Senate. Maybe he was trying to tell me something.’
‘And what did Mr Paget tell you?’ Salinas asked Monk.
‘Then? Only a few things.’ Monk glanced at Paget, then he faced Salinas. ‘I asked Mr Paget whether he’d been hom
e that Friday night, after the last time anyone claimed to have seen or spoken to Mr Arias. I understood him to say yes. But when I went back to the office and replayed the tape of our interview, I realized he hadn’t said a thing. Just nodded.’ Monk shook his head in wonder. ‘It was a stupid mistake. I don’t know how many times I’ve told interview subjects to answer aloud. Including a couple of Mr Paget’s clients.’
‘What did you do about that?’
‘Nothing, at first. Just started going over the papers we found in Mr Arias’s apartment.’ Monk adjusted his glasses. ‘I found a clipping from a tabloid, the Inquisitor, where Mr Arias accused Mr Paget of ‘stealing’ Teresa Peralta and breaking up his marriage. So I started in on the papers from Mr Arias’s divorce case.’
Salinas stood straighter, folding his arms. ‘And what did you find there?’
‘The last papers filed in the case were marked confidential, so the public couldn’t read them.’ Monk touched his chin. ‘It was a motion by Mr Arias to keep his daughter, Elena, from seeing Mr Paget or his son. Mr Arias’s own affidavit repeated the accusations he’d made in the Inquisitor.’ Monk finished in a flat voice. ‘He also accused Carlo Paget of having sexually molested Elena Arias.’
With every instinct of a father, Paget wanted to stand up to say that Ricardo Arias was a liar. But instead he fought to compose himself, aware of Marian Cellar turning to watch him. Beneath the table, he felt Caroline lightly touching his arm. And then Salinas asked Monk, ‘Did you then go back to Mr Paget?’
‘Yes.’
Slowly, Salinas walked back to the prosecution table and produced a black tape player, holding it aloft. ‘And did you record your second interview with Mr Paget?’
‘Yes.’
Paget braced himself for the tape. But then, to his surprise, Salinas dropped the subject. ‘After you spoke to Mr Paget,’ he asked, ‘what did you do next?’
Monk glanced at Paget again. ‘We interviewed a neighbor,’ he answered. ‘A woman named Georgina Keller, who lived next to Mr Arias. She had gone on her own vacation the same day as Mr Paget, to visit a daughter in Florida, and only returned ten days or so after we found Mr Arias.’
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