by Anne Rice
I told him about the fight, about Belinda leaving, and about the letter that came five days later and why I decided to go public with the paintings right away.
“It was a moment of synchronization,” I said. “My needs and her needs became the same. I’d always wanted to show the paintings. I wasn’t kidding myself about that anymore by the time we went south. And now it was in her interest to show them, to get out the truth about her identity, because it was the only way she could stop running and hiding—and maybe forgive me for hitting her like that, for driving her off.”
Connery was studying me. The Raleigh had gone out in the ashtray. “Would you let me see the document Belinda sent you?”
“No. It’s Belinda’s and it’s not here. It’s someplace where nobody can get it. I can’t make it public because it’s hers.”
He reflected for a moment. Then he began to ask questions about all kinds of things—the bookstore where I’d first seen Belinda, the age of my mother’s house in New Orleans, about Miss Annie and the neighbors, about restaurants where we’d dined in San Francisco and down south, about what Belinda wore when we were in New Orleans, about how many suitcases she owned.
But gradually I realized he was repeating certain questions over and over—in particular about the night Belinda had left and whether or not she’d taken all her belongings, all those suitcases, and whether or not I’d heard anything, and then back to Did she pose for the photographs willingly and why had I destroyed them all.
“Look, we’ve been over and over all this,” I said. “What do you really want? Of course, I destroyed the photos, I’ve explained that. Wouldn’t you have done it if you were me?”
Connery became immediately conciliatory.
“Look, Jeremy, we appreciate your cooperation in all this,” he said. “But you see, the family is very concerned about this girl.”
“So am I.”
“Her uncle Daryl is here now. He believes that Belinda may have taken drugs on the street, that she may be deeply disturbed and not really capable of taking care of herself.”
“What did her father say about that?”
“Tell me again, you went to sleep at about seven o’clock. She was in her room until then? And the housekeeper, Miss Annie, had taken her some supper?”
I nodded. “And when I woke up, she was gone. The tape of Final Score was on the night table like I told you. And I knew she meant for me to keep it and it meant something, but I was never sure what. Maybe she was saying, ‘Show the pictures.’ That is what she said in her letter five days later—”
“And the letter.”
“—is in a vault!”
Connery glanced at the other detective. Then he looked at his watch.
“Jeremy, listen, I do appreciate your cooperation, and we’ll try not to take too much more of your time, but if you’ll excuse Berger—”
Berger got up and went to the front door, and I saw Alexander for Dan to go with him. Connery continued:
“And you’re saying, Jeremy, that Miss Annie did not see Belinda in the house.”
“Right.” I heard the front door open.
Dan had come in and gestured to Alexander. They went out. “What’s going on?” I asked.
They were standing in the hallway reading what looked like a, papers stapled together, and then Connery got up and joined Dan came back in to me. He said:
“They’ve got a perfectly legal and extremely detailed warrant for this house.”
“So let them,” I said. I stood up. “They didn’t have to get a warrant.” Dan was worried.
“With the way that thing’s worded, they could rip up the damn boards,” he said under his breath.
“Look, I’ll go upstairs with you,” I said to Connery. But he said that wasn’t necessary and he’d see to it that the men were very careful. I said, “Go on then, the attic is unlocked.”
The look on David Alexander’s face was secretive as he looked at and I frankly resented it. If I was going to pay the guy, I wanted him convey his secrets to me.
But the house was now teeming with detectives. There were two men in the living room, where G.G. and Alex were standing by somewhat awkwardly amid the dollhouse and the carousel horse and the trains and things, and I could hear them above stomping up the uncarpeted attic steps.
Connery was just coming down when I went to the foot of the stairs. Another detective had a couple of plastic sacks, and one of these had sweater in it, a sweater of Belinda’s that I had not even known was still here.
“Please don’t take that,” I said.
“But why, Jeremy?” Connery asked.
“Because it’s Belinda’s,” I said. I pushed past the man and went to see what was really going on.
They were going over everything. I heard cameras snapping in the attic, saw the silver explosion of the flash on the walls. They had found a hairbrush of hers under the brass bed, and they were taking that, too. I couldn’t watch this, people opening my closet, and turning down the bed covers.
I went back down. Connery was looking at the dollhouse. Alex was seared on the sofa, watching him calmly. G.G. stood behind Connery at the window.
“Look, Connery, this doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “I told you she was here. Why do you need evidence of that?”
The doorbell rang, and one of the detectives answered it. There were two huge shaggy brown German shepherd dogs sitting obediently in front of two uniformed policemen on the porch.
“Jeremy,” Connery said in the same friendly manner, slipping his arm around my shoulder just as Alex might do it. “Would you mind if we took the dogs through the house?”
I heard Dan mutter that it was in the fucking warrant, wasn’t it? G.G. was staring at the dogs as if they were dangerous, and Alex was just smoking his cigarette and saying nothing with a deceptively serene expression on his face.
“But what in God’s name are the dogs looking for?” I asked. “Belinda isn’t here.”
I could feel myself getting unnerved. The whole thing was getting crazy. And there was a crowd outside so large, apparently, that I could hear it. I didn’t want to look through the curtains to be sure.
I stood back watching the dogs tiptoe over the old Lionel train cars. I watched them sniffing at the French and German dolls heaped beside Alex on the couch. When they went to sniff Alex’s shoes, he only smiled, and the officer led them away immediately.
I watched in silence as they went through all the lower rooms and then up the stairs. I saw Alexander follow them up.
Another plainclothesman had come down with another plastic sack. And I saw suddenly that he had the Communion veil and wreath in it, and also Mother’s rosary and pearl-covered prayer book.
“Wait, you can’t take that,” I told Connery. “That book and rosary belonged to my mother. What are you doing? Will somebody please explain?”
Connery put his arm around me again: “We’ll take good care of everything, Jeremy.”
Then I saw that the two men coming down the hall from the kitchen had my entire photograph file from the basement below.
“But there are no pictures of her in there,” I said. “That’s old material, what’s going on?”
Connery was studying me. He hadn’t answered. Dan only watched as these things were carried out of the house and down the front steps.
Barbara came into the hall from the back kitchen and said the phone was for Connery, would he come this way?
“Dan, what the fuck are they doing?” I whispered.
Dan was obviously in a silent rage. “Look, don’t say anything more to them,” he whispered.
G.G. had gone to the window and was looking out. I stood beside him. The policeman with the Communion wreath and veil was talking to the newsmen out there. The Channel 5 truck was taping the whole thing. I felt like punching the guy. Then I saw the guy had another plastic sack too with something in it. It was Belinda’s black riding crop and her leather boots.
Connery came in from the k
itchen.
“Well, Jeremy, I went to let you know that the police in New Orleans have just completed a legal search of your mother’s house there. It was all done proper, through the courts and all, as it had to be, but I just wanted to let you know.”
He glanced at the stairs as the dogs were being led out. I saw him look at the uniformed man who was leading the animals, and then Connery went over to the man and they whispered together for a minute, as Alexander slipped past them and into the living room. Connery came back.
“Well, let’s talk a little bit more, Jeremy,” he said. But neither of us made a move to sit down. And Alex and G.G. did not move to leave. Connery glanced around, smiled at everybody. “Want to talk in private, Jeremy?”
“Not really, what more is there to say?”
“All right, Jeremy,” he said patiently. “Do you know of any reason why Belinda would not contact you at this time?”
Alexander was watching all this most attentively, but I saw that Dan was being called into the kitchen, probably for the phone.
“Well, she may not know what’s happening. She may be too far away to have heard. She may be scared of her family. And who knows? Maybe she doesn’t want to come back.”
Connery weighed this for a few seconds.
“But is there any reason why she might not know at all what’s happening, or not be able to come back?”
“I don’t follow you,” I said. Alexander closed in without a sound.
“Look, my client has been as cooperative as can be expected,” he said in a low cold voice. “Now you do not want us to get an injunction on the grounds of harassment, and that is just what—”
“And you guys,” Connery said equally politely, “do not want us to convene a grand jury and move for an immediate indictment either, do you ?”
“And on what grounds would you do that?” Alexander asked icily.
“You have nothing. The dogs did not give the signal, am I right?”
“What signal?” I asked.
Dan was now back in the living room, behind Alexander.
Alexander moistened his lips reflexively before he answered, his voice as low and steady as before.
“These dogs had Belinda’s scent before they came here,” he explained. “They got it from clothing provided by her uncle. And if Belinda had met with foul play on the premises, the dogs would have assumed a certain position over any spot where the body might have been placed. The dogs can smell death.”
“Good God! You think I killed her?” I stared at Connery. And I realized he was studying me as clinically as before.
“Now the dogs in New Orleans did not give the signal either, did they?” Alexander continued. “So you have no proof of foul play at all.”
“Oh, Christ, this is awful!” I whispered. I went to the armchair and sat down. I looked up and, without meaning to, looked right at Alex, who was sitting back on the couch just watching everything, his face a perfectly pleasant mask of his feelings. He gave me the smallest “Take it easy” gesture with his hand.
“If you tell this to the press,” I said, “it will destroy everything. It will ruin everything that I’ve done.”
“And why is that, Jeremy?” Connery asked me.
“Oh, good God, man, don’t you see?” I said. “The pictures were supposed to be a celebration. They were supposed to be wholesome and beautiful. They were a tribute to her sexuality and to the love between us and how it saved me. This girl was my muse. She woke me up from all this, damn it!” I glared at the toys. I kicked at the train on the floor as I stood up. “She brought life into this place, this very room. She wasn’t a doll, she wasn’t a cartoon character, she was a young woman, damn it.”
“That must have been very frightening, Jeremy,” Connery said softly. “No, no, it wasn’t. And if you let it out that you think I killed her, then you make it all kinky and dirty and like a thousand other aberrant stories—as if people couldn’t break the rules and love each other—without there being something ugly and violent and bad! There was nothing or violent or bad!”
I could feel Alexander studying me as intently as Connery. He was monitoring everything, but he was also nodding just a little, as if this of it was OK. I was so grateful for that little nod. I wished I could tell him, would remember to tell him.
“The exhibit was supposed to be the perfect ending and the perfect beginning!” I said. I walked past them all into the dining room. I ,szlar~
“Lieutenant,” Alexander said under his breath. “I really must ask you to leave.”
“I didn’t kill her, Lieutenant,” I said, coming towards him. “You can’t go out there and say that I did. You can’t make it ugly like that, you hear me? You can’t turn me into a freak like that.”
Connery reached into his overcoat pocket and drew out a folded copy of the exhibit catalog.
“Jeremy, look, you did paint this, didn’t you?” He showed me the riding picture—boots, crop, hat.
“Yes, but what’s that got to do with murder, for Chrissakes.” Alexander tried to intervene again. G.G. and Alex continued to watch in silence, though G.G. had slipped way back into the bay window, and I could see the fear in his eyes. No, G.G., don’t believe this!
“Well, wouldn’t you say that was pretty kinky, Jeremy?”
“Yeah, kind of, so what!” I said.
“But this, Jeremy, the title of this picture is The Artist Grieves for Belinda. That is the word you used, isn’t it, Jeremy, ‘grieves’?”
“Oh Christ.”
“Jeremy, I must warn you that you are under surveillance and that, if you try to leave San Francisco, you will be arrested on the spot.”
“Don’t make me laugh!” I said. “Just get the hell out of my house. Go out there and tell your filthy suspicions to the reporters. Tell them that an artist who loves a young girl has to kill her, that you won’t settle for anything between a man and a girl her age that was just plain wholesome and good!”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Lieutenant,” said Dan. “In fact, I wouldn’t say anything about suspected homicide to anybody until you talk to Daryl Blanchard, if I were you.”
“What’s this about now, Dan?” Connery asked patiently.
“Daryl’s heard from her?” I asked.
“Call just came in back there,” Dan said. “Daryl now has official custody of his niece and the LAPD has issued a warrant for her arrest on the grounds that she is a minor without proper supervision, leading an immoral and dissolute life.”
Connery could not hide his annoyance.
“Oh, that’s just great,” I said. “If she tries to come to me, she gets busted. You bastards, you want to put her in jail, too.”
“I mean, you and I both know, Lieutenant,” Dan said, “that if you go for that indictment, well, a warrant out for the arrest of the murdered person, it’s kind of a—”
Alexander finished the sentence: “—exculpatory,” he said.
“Right, exactly,” Dan said, “and I mean you can hardly indict a man for murder when you’re trying to arrest the—”
“I get your drift, counselor,” said Connery with a weary nod. He turned, as if he was going to take his leave, but then he looked back to me.
“Jeremy,” he said sincerely, “why don’t you just tell us what happened to the girl?”
“Jesus, man, I told you. She left that night in New Orleans. Now you tell me something—”
“That’s all, Lieutenant,” Alexander said.
“No, I want to know!” I said. “Do you really think I could do something like that to her! ....
Connery opened the catalog again. He held Artist and Model in front of me. Me slapping Belinda.
“Maybe you’d feel better, Jeremy, if you just came
clean on the whole thing.”
“Listen, you son of a bitch,” I answered. “Belinda’s alive. And she’ll come when she knows about all this, if your goddamn warrant doesn’t scare her off. Now arrest me or get the hell out of my house.”
He drew himself up, put the catalog back in his pocket and, with the same sympathetic expression he’d had all along, he said:
“Jeremy, you are suspected of foul play in connection with the disappearance of Belinda Blanchard, and I should remind you that you have the right to remain silent, the right to have an attorney present whenever you are questioned, and anything that you say may be used against you if you continue to talk.”
For the next few minutes little if anything registered, except that Connery had left, Dan and Alexander had gone into the kitchen and wanted me to follow, and that I had sunk down into the armchair again.
I looked up. Alex was gone and so was G.G., and for a moment I felt as near to panic as I ever had in my entire life.
But then G.G. appeared at the arm of the chair with a cup of coffee in his hand. He gave it to me. And I heard Alex’s clear voice from the front porch. He was talking to the reporters: “Ah, yes, we go way back together. Jeremy’s one of my oldest and dearest friends in the world. Known him since he was a boy in New Orleans. One of the nicest men I’ve ever known.”
I got up and went to the back office and cut off the answering machine to put in a new message.
“This is Jeremy Walker. Belinda, if you are calling, honey, let me tell you that I love you, and you are in danger. There is a warrant out for your arrest, and my house is being watched. This line may be tapped. Stay on, honey, but be careful. I’ll recognize your voice.”
BY eleven Tuesday evening every TV station in the country was flashing her picture. And warrants had been issued for her in New York and Texas as well as California. A big beautiful photo taken of her at the press conference in Cannes was on the front page of the evening papers from New York to San Diego. And Uncle Daryl had even offered a $50,000 reward for any information leading directly to her arrest.
