Lemon Reef

by Robin Silverman

  I watched Del’s high school image disappear at his hand.

  Realizing I’d seen him, Talon shrugged and said, “Don’t want to upset Khila.”

  When Pascale and Khila came out of the kitchen, Talon patted the space on the couch between the woman and himself and said, “Khila, come sit down.”

  Khila froze.

  “Khila,” Talon said again, this time more firmly, “come sit down.”

  Khila glanced at Pascale.

  Pascale smiled and said to Talon, “Who is your friend?”

  Talon mimicked Pascale’s accent, saying “My friend ees Marcella. Marcella, this is Pascale.” He laughed a little, a combination of a blurt and a giggle, raised his brows at me in a gesture of imagined solidarity.

  Just when I thought Pascale had successfully turned the attention away from Khila, Marcella said in a high-pitched baby voice, “Khila,” patting the couch next to her, “come sit with me.”

  Khila shook her head, took hold of Pascale’s hand, and pushed her body up against Pascale’s. She looked sideways at me, her forehead wrinkled with worry, her lip trembling, losing the battle against her tears. For a moment, I wondered if she knew about me. I decided she was just casting a wide net, seeking support from any possible quarter. She did not want to go near that woman.

  “Khila!” Talon warned.

  Marcella placed her hand on Talon’s thigh, as if holding him back. She turned to Khila, smiled, and said, “Khila, I know you miss your mommy, but we’re together now. It’s very exciting. We’re going to Texas.” Khila was unmoved and Marcella’s tone grew more desperate. “I’m going to be your new mommy.”

  Talon looked evenly at Khila.

  New mommy? Had I heard her right? Did she just say that to this child whose mother had died only a few days before? Out loud? Without the least bit of self-consciousness? I saw this all the time in my line of work, this annihilation of a child’s history after the dissolution of a marriage or, even, a death, the supplanting of one parent with another, making a child accommodate a parent’s new life, as though she had never had one of her own, and taking her compliance as evidence that she’s in agreement with what’s happening to her. But it was usually done with more subtlety. And most people wait a little longer than two days to introduce a new parent, but not this guy. It was obvious by how blatant he was being that Talon knew Del’s family was powerless to do anything to stop him. And worse yet—bringing this woman to Del’s mother’s house, putting Del’s picture facedown in Pascale’s living room, and mocking Pascale’s accent—he clearly took pleasure in forcing them to watch as he got away with murdering Del and now sought to destroy any memory of Del and her family for her daughter.

  I thought of the writhing puppies, eyed the photo of Del facedown, pictured Del wearing shirts buttoned to her neck and sunglasses to hide bruises, watched Marcella insistently patting that space next to her on the couch, and I had not a doubt left that Talon had killed Del.

  I asked Khila where her shirt and pajamas were. She shrugged.

  Pascale took my lead and said, “Come with me, and we’ll find them.” It bought me a little time to think about whether there was anything I could do to keep Khila from leaving now with Talon. What Talon had done to the puppies was pretty bad, would give any child-protective-service worker pause, and he had hit Del recently and left bruises. Her friends had already testified to that. The current violence against Del suggested Talon’s psychological problems were not limited to his adolescent years. Still, it wasn’t enough for me to feel certain authorities would place Khila with her grandmother, even temporarily. The worst thing I could do was act too quickly and without convincing evidence, because then I would lose credibility and put Talon on the alert. If I wanted to help Khila longer-term, I had to suffer her obvious distress for now.

  Pascale returned with the pajamas and shirt in hand. “Khila is wondering,” Pascale said, “if she can stay with me while you pack.” Khila was behind Pascale, again with her eyes on me.

  Talon said, “No.”

  Khila started to cry.

  Talon quickly took the clothes, stood up, and began toward the door, expecting Khila to follow him. When she didn’t, he stopped and turned around slowly, looking at her questioningly. She crossed the room to him. “That’s more like it,” he said to her, guiding her out the door in front of him. He looked back at Pascale and said, “I’m not gonna let her see you if you’re gonna make her cry.” Khila walked with her head down and shoulders hunched.

  Marcella looked first at me, then at Pascale, and then she rushed out of the house, as if afraid to be alone with us even for a second.

  Through the picture window, Pascale and I watched Talon head-tuck Khila into the backseat of the car and slam the door behind her.

  “I didn’t want to let her go with him,” I said.

  “I’ve been doing it for ten years,” Pascale replied.

  Ida pulled up. Upon sight of her, Talon’s demeanor shifted instantly from irritated and forceful—as he had just been with Khila—to warm and relaxed. His eyes widened with innocence, his mouth softened into a gentle smile, his shoulders dropped, his arms came in closer to his body. The transformation was startling. One would never have guessed he had been ruffled in any way only moments before. Talon and Ida appeared to exchange niceties. Ida hugged him and shook Marcella’s hand. Then she knocked on Khila’s window and waved to her inside the car. She did look twice at Khila, I think registering Khila’s upset.

  Nicole’s voice carried from the hallway. “Was that Talon?” Pascale nodded. “What the fuck was he doing here?” Nicole stopped just inside the living room and took measure. “What is that smell?” she said, as if it were a personal affront. “It’s like gardenias over death.”

  Pascale disappeared into her room.

  Nicole rolled open some windows, and then she swept up all the beer cans at once and headed for the garbage. “Pascale’s drinking again like she did when we were kids.”

  The comment surprised me. “Why, did she stop for a while?”

  “Hell yeah. Years. Del didn’t want her to drink around Khila. And Khila was always here…so.” Nicole fell into the couch and lit a cigarette. “I’m no shrink,” she said, “but I think Pascale feels really bad about what she did to Del. You remember?” I nodded. “Sometimes I think helping Del with Khila was her way of making up for all that, because she’s really different with her than she was with any of us.”

  Ida walked in. To me, she said, “Tell me he did not just bring his new girlfriend over here.”

  “New? She’s moving to Texas with him.” In response to my comment, Ida’s face twisted in a mixture of disgust and bewilderment—and pain. I had the oddest feeling she was jealous. I told myself it couldn’t be.

  “He is just out of control,” she said. I waited for her to ask about Khila’s upset, but she didn’t.

  As I righted Del’s photo, all I could think about was getting to Beasley as fast as possible. I now knew I had to convince her to hold on to Del’s body. I was afraid that once Talon took Khila to Texas, we would never get her back. If there was reason—advances in the investigation, late-surfacing evidence, something in the final toxicology report—to bring Talon back, Khila could be placed with Talon’s parents in Texas. I didn’t know anything about Talon’s parents, except that they had raised him—The Collector. Well, that, along with not wanting Khila to have to be alone with Talon and Marcella for even a day, was enough for me. Pascale did have her shortcomings, but “best interests” is a relative beast. And I was now prepared to do everything I could to help Khila stay with Pascale if she wanted to.

  My goal, desperate as it sounded, was to convince the medical examiner to hold on to Del’s body long enough to find proof Talon had killed her. If I could produce enough evidence to have Talon become the focus of a murder investigation, then Khila—who was ten years old—could request to stay with the grandmother who had raised her.

  Chapter Eleven

&
nbsp; Now on a mission, my first stop was Dirk Beasley’s office.

  The Miami morgue was a huge complex, first occupied by the current chief medical examiner sometime in the 1980s. Frequented by students and experts from around the world, it was a fully operative forensic training facility, with crime-lab services in forensic pathology, toxicology, serology, entomology, and botany. They did fingerprints, DNA testing, firearms examination, and a host of other forensic-science services on the premises. When I realized this, I understood how they had produced Del’s preliminary autopsy report so quickly. In San Francisco, it usually took weeks to months. However, it also suggested the people conducting the examination and producing the report may have been students overseen by one of the more experienced medical examiners. Maybe they’d missed something.

  The building we entered had an open, relaxed feel to it, more like a college campus than a death-processing factory. The morgue itself was on the first floor, accessible through glass doors that led to a waiting room decorated in pastels and furnished with soft chairs and wall art. I checked the directory of names and found Beasely’s office number. The area where the examination rooms were located was highly secure, nearly impossible to access without authority, but the administrative offices were on a separate wing. One lone receptionist’s desk stood between us and them. I was about to approach the receptionist and ask for Beasley, hoping Beasley would agree to see us, when the receptionist took a call and then disappeared.

  We quickly passed her desk and made our way down a long corridor until we came upon Beasley’s door. Just then, the door opened and a tall, square woman in a white lab coat came out. She had short salt-and-pepper hair, was maybe in her mid-fifties, and wore thick-framed glasses and no makeup except for a touch of lipstick. I knew immediately she was gay.

  “Dr. Beasley?” She stopped, nodded. “I’m Jenna Ross. I’m here with Adeline Soto’s sisters. We were hoping we could talk to you.”

  Shaking her head, she said, “I already told you that it wouldn’t be possible today.”

  “Well, I know, but I need to talk to you. I thought if we just came over you could give us a few minutes.”

  Walking quickly in the other direction, she tossed over her shoulder, “I don’t have a few minutes right now. I’m already running behind. The preliminary report is done—I’ve made my findings. If you’d like me to explain them to you further, you’ll have to make an appointment.” She strutted off in brown saddle shoes with toe and heel playing the terrazzo floor like a queer incarnation of clog dancing.

  “Dr. Beasley.” It just came out. “She was my first love. In high school. We were lovers in high school.”

  Beasley stopped, turned, and fixed her sight on me.

  Her clenched brow and tight lips suggested she was grappling with the implications of what I had just revealed. She nodded her head slightly, and her expression softened to sadness. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Ida and Nicole looked shocked. I realized they were hearing me say this for the very first time. I had never actually told them Del and I had been lovers. No doubt they assumed it. Nicole had seen us kiss once, made Del do her chores for a week under threat of telling. But I had never talked with Del’s sisters about us.

  Beasley ushered us into her office, which was small for four people. There was a bookshelf on one wall, a large desk, and a couple of chairs. Beasley went behind her desk. I stood across from her. Nicole and Ida were shoulder to shoulder behind me.

  She began, “I’m sorry for your loss.” I looked at Ida and Nicole before I realized she was talking to me. “I’m not sure what else I can tell you.”

  “We have reason to believe that there’s more to this death, that it might not have been by natural causes.”

  Nicole seemed surprised and relieved to hear me say I thought Talon might have killed Del. She stepped in closer to my side and rested her hands on her hips, emphasizing her chiseled biceps. Ida stepped back to the wall, her expression impassive. Lipstick redder than her hair and dark, bowed eyebrows made her appear both silly and sad—like a Pierrot clown.

  Beasley was immediately unimpressed, maybe even irritated. “Based on what?”

  “Based on what we know about the marriage Del was in, about the man she was married to.”

  Nicole said, “He beat her. We saw bruises. He has an insurance policy on her. That should tell you everything you need to know right there.” She was stepping side to side, grimacing, and clenching her fists. As she talked, she became increasingly amped. “And he’s got a girlfriend. He brought her over today. She smelled like gardenias over death.”

  I planted my hand firmly on Nicole’s shoulder and left it there, hoping it would help her to be quiet. Every time she started to speak, I squeezed and she halted. If I knew her symptoms were from antipsychotic medications, Beasley would definitely know. We needed Beasley to believe us, and we had no margin for error. My primary goal was to convince Beasley to hold the body and stop Talon from going to Texas with Khila for as long as possible. But something else took hold that surprised me about myself in that moment. I placed such a high premium on being rational, yet I wanted this person and the institution she represented to care about Del and about what had happened to her. It was the friggin’ Miami morgue. They processed 2,500 bodies a year, 50 bodies a week, 7 bodies a day. But suddenly, I couldn’t help it. I wanted Beasley to give a damn about Del. I wanted anyone who touched Del’s body to care about her.

  “Del called the police on Talon four times in the last year alone for domestic violence,” I said.

  “I’m aware of those reports. The police reports were part of why we expedited the autopsy. Not only was this a drowning,” she said, “there was a disturbing history.” Beasley avoided eye contact, giving me the feeling she was saying only a little bit of what she knew. I wondered if she was thinking then about his juvenile history. She gently added, “A lot of men beat their wives. It doesn’t mean he killed her. Del had no new injuries that could be associated with her death.”

  New? The word floated like a zeppelin between us. “She was thirty-one years old, and she had a heart attack? You’re satisfied with that?”

  “You should listen to her,” Nicole said, swinging a thumb in my direction. “She’s a—”

  Extra hard squeeze and a threatening glare on top of it. I didn’t want Beasley to know I was a commissioner because it would make her far less likely to relate informally with me. And it would make it much harder for me to interact with her without it seeming like I was using my position to influence the outcome of the investigation.

  Nicole took hold of the strap of her leather purse and began pinching and rolling it between her thumb and index finger, which helped to pacify her.

  More patiently than perhaps I deserved, Beasley said, “Your friend did not die in a struggle. She had no bruises to suggest there had been any kind of assault connected with her death. Not conclusive until the final toxicology report is in, but basic blood analysis suggests no drugs except for tobacco—and laxatives. She weighed ninety-eight pounds—I’m guessing the laxatives she was consuming in large doses had something to do with that. And by the condition of her lungs and the percentage of COHb in her blood at the time of her death, I’m guessing she was a heavy smoker and had smoked probably a pack or more before she dove that morning. Not a good combination—smoking and diving. We try to tell people that, but we still get these kinds of deaths more often than you’d believe.”

  I felt appreciative of Beasley, because it was evident that, busy as she was, she had Del’s details clearly in mind. I stopped myself from repeating what Doug had explained to me about the tenuous connection between smoking and diving; I didn’t want her to feel second-guessed by another expert. I couldn’t say anything about whether Del had died on the reef, since our only point of contact for that information at the moment was a heroin addict.

  “The weight belt.” I landed on it like a stone I had leaped to in crossing some great gap. “Del was an experienc
ed diver. If she was drowning, she would have dropped the weight belt.”

  She pressed her lips together and raised her brows acknowledging I was right. Then she said, “We considered that.” Palms up, Beasley added, “She probably panicked. There is enough here to easily explain this death. I’m sorry for your loss, but…”

  “Please give us a little more time,” I said. “Another day or two before you close the investigation and release the body to be buried.” I was in the strange position for the first time in a while of making a plea rather than receiving one.

  “I’m not going to hold the body longer than the usual forty-eight hours without a very good reason and,” Beasley said with some care, “I haven’t heard one yet. The autopsy is done, the preliminary report is written. It’s been released to the family. Her husband wants her body released. He has control in these matters.” She held the door open for us to leave.

  “Just give me until Saturday.” I walked backward; Beasley was walking at a quick pace toward me on her way down the hall. She passed me and I followed her. “Friday,” I bargained to her back. “Give me two days. Friday.”

  From behind me someone yelled, “Look!” It was Nicole. “My sister never got a single break in her entire life. Can she just have a few more days in the fucking morgue?”

  Beasley stopped and turned, her expression one of annoyance. “She was scheduled to go this afternoon.”

  “I know. Please.” I held her gaze, forced her to tell me no again to my face.

  She shook her head and looked at me curiously, as if to ask why this mattered so much.

  “If you release Del’s body, he’ll cremate her and then leave with their daughter for Texas. Once Khila goes, I’m afraid we won’t be able to get her back. If we’re right about him…If he murdered this child’s mother…” I stared at her, overwhelmed by the implications and unable to complete the thought. “Give us a few more days.”