The Bad Daughter

by Joy Fielding

  “Unfortunately, it can’t,” Sherry Loftus said. “It’s about the pool table Mr. Davis ordered.”

  Oh, God.

  “First, allow me to offer my sincere condolences. We heard about what happened…We’re all so shocked. Is Mr. Davis going to be all right?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Such a tragedy. Who could have done such a thing?”

  “We don’t know that either.”

  “And the little girl?”

  “It looks like she’ll be okay.”

  “Well, thank God for that. Such a sweet little thing, absolutely adored her father.”

  “You said something about a pool table…”

  “Yes. Yes. It’s here.”

  “It’s here…where?”

  “In San Francisco. It arrived this morning, three weeks ahead of schedule, which almost never happens. But your father had asked them to put a rush on things, and as I’m sure you know, he was…is…I’m so sorry…a very persuasive man. And, well, we were just wondering when we could have it delivered.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Believe me, I understand that this is hardly the best time to be having this conversation…”

  “Then you understand correctly.”

  “…but I’m afraid we don’t have a lot of options.”

  “Just send the damn thing back.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. It was custom-ordered, and all sales are final. Your father was aware of that when he placed the order.”

  “My father is in the hospital with a bullet in his brain.”

  “Yes, and I’m so sorry. Such a lovely man. We spent many hours together, going over every aspect of the design on the new house, picking out the furniture. They were so excited. He and the little girl…”

  “Well, you’ll just have to figure something out…Wait. What about Mrs. Davis?”

  “What about her?”

  “You said you spent hours with my father and Cassidy, that they were so excited. What about Mrs. Davis? Wasn’t she excited?”

  “I didn’t really see a lot of Mrs. Davis. She came only a few times, in the beginning. After that, she pretty much left things to her husband.” Sherry Loftus cleared her throat, then cleared it again. “About the pool table…I guess we could put it in storage for the time being. There’ll be a charge, of course.”

  “Fine. Do that.”

  “And there’s the matter of payment. The table was ten thousand dollars.”

  “Ten thousand dollars!”

  “And there’s money owing on—”

  “Look,” Robin interrupted, “I really can’t deal with this now. My sister will have to get back to you.” She hung up before Sherry Loftus could say anything else. Then she poured herself another cup of coffee and gulped it down cold as fists of anxiety began pummeling her insides. “Okay. Breathe. Just breathe, goddamn it.”

  “What’s going on?” her sister asked from somewhere behind her.

  At the sound of Melanie’s voice, Robin dropped the mug, which crashed to the floor, splintering into dozens of pieces. “Shit.” She fell to her knees and began scooping up the ceramic shards, her hands shaking. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”

  “Relax. It’s not exactly a family heirloom.”

  “I’ll buy you another one.”

  Melanie lowered the bags of groceries in her hands to the kitchen table as the sound of Landon’s feet thundering up the stairs reverberated throughout the house. “You’re rather tightly wound this morning,” she said, starting to unload the groceries and put them away. “Landon and I were only gone an hour. What happened?”

  Robin gathered the remaining pieces of the shattered mug from the floor and dropped them into the garbage bin under the sink before relaying her conversation with Sherry Loftus.

  “Sherry!” Melanie exclaimed. “That’s it. I knew her name started with an S.”

  “I think you’re missing the point here.”

  “The point being?”

  “What are we going to do?” Robin asked.

  “About the pool table?” Melanie shrugged. “Not my problem. What else?”

  “What do you mean, what else?”

  “It doesn’t take a degree in psychology to see that something else is bothering you.”

  Robin took a long, deep breath. Was there any point in telling Melanie that she’d been on the verge of contacting Tom Richards when Sherry Loftus called? “It’s something Sherry Loftus said,” she said instead, then waited for Melanie to ask what that something was. She didn’t. “She said that Tara only went to San Francisco with Dad a few times and then she lost interest.”

  “And this bothers you because…?”

  “You said that Tara made frequent trips…”

  The phone rang.

  “Busy morning,” Melanie said, reaching over to answer it. “Hello?” An exaggerated roll of her eyes. “Why, hello, Sheriff. How are you this fine morning?” She balanced the phone between her ear and shoulder as she put a carton of milk and a pound of butter in the fridge. “No, I haven’t spoken to my brother recently. No, he hasn’t called.” She looked to Robin for confirmation. “No, I have no idea where he might have gone. What makes you think he’s gone anywhere?”

  “What’s he saying?” Robin asked.

  Melanie ignored her. “You what? Why would you do that?”

  “What did he do?”

  Melanie swatted Robin’s question aside with a brusque wave of her hand.

  Robin pulled her cell phone out of the pocket of her robe and pressed her brother’s number. It rang four times before voice mail picked up.

  “Leave a message,” came the terse directive.

  “Call me,” Robin said, equally abruptly. She disconnected the line at the same time Melanie was disconnecting hers. The two women stared at each other across the kitchen table. “What’s going on?” Robin asked.

  Melanie lowered herself into the nearest chair. “It appears our baby brother has disappeared.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Information,” the recording said. “For what city?”

  “San Francisco.”

  “Do you want a residential number?”

  “Yes.”

  “For what name?”

  Robin lowered her voice, glancing toward the closed door of her bedroom. Melanie wouldn’t be happy if she knew what she was doing.

  “What—are you a detective now? You’re being ridiculous.” She could hear her sister scoff.

  “Tom Richards,” Robin said clearly into her cell phone.

  Maybe she was being ridiculous. But it was obvious that the sheriff considered Alec a suspect in the shootings, and her brother wasn’t helping his cause by taking off without a word to anyone. If she could confirm that Tara had been in touch with a man from her past, it might divert some of the suspicion away from Alec, and since she was stuck in this hellhole for at least a few more days, she might as well make herself useful.

  “For what address?” the recording asked.

  Shit. “I have no idea.”

  “Please hold for an operator.”

  Seconds later, a human voice replaced the recording, informing Robin that there were three Tom Richardses in the Bay Area. Robin jotted down their phone numbers, then called all three.

  The first Tom Richards was at least eighty years old and partially deaf, so their conversation consisted mostly of the words “Sorry” (hers) and “What?” (his). The second Tom Richards was a lifelong resident of San Francisco and had never been to Red Bluff. She was about to phone the third Tom Richards when she heard her sister’s voice.

  “Robin,” Melanie called from the hallway, “what are you doing in there? I thought you wanted to go to the hospital.”

  “I’ll be ready in two minutes.”

  Robin waited until she heard Melanie retreat down the hall before completing the last call. It was answered after six rings, just as she was about to hang up.

  “Hello,” a woman said, the
word a shout, as if she’d just run in from outside.

  “Hello,” Robin said. “I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Robin Davis and I was wondering if…”

  “Just a minute,” the woman said. “Tom, wait a second. I need to talk to you before you leave.”

  “Actually, it’s Tom I was hoping to speak to,” Robin said quickly.

  “You want to speak to Tom?” The woman sounded surprised. “May I ask what about?”

  “It’s a long story. Please, if I could just speak to him. It’s very important.”

  “Some woman wants to talk to you,” the woman said. “What have you been up to?”

  Robin heard shuffling noises as the phone was transferred from one hand to another.

  “Hello?” came a child’s voice seconds later.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Robin apologized quickly. “It must be your father I’m looking for—is he there?”

  “She wants to talk to Daddy,” the boy explained to his mother.

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” the woman said, returning to the line. “You can go. Tell Jason’s mother I’ll call her later. Watch crossing the road. Hello,” she said into the receiver. “Who did you say you were?”

  “Robin Davis. From Red Bluff. I’m trying to reach an old classmate named Tom Richards. By any chance, is that your husband?”

  There was a long pause. Robin could feel her heart pounding. She wondered if the woman was still on the line.

  “My husband is dead,” the woman said. “He died two years ago. Leukemia.”

  “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry.”

  “We haven’t been back to Red Bluff in years. Was there something in particular that you wanted to talk to him about?”

  “No. No,” Robin stammered. “I was just looking through some old high school yearbooks and thought I’d…” Clearly, she had no idea what she’d been thinking. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  The woman hung up without saying goodbye.

  “Shit.” She’d managed to locate her old classmate, only to discover that he’d been dead for two years. Which meant what? That someone had borrowed his name? That that someone was Alec? That he and Tara…? She couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought. “Shit.”

  “What are you swearing about in there?” Melanie asked from outside the door. “What’s the problem now?”

  Robin tucked her phone into the side pocket of her jeans and opened the door. “No problem. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  —

  The sheriff was waiting for them when they arrived at the hospital.

  “Well, well,” Melanie said, her voice as stiff as her posture. “What a surprise.”

  “Ladies,” he said, with a tip of his hat. “I was hoping we’d run into each other.”

  “Has something happened?” Robin asked.

  “There are a few things I need to discuss with you,” he answered. “Is Landon here?”

  “Do you see him?” Melanie’s voice was colder than the morning’s leftover coffee.

  “He’s at home,” Robin said. Was he? Or was he off somewhere, balancing on the back of a motorcycle, long hair blowing in the wind? She’d wanted to question Melanie about what she’d seen the previous night, but didn’t want to undermine their uneasy peace. “Did you locate Alec?” she asked the sheriff instead.

  “Not yet. Perhaps we could sit down.” He motioned toward a nearby seating area where a cluster of beige leather chairs sat across from a long brown sofa.

  “If you don’t mind,” Melanie said, “we’re here to see our father.”

  “By all means,” came Prescott’s easy reply. “Whenever you’re ready. I’ll wait right here.”

  Melanie’s eyes narrowed into a hard glare. She spun on her heel and headed toward the east wing, Robin trailing after her. Minutes later, the sisters stood beside their father’s bed. “He’s looking a little gray around the edges,” Melanie remarked dispassionately, as if she were commenting on the color of the walls. “Doesn’t look like it’ll be much longer.”

  “Hi, Daddy,” Robin whispered, her eyes once again welling up with unexpected tears.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to start crying again.”

  Robin shook her head, as confused by her tears as her sister was.

  “Good news, Dad,” Melanie announced, tapping on the bed’s handrails. “Your pool table has arrived. Any suggestions what to do with it?” She waited several seconds. “No? I didn’t think so. You were always better at creating problems than you were at solving them.”

  Robin stared down at the comatose man who was her father. His tan was fading, and his complexion had taken on an ashen tinge, all the more noticeable because of the white bandages wrapped around his head and the sheets tucked underneath his chin. He seemed to have shrunk since she’d last seen him, although perhaps that was her imagination. Someone’s finally cut you down to size, she thought, turning away. Dear God, please don’t let that someone be Alec.

  “Where are you going?” Melanie asked.

  “Doesn’t seem to be much point in staying here. Might as well talk to the sheriff, get it over with. You coming?”

  “No. I think I’ll stay and keep Dad company.” Melanie pulled up a chair and plopped down, stretching her legs out in front of her and folding her arms across her chest, as if emphasizing her resolve.

  “What’ll I tell Prescott?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  Robin knew that it was pointless to argue. “Goodbye, Dad,” she whispered on her way out.

  * * *

  —

  Sheriff Prescott stood up as soon as he saw her walking toward him. “I take it your sister has decided not to join us.” He motioned for Robin to have a seat, then reached for a large manila envelope lying beside him. He removed two photographs and handed them to Robin.

  “What’s this?” She studied the large prints, understanding that the red Chevy Malibu at the center of both photographs—one beside a pump at a Shell station, one passing through a highway tollbooth—belonged to Alec.

  “Recognize the car?”

  “I’m sure that my brother isn’t the only person in the world who owns a red Chevy.”

  “They’re his license plates,” the sheriff said.

  “Okay. So it’s his car.”

  “You recognize the gas station?”

  “Should I?”

  “It’s located about a mile from here. And this tollbooth,” he said, pointing to the second picture, “is located about halfway between here and San Francisco. You want to know when these pictures were taken?”

  Not really. Robin held her breath as Prescott returned the photos to their manila envelope.

  “First one was taken the evening of the shooting, the second one around two the next morning. Two-eighteen, to be precise. Which would indicate that your brother was here in Red Bluff when the shootings took place.”

  “Are you implying that Alec was the shooter?” Robin said, jumping to her feet. “That’s crazy.” Was it? “There’s no way Alec shot anyone. He loved Tara.” How many times could she have this conversation?

  “She betrayed him pretty badly.”

  “That was more than five years ago.”

  “Some men can nurse a grudge a very long time.”

  “He still loved her,” Robin insisted. Even after what she did. Even after all this time.

  “Maybe he did. But he hated your father.”

  “Lots of people hated my father. Including me.”

  “Yes. But you weren’t in Red Bluff that night, and it appears your brother was.”

  “My brother isn’t capable of hurting anyone, especially not a twelve-year-old girl. Why would he possibly want to shoot Cassidy?”

  “Maybe he didn’t. There was at least one other shooter. Remember?”

  “Who you think could be Landon,” Robin said, surprised by the anger in her voice. Didn’t she harbor her own suspicions regarding her nephew? “You think they were in this together,
” she stated more than asked.

  “I can’t ignore the possibility.”

  “My brother had nothing to do with what happened,” Robin reiterated, the slight tremor in her voice belying the certainty of her words.

  “Then what was he doing here, and why did he run?”

  “Who says he ran?”

  “Why don’t you sit back down?” Prescott suggested gently, waiting until Robin had resumed her former position before continuing. “After we got hold of these pictures, I contacted the San Francisco police,” he explained. “I asked them to talk to your brother. They went to his apartment. He wasn’t there. He hasn’t shown up for work. His car’s gone. Nobody’s seen him.” Prescott lowered his chin while lifting his eyes. “You didn’t happen to mention to him that I’d been asking about his car, did you?”

  Shit.

  “Look,” Prescott said, “I’m not saying your brother is guilty…”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “That I’d like to talk to him, that’s all. So if you do hear from him…”

  “I’ll tell him that you’d like to talk to him,” Robin said, her head spinning from a sudden lack of oxygen. “My turn to ask you a few questions.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Have you talked to Dylan Campbell?”

  “He walked into the station first thing this morning and introduced himself.”

  “That cocky bastard. And?”

  “He claims he was in Las Vegas on the night of the shootings, showed us a receipt from the hotel where he stayed, claims he did pretty well at the tables. We’re waiting on video confirmation. Should have it by the end of the day.”

  Shit. “And Donny Warren?”

  “I talked to him.”

  “And?”

  “Says he knew Tara casually, but that they definitely weren’t having an affair.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Does he have an alibi for that night?”

  “He says he was home in bed. Asleep. Alone.”

  “So he doesn’t have an alibi,” Robin clarified.

  “Or a motive,” Prescott said.

  “That we know of.”

  “That we know of,” the sheriff agreed.