‘You never even went there after what happened?’ Wilson asked. ‘Not even to check it out for yourself?’
‘I didn’t have time,’ Nick said. ‘I told you, my wife went into labour the night of the accident – our daughter was born four weeks premature.’
‘How’s she doing now?’ Capelli asked.
‘Fine. She’s doing great.’
‘So you don’t even know where Catherine Street is?’ Wilson said.
‘I know it’s in the Haight, but that’s about it.’ Nick turned back to Capelli. ‘Look, what is this?’
‘What is what, Mr Miller?’
He knew his temper was about to get the better of him, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Besides, he was starting to figure that maybe it was about time he got mad at someone.
‘All this – crap,’ he said hotly. ‘I am getting so sick of being hassled by you people.’
‘Excuse me?’ Inspector Wilson leaned away from the wall in an attitude of mock curiosity. ‘Have we met before?’
‘No, we haven’t,’ Nick answered, ‘but I’m sure you’re aware of my other dealings with your colleagues in Juvenile and Narcotics.’
‘You do seem to have had a lot of dealings, as you put it, with us lately,’ Capelli agreed mildly.
‘None of which have led to any charges,’ Nick pointed out.
‘Not yet,’ Wilson said.
‘Not ever,’ Nick hit straight back, ‘because there’s never going to be any genuine evidence against me—’
‘Because you’re innocent, right?’ Wilson again.
‘Because it’s all been part of a set-up,’ Nick told her. ‘I tried telling the Juvenile guys the same thing, and they didn’t want to know, but it’s all starting to get way out of hand now, so someone’s going to have to start listening to me.’
So who’s been setting you up?’ Capelli asked.
Nick didn’t answer right away. Richard Bourne had asked him to leave the situation in his hands, and he’d agreed. But he hadn’t known then that less than three days later he was going to be dragged in yet again by the SFPD.
‘A woman named Holly Bourne,’ he said to Capelli.
‘And who exactly is Holly Bourne?’ Wilson wanted to know.
‘An old acquaintance. Someone I knew when I was a student in New York City.’ He was sweating. ‘We used to be neighbours when we were kids, back in Bethesda, Maryland.’
‘And what makes you think this old neighbour is setting you up now?’ Capelli asked.
‘Because she’s—’ Nick hesitated. Crazy? Obsessed? Which word was most likely to make these police officers pay attention to what he was telling them? ‘Because she’s sick,’ he said, finally.
‘What kind of sick?’ Wilson asked.
Nick ignored her and concentrated on Capelli. ‘Why am I here? I mean, why am I here now, today? What happened to make you come pick me up?’
‘We have a witness who says they saw you on Catherine Street.’
‘That’s impossible.’
‘How so?’ Capelli asked.
‘Because I told you, I was never there.’ Nick paused. ‘Who says I was?’
‘Someone who seems very sure.’ Wilson, still over by the wall, smiled. ‘A concerned citizen.’
‘Have you met this citizen?’
‘We have a witness.’ Wilson stopped smiling. ‘That’s all you need to know.’
‘What was it?’ Nick went on pushing. ‘A phone call?’
‘Why don’t you let us ask the questions, Mr Miller?’ Inspector Capelli said.
‘Was it a woman who called?’ Nick asked.
‘Why?’ Wilson asked right back. ‘Did you notice a woman when you were on Catherine Street?’
‘I’ve already told you I wasn’t there.’
Nick stopped talking. Holly. Almost certainly Holly. But when exactly had she made this call? Since he’d talked to her father? Or had she given some ‘information’ to the cops before Richard Bourne had become involved?
I WILL DEAL . . . SET YOUR MIND AT REST . . .
The message on the Western Union telegram was still clear in his mind’s eye. Had Bourne lied to him, plain and simple? Nina, on the phone, had swiftly pointed to Richard being Holly’s father and a lawyer and maybe, therefore, not the right man for Nick to take at his word. Was she right, after all? Or had Holly done this to him either before Bourne had contacted her, or afterwards, because she didn’t give a damn what her father thought.
‘Tell us a little more about you and Phoebe.’ Capelli broke into his thoughts.
‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ Wilson asked from the wall.
‘No, thank you,’ Nick answered, distracted.
‘How about a cigarette?’
‘I don’t smoke.’
‘Mind if I do?’ Wilson pulled a pack of Merits and a matchbook from her skirt pocket.
‘Not at all.’
She lit up and inhaled deeply. Nick wondered if smoking was still permitted on police property. He thought again about the wisdom or folly of being here right now without a lawyer. Maybe Chris Field might be better than no lawyer at all.
‘You worked with your wife and Phoebe on your book, didn’t you, Mr Miller?’ Capelli asked.
‘Yes, I did.’ He felt anger starting to spiral again. ‘It was a very happy time for all of us, before you ask.’
‘And since that happy time?’
‘May I say something else, please?’ Nick leaned forward, put his right hand on the table top, just to the side of where someone had carved a few creative words.
‘Go ahead,’ Capelli said.
‘Lawrence Dinkin – the man from the insurance company – made it clear he thought the accident was meant for my wife.’
‘Because the fax about the house on Catherine Street was sent to her.’ Inspector Wilson, still smoking, came to join Capelli and Nick at the table, sitting beside Nick again.
‘Yes.’
‘Doesn’t seem conclusive to me,’ Wilson remarked.
Nick said nothing.
‘Given that the sender might have known your wife was out of the office,’ Wilson added. Her lips were too thin, but her eyes were very blue and compelling.
‘Meaning me?’ Frustration balled Nick’s hand into a fist.
‘As you know,’ Capelli contributed, ‘the fax was sent from a public fax bureau in the financial district at three twenty-one that afternoon.’
‘Where were you at that time, Mr Miller?’ Wilson asked.
Nick thought, as he had a number of times before, about the possibility that Holly had been in San Francisco that day – unless, of course, she had hired someone else to send the fax on her behalf. Both thoughts made him sick.
‘Answer the question, please,’ Wilson said. ‘Where were you at three twenty-one on July 17?’
Nick stared at her. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Think about it.’
He tried, but it was a fuzz. He knew where he’d been when the call came about Phoebe: out back at home with Nina, waiting for the charcoal to turn white on the barbecue. But that had been later, around six-thirty . . .
‘Were you at home?’ Capelli prodded.
Nick shook his head. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘Take your time.’
‘I know I was home for most of that day. My wife was resting – she was tired.’ Nick forced himself back to the afternoon in question. ‘I went out for some supplies – I think it was just after lunch—’
‘Supplies?’
‘For my work.’
‘Paints?’Wilson asked.
Nick shrugged. ‘Paints and other stuff. I went to Flax, on Market Street. It took a while, but not too long.’
‘So were you still out, do you think, between three and three-thirty?’ Capelli was pushing harder now.
‘I’m not sure. If I had to guess, I’d say I was home.’
‘In which case your wife would be able to confirm that.’
‘Not necessari
ly,’ Nick said, then cursed himself.
‘Why not?’ Wilson asked.
Cold eyes or not, he ought to have called Chris Field.
‘She may have been asleep.’ He paused. ‘Or not.’
Wilson smiled. ‘Or not.’
‘Why not ask her?’ Nick said.
‘We will,’ Wilson said.
‘She’s out of town at the moment.’
‘We know.’
Nick knew he needed to stop this before it got out of hand. He knew it, but there was another question he had to ask while he had the chance.
‘Tell me one thing,’ he said, looking at Capelli. ‘Why the hell do you think I would want to hurt Phoebe?’ He was breathing too fast and there was a pain across his chest. ‘She’s my wife’s sister. I love her.’
‘Are you saying you had no motive for wanting your sister-in-law hurt, or maybe dead?’ Wilson asked.
‘Of course I had no motive!’ Outrage rang in every word.
‘Not even if she knew something you were afraid she might talk about?’ Wilson was cryptic. ‘To your wife or someone else?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Something maybe connected with your visit to Juvenile Division last month,’ Wilson said. ‘Something that Phoebe might have become upset with you about? Maybe threatened to expose?’
‘Jesus,’ Nick said. ‘Jesus.’
He stopped listening.
Holly. God damn her to hell, and maybe her father with her.
‘I want a lawyer,’ he said. Any lawyer except Richard or Holly Bourne.
Inspector Wilson stood up. ‘You’re free to go.’
Nick sat very still. ‘So that’s it?’
‘For now.’
Slowly, Nick got up. His whole body ached. He felt as if he’d gone twelve rounds with Mike Tyson.
‘Do I need a lawyer?’
‘That’s up to you,’ Wilson said.
‘If it were me,’ Capelli said, wryly, ‘I’d have got one a while back.’
Punch-drunk as he was, Nick knew he couldn’t leave yet.
‘What about Holly Bourne?’ he said.
‘What about her?’ Capelli asked.
‘I told you I think she’s the one behind all this. Aren’t you going to at least follow that up?’
‘Could be,’ Wilson answered.
‘According to her parents,’ Nick said, fast and desperate, ‘she’s an attorney now, married and living in New York City.’
‘So Holly Bourne’s an attorney, huh?’ Wilson commented.
‘Supposedly,’ Nick said. ‘Maybe you could check her out?’
‘Because she’s sick,’ Capelli said. ‘That was what you said about her, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’ Nick glanced at the door. The temptation to escape while they were still telling him he could go was almost overwhelming, but the need to get through to them about Holly was even more powerful.
‘You want to talk to us some more?’ Wilson asked. ‘Or do you want to speak to your lawyer first?’
Nick sat down again.
‘I want to tell you about Holly Bourne,’ he said.
‘Are you sure about this?’ Inspector Capelli double-checked.
Nick nodded.
‘Very sure,’ he said.
Chapter Forty-seven
When I got home soon after seven o’clock – too late to contemplate calling Richard Bourne in Washington – I found a message on the machine from Nina.
‘Call me, please.’
So brief it hurts.
Now what do I do?
What I would like – what I would love – is to keep this new horror from her. What I want is to believe that Inspectors Wilson and Capelli will follow the lead I gave them and bring Holly to justice – or failing that, that they’ll at least have the decency to melt away into the same SFPD black hole that Abbott and Riley and the Juvenile guys seem to have dropped back into. What I want is to be able to kid myself that this one slipped in under the wire before Richard Bourne got in on the act and put a stop to all the craziness.
But, number one: I don’t believe this is over. Number two: I know that Wilson and Capelli are going to be getting in touch with Nina anyway to check on my whereabouts during the afternoon of Phoebe’s fall. And number three (and most compelling of all): if I keep just one more thing from my wife – whether my secrecy comes under the guise of funk or of trying to shield her – I know I will lose her.
So I make the call.
She tells me that Mary Chen, a psychologist at the Waterson Clinic, believes that Phoebe’s speech loss may, at least in part, be of a post-traumatic nature. Chen’s conversations with William and Nina having persuaded her that, until her fall, Phoebe was always a rock to them both, it now seems possible that this personal physical and emotional shock may have created a kind of mental pile up of old, partly suppressed nightmares.
‘First our mother’s alcoholism, then her suicide,’ Nina says. ‘Then my drunkenness.’
She sounds matter-of-fact listing the Ford family horrors, but I know my wife better than that. I know that the implication that her own problems may have contributed to Phoebe’s present condition, must feel to Nina like a hot poker jammed into her heart.
‘Dr Chen accepts that Phoebe’s head injury alone was serious enough to have a temporary effect on her brain’s speech centre,’ Nina goes on, ‘but then, when Phoebe first woke up and found herself trapped by the casts on her arms and all those tubes, unable to communicate with anyone—’ She breaks off.
‘Nina?’ I almost ask her if she’s okay, but I stop myself. Of course she is not okay.
‘What?’ Nina’s voice is desperately strained.
‘So they still believe there’s no permanent physical damage,’ I say.
They say they’ve done every test there is.’
‘So it must be temporary.’ I’m fighting to push her uphill again.
‘So they say.’
‘Do they say how long it might last?’
‘They just don’t know.’ She’s close to tears now. ‘Her voice might come back any time, or it might take weeks or even months. All they can do is persist with the speech therapy.’
‘It won’t take months.’
‘You don’t know that, Nick. You don’t know more than the doctors.’
‘No,’ I agree. ‘But I know Phoebe better than they do.’
Nina is silent for a moment, and I picture her gritting her teeth, refusing to give way.
And then the question comes. The one I’ve been dreading.
‘Where were you?’ she asks me. ‘I called twice.’
Reprieve over.
‘Nick?’
So I tell her.
Two good things come out of our miserable, lousy conversation. Actually, one good thing and one wonderful thing.
First, Nina sounds relieved that I’ve told the cops about Holly.
Second – better than anything – she and Zoë are coming home.
Chapter Forty-eight
Holly’s getting ready. To leave Jack and the house on San Vicente that has never felt like her own home. And Taylor, Griffin, and Los Angeles.
There’s no sadness in her. Not an ounce. Except just a fragment, perhaps, for Richard. And maybe, curiously enough, for Eleanor. They both love her, in their own, different ways. So does Jack, of course – but Jack Taylor only loves the Charlotte shell she created specially for him, for the purposes of making him fall in love with her at the right time. That time is over now. Spent. Past.
Now is the time for moving on.
For ceasing to be Jack’s wife, or Richard and Eleanor’s daughter.
For disappearing.
Until the moment comes to magic herself back again.
For Nick.
This point has arrived sooner than anticipated, but that’s okay. She’s good at planning, at dealing with unexpected contingencies. Richard’s unannounced visit has, without question, made her present position untenable – and
in making her own anonymous witness call to the SFPD when she did, Holly realizes that she, too, has made staying in LA impossible.
She ought perhaps, she admits to herself on reflection, to have waited just a little longer, given herself a little more time to go underground, to make herself invisible – untouchable. After all, Nick’s not likely now to hold back from the police what he’s already told her father. And if – just if – they believe him, then that means the cops will come looking for her, at least for the answers to a few questions.
Which she has no intention of answering.
So Mrs Taylor regrets that she won’t be able to go on play-acting as Jack’s wife any longer. And Taylor, Griffin, of course, has been every bit as much of a convenience as her husband: part sanctuary from Jack and his increasingly claustrophobic adoration, part high-speed, on-the-job criminal law school. That, too, has served its purpose now. And Holly is almost ready.
To stage the rest of the battle from a new hideaway.
Until Nick finally has to admit that he can’t go on without her.
It is coming, sooner than she thought it would.
Holly knows that Nick Miller still believes that hell will have to freeze over twice before he’ll ever need her.
He is wrong.
Chapter Forty-nine
According to Eileen Ridge, Richard Bourne had been in court when Nick had tried calling him first thing Thursday morning. Of course, she’d said, she would ask Mr Bourne to get in touch as soon as possible.
At two that afternoon (five in Washington DC) Nick had called again. Mrs Ridge had been friendly and courteous in telling him that she’d spoken with Mr Bourne, who had asked her to assure him that he was, as previously agreed, dealing with the matter, and that he would be in touch again only if there was anything further to report.
‘Dealing with it how, exactly?’ Nick asked, his stomach tight with frustration. ‘As in doing precisely nothing?’
‘I’m not familiar with the matter concerned, Mr Miller’ – the courtesy hardly wavered – ‘but if Mr Bourne says that he’s dealing with something, then you can be certain that he is.’
‘You tell Mr Bourne that while he’s dealing with it, I’m still being harassed by the San Francisco police.’
Too Close Page 21