“What does he say when he calls?” Michael asked.
She put the teacup and saucer that had been clattering softly in her trembling hand onto the trunk that served as a coffee table. “The last time he called, he—”
“When was that?”
She had to stop and count backward. “Saturday night.”
“Wait, if this was the last time, then he’d done it before? I mean since Tracy?” Billie asked.
Veronica nodded. “The time before that—a few nights after I saw you—he said creepy things like ‘I want what you have.’ And I slammed down the phone. By Saturday, I’d had it, you understand? She didn’t love him! Why act as if I—I screamed at him this time. He said something like that again, or maybe he wanted what Tracy had—I can’t remember, honestly, he wanted proof, I don’t know of what. It felt dirty, disgusting, like he wanted me, and I blew up. I told him I knew who he was and I was sick and tired of this and that I’d told people about him and he was going to jail.”
“What time Saturday?” Billie had been with him for an hour, maybe two, that evening at the bar.
Veronica shook her head. “After dark.”
“That’s so early. Can you get any more precise?”
“I don’t know. I was feeling so bad. But maybe eight o’clock. Not late. Because afterwards I left for my sister’s. He scared me.”
Before Billie had hooked up with him at the bar. But she remembered him coming out of the back. The men’s room or the phone, she’d thought then.
“Did you call him ‘Robby’?” Michael asked. “Use his name? Did he respond to it?”
Veronica reached for the teacup, changed her mind and sat, hands clasped. Finally, she shook her head. “I don’t think so. I hate his name. It’s like a baby’s. Cute, and he isn’t. I’d remember if I’d said it because it’s so stupid it hurts to say it!”
Billie watched Michael’s subtle change of expression. He’d had hopes, she thought, of a solid witness in Veronica, but now he was dropping that idea. “Why would he do that?” Michael asked quietly, and indicated what “that” meant with a wave of his hand out toward the field. “What sense does it make?”
“He’s the one who doesn’t make sense. He’s crazy. I told you, didn’t I?” she said to Billie, who nodded. “He’d do it because”—she blinked furiously and when she spoke her voice sounded constricted and painful—“it hurts me more than anything could, except Tracy…”
“What about this?” Michael asked, gesturing to the trashed room.
She shook her head. Her expression was bleak. She’d lost so much, so quickly, Billie thought, and all she was seeing was the absence of what mattered. “The proof? He thought the proof—whatever that is—would be here? I hope they bit the hell out of him,” she said in a drained voice. “Butted him and kicked him and I hope…maybe he’ll be marked up. Evidence.”
Billie nodded, but a man with a gun eliminates the need for close contact. The killer was probably mark-free. Except for their blood, she thought, and shuddered. “Do you have a place to stay?” Billie asked. “Do you feel as if you can drive? Can I call someone to pick you up?”
“It must have been because I wasn’t here,” Veronica said slowly. “So he killed them. It must have been that.”
“Yes. I’m trying to say—”
Veronica nodded. “A friend I can…I’ll call…she’ll come. She has three sons and a husband. They can…they’ll come with me when I have to come back. Until…”
“Yes,” Billie said. “Until we’re sure this is settled.”
Veronica’s features seemed to congeal, pull in on themselves.
“He has to be locked up,” she said in a voice from deep within herself. “Forever.”
They made the phone calls, then stayed with her until first her neighbors, and then the police arrived.
By the time they were back in the burgundy Porsche, Billie was numb with exhaustion. “I hope you have more energy than I do,” she said. “Or this is going to be one slow ride. I can barely breathe, I’m so tired. But—I hope this isn’t too personal—but I have to say how impressed I am with how you were with her.”
He looked startled before he thanked her. They drove in silence.
She was struck by how lonely and isolated the landscape now looked. How vulnerable a solitary woman in a house out here must be. It had seemed so different on the ride out, so filled with peace. She hoped it hadn’t changed permanently for Veronica, who deserved something strong and reliable left in her life.
Michael broke the silence. “It doesn’t make sense, does it? Why would Robby Lester do that? I wonder if this is related to Tracy at all.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because however sad it makes us, Gavin probably killed Tracy. Probably by accident, and we’ll try to soften it up every way we can, but that’s the likelihood. And he’s locked up now and couldn’t have done this. That’s one. But more important, Veronica’s admittedly an animal-rights advocate. She isn’t part of the lunatic fringe, isn’t one of the bombers, but she’s out there, very public, picketing and protesting and holding petitions, and maybe it’s hurting somebody’s business.”
“A pretty extreme response, don’t you think? Unless we’re talking about an insane person.”
“We’re talking, in any case, about a person with a great deal at stake. Most likely, money. So all I’m saying is maybe the animals weren’t killed out of malicious spite because she was away. Maybe the animals were the signal, the connection, the point.”
“X marks the spot?”
“X for an illiterate signature. Their mark?” He sighed again. “Maybe it’s kids. Sicko kids, but a random, meaningless, horrible act. It happens.”
“That’s the least bearable idea of all.” She noticed the time on the dashboard clock. “My God,” she said. “I thought hours had passed. Didn’t it feel like forever?”
He nodded. “But it is, in fact, still early. And I for one could use another drink. Or five. What a night! The tea was nice, but not enough. How about you? Care to join me?”
She looked at her watch, then remembered that she’d already seen the dashboard clock.
“I hope this doesn’t show too gross an insensitivity on my part, or at least on my stomach’s part,” he said. “But I am also hungry. Besides, I’d…I’d like to get to know you more.”
She was so upset and bone-weary, was it possible to be interested in the proposition, if it was one?
It was. The life force, one of her friends had labeled all such astounding impulses. The label reduced guilt by 90 percent.
“A quick meal,” he said. “A drink. Absolutely no talk about Tracy or work or tonight, either.”
“I really want to. Truly,” she said. “But I can’t.”
“Oh, come on. It’s early, we’re single, we’re adults. And even if it was late, if you come in later tomorrow, does anybody care? You’re paid by the hour.”
“It isn’t that. It’s my baby-sitter. I told her I’d be back by…”
She never finished the sentence because it didn’t matter to Michael Specht what time she’d said she’d be back. His features had realigned at the sound of “babysitter.” “I didn’t know you had a child,” he said in a new, politely sociable voice, as if they’d just met at a massive cocktail party. “Or is it children? How old? A girl, a boy? Both?”
“One boy. Jesse. Three and a half. I am that modern classic figure, a single parent.”
“Ah,” he said. “Well…”
“Normally, there’s no problem. A college student lives with us, and he’s terrific, but he has the flu, so I have a substitute and…” Michael was not interested in her domestic logistics. In fact, in an amazing instance of vaporization, he was no longer interested in her.
She hadn’t known that the mere mention of a child could drive a grown man into hiding.
“A pity,” Michael said. “But if you can’t stave off starvation along with me, you can’t. I’m sorry.”
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No protest, no alternate plan. She knew about take-out, including exquisitely prepared take-out, but apparently he had forgotten it.
And there she’d been, worrying about what the lawyer’s interest meant, and whether it would be ethical or wise to date her employer, and she could have skipped the dithering because all along she was carrying a piece of baggage named Jesse that was a guaranteed Michael Specht repellent.
She wanted to say something, to tell him about life and priorities and values along with stupidities and blind spots and polished surfaces. She wanted to tell him that complicated didn’t mean bad.
But she couldn’t and didn’t. Instead, she accepted the exchange for what it was: another goddamn learning experience. What she could never accept or understand was why they were never fun.
Twenty-Four
“Three,” Billie said. “Shot. Hacked. Horrible.”
Emma was speechless. Killing llamas. If ever animals looked innocuous, invented, like something out of Doctor Doolittle. Why? Surely not because of anything they were capable of doing. They weren’t eating or destroying another rancher’s crop or livestock. All they did was stand around, growing wool. Where was the harm in that?
“Do you see any link with Tracy Lester’s death?” Billie asked.
“There’s no logic I can think of,” she finally said. “Which usually turns out to mean there’s no logic, period. Not helpful, I know.”
“It really bothered Michael. Well, just seeing those animals was enough to upset anybody, permanently.”
Michael. Was Emma hearing the sound of something going on?
“The fact that she’s still getting phone calls is bothersome. Seems to open different possibilities.”
“What if they’re two separate sets of phone calls, given that until Tracy died, Veronica never actually heard the caller’s voice. She’s assuming the conversations she overheard were the same caller, but what is there to support that idea? And how does all this affect us? What does Michael want now?” And what was it Michael had wanted last night that propelled him to drive to Veronica’s ranch with the investigator he was paying to do just that? Not that Emma cared as long as it didn’t interfere with the relationship she’d built up with the lawyer.
“More of the same,” Billie said. “Widen the scope, see if we can find out about the calls, see if it could help Gavin’s case. He wants me to talk to Gavin’s mother, hope she says something this time that pushes us somewhere. I gather that despite her frantic phone calls and threats that Michael had better do something, she herself has offered amazingly little. I don’t mean holding back, just having nothing to put on the table, as if her son was a…I don’t know…pet. She made sure he had food and shelter, but she didn’t even think to ask who his friends were, or how he spent his days.”
“And you think you can miraculously make her think of things she doesn’t know?” Emma asked. “Waste of time. She bought the lawyer for her son and that’s about it. Gavin’s sole job is not to bother her, and he screwed that up. Does not sound promising, but go ahead. It’s her dime, and our income, after all.”
Billie looked sadder still.
“Dress up. Look rich. Like you’re playing at this business. I’m sure she’s a gold-plated, small-minded snob, so pander to her. Let her think you’re on her wavelength, and maybe something will come up. Although why she wouldn’t have said it to the lawyer she hired to defend her son, I surely can’t say.”
Now Billie looked not only mournful but anxious. Emma knew the girl could do it—she was a goddamn trained actress, for crying out loud. And Emma hated stroking employees’ egos, had a policy against it born out of experience. You did it once, twice and suddenly, they were Sam Spade demanding raises and then, having gotten them, they left to open their own agencies.
But this one required praise and bucking up the way normal people required oxygen. “You nervous about this?” Emma asked. Billie didn’t say; she looked preoccupied.
“Don’t be. You’ll be…” Damn, she hated to insist on future terrificness when who really knew? Praise inflation cheapened the whole thing. “…great,” she reluctantly said. “Go be Grace Kelly. Or was she too long before your time?”
“I know who Grace Kelly was,” Billie said. “I studied history.” Touché.
“And thanks for the vote of confidence. But to be honest, I wasn’t—I’m not nervous.”
She had the unmitigated gall to smile. To look amused. She gave Emma heartburn.
“I was momentarily overwhelmed by how sad Gavin’s life really has been,” Billie said. “Privileged in every way except the most basic ones, and in those ways, really deprived. Like a kid in those English novels, the rich little orphan whose parents live in one of the far colonial outposts. Plus, I think he’s smart enough to know he isn’t smart enough. That has to be the worst, like being a prisoner of yourself in some way.”
Emma waved away her words. There was no point in going wobbly and sentimental over each sad person along the way because there were too damn many of them and nothing to be done about it. You’d just break your own heart and join their ranks. “How about the housekeeper?” she asked.
The girl looked baffled, as if Emma had been speaking in tongues.
“The housekeeper. Gavin’s.”
“How about her?”
“She knows a hell of a lot more about Gavin than his mother ever did. Are you going to talk to her?”
“I…sure, I…”
Never thought of it. Typical. “The people nobody thinks about,” Emma said. “You know: attendants and newspaper vendors and floor-washers, they notice a hell of a lot because nobody’s noticing them.” She had surely told Billie this simple, basic truth before. And not only one time. Surely.
“Of course. I was going to…his mother, the housekeeper. And I’m trying to get the names of the people in those animal activist groups. A lot of the groups Gavin was involved with were for one purpose and they dissolved afterwards, but those people move on, so I think I can find some who knew—know him.”
“Don’t wear the same clothing as you do for Zandra Riddock. For the housekeeper, I mean. She’s probably keeping secrets, and not sure which secrets to keep—probably trying to protect Gavin. Or herself. Somebody. So don’t look threatening.”
“Well…sure.”
Emma couldn’t read the tone. She’d insulted the girl’s intelligence, was that it? Screw that. Look how dense she’d been about the housekeeper. How was a person supposed to know which basic truth came naturally into that head and which had to be pounded in? “Keep track of whatever’s going on with the llama lady. She going to be okay?”
Billie looked surprised. All but fell to the floor with shock that Emma could worry about somebody. “I think so,” Billie said after a moment’s hesitation. “Even last night, she was able to think of what to do. After the initial shock, she was…I think she’s going to regroup and be fine.”
“Okay, then,” Emma said. “You’ve got your work cut out. A whole lot of people to find, looks like.”
Billie nodded. “And if you…if you feel like…any of those people…you know, just…” Billie’s voice drifted into the ionosphere.
What was it with the girl? One minute she had it all together, and the next, nothing. Zero, blank. They were paid by the hour, for God’s sake, and time-wasting and dithering cost money. “What?” Emma snapped.
Billie swallowed. “About that long list of people. I mean…if you wanted to interview any of them, that is, of course. Not that you have to—I mean, I’m fine with it, but—”
“I’ll let you know.”
Two seconds after Billie swept out, Emma heard muffled laughter in the outer office. Zack, too.
She didn’t know what so amused them and did not care. She returned to the month’s reports that Zack had handed her that morning, sighed over the bottom line and wondered again what the future of her profession would be when anyone could search for people on-line, or pay an information broker
who would simply check a few databases. She wasn’t sure how she—and all her professional brothers and sisters—would survive. Working for lawyers was fine, but it didn’t pay well. And meanwhile, she annoyed herself by going around in mental circles this way. Her form of dithering, she had to admit.
Which brought her back to Billie. Sometimes she wondered if she should just lay it all out for the girl. A reality check. After all, the girl was counting on making enough at this to live a decent life and raise a child, and Emma wasn’t sure that was going to be possible. She’d hinted at it, grumbled about it, but couldn’t bring herself to say it outright. George said she was being superstitious, acting as if saying the words made it so.
She yawned. She needed fresh air. The old building’s heating system was creaky and out of her control, and whatever she was breathing right now smelled stale and slightly burned.
She needed to check fictitious name records at the Civic Center for a client considering a partnership. So far, his would-be business partner had been fine, but she needed to check his supposed past business deals. Might as well do it now and breathe fresh air in the bargain. She’d grab a few minutes by the lagoon first.
“Back soon,” she told Zachary, who was no longer laughing with Billie at Emma’s expense; she was sure she had somehow been the butt of their humor.
He nodded. “By the way, that Heather Wilson girl called again,” he said.
Emma paused, with her hand on the doorknob. “She thinks it’s like a TV show, all tightly wound up within an hour. And so far, I have nothing—less than nothing. I have lies and more lies.”
“Lies are something,” Zachary murmured.
Emma thought about that en route and even as she settled onto a bench at the lagoon. This was her favorite part of the Civic Center. No matter how many children raced wildly around, how many mothers or nannies called for them, how many lost-looking souls sat on other benches, Emma felt the world slide off her shoulders.
She was glad she’d brought the anorak. Not many people here today for a reason, and she had to admit she was less than comfortable, bundled as she was.
Whatever Doesn't Kill You (An Emma Howe and Billie August Mystery Book 2) Page 18
