"No, thanks."
"You sure? I really think you should be there, Gage."
Gage looked up. There was something in Jimmy's tone that suggested this was about more than poker. "Are you saying I might learn something?"
"There's always plenty to learn, friend. They might not have that much to teach you about poker, but they might have plenty to teach you about Barnacle Bluffs."
"I see."
"All I'll say is this girl, she wasn't anybody in my circles, know what I'm saying? I'm not even saying I know what circle she was in, but whatever you learn from these folks, it can't hurt. Interested now?"
"Maybe."
"Okay, go to the front counter at nine o'clock on Wednesday and say you're there for Mr. Moore's chess club. They'll direct you to a room. It's different each week. Say you heard about the game from Harry Malaki. He moved to Phoenix last April, but he had a heart attack a month ago, so nobody would be able to check. I'm going to throw a bit of a hissy fit, because I'm going to ask how the hell you found out about it, and then I'm going to tell them you played a pretty good game at the casino."
"Wouldn't it be better if they thought I was a sucker?"
Jimmy shook his head. "Nah. Not these guys. They're going to take it as a challenge. It's just important that they think we hate each other."
"Ah."
"So in about thirty seconds, I'm going to curse at you out and storm out."
"Is that really necessary?"
Jimmy smiled wryly. "You don't know these guys, Gage. Not only are they good, they're some of the most powerful people in town."
"Some of the most powerful people in Barnacle Bluffs, huh? That's really saying something."
"Hey," Jimmy said, "this may not be New York, but don't underestimate these guys. It's a good bet that most of them know exactly who you are, and exactly what you're up to. And that's what I'm offering you—the chance to get inside that circle." He smiled. "And a hefty cut of your winnings, of course."
"Of course."
Jimmy shot a glance at the waitress, then over his shoulder. The waitress was wiping down one of the glass cases. A casino worker pushed a hand-powered vacuum past, and an elderly couple shuffled behind her.
"I told you," Jimmy cried, "the answer is no! And that's final!"
He stormed out, playing his part well enough that Gage actually felt a flash of adrenaline even though he'd been expecting it. His little act also elicited the expected reactions from the people around—lots of staring while trying to look like they weren't staring.
After appearing to stew in his own anger for a moment, Gage got up abruptly and stormed out himself. He didn't know if Jimmy's poker game would lead anywhere, but he hoped it did—and only partly because he might learn something to find out who killed Abby Heddle.
The other part was because he was enjoying himself, and he hadn't enjoyed himself in a long time.
Chapter 13
It was nearly midnight when Gage called Percy Quinn at home—looking up his number in the gas station phone book—but he didn't want to wait another day. A semi rumbling out of the station coughed up a cloud of diesel. Quinn, his voice froggy, put up quite a fuss when Gage told him the terms for the names of the girl's parents—namely, that Gage be present when they were questioned—but there was more relief in Quinn's voice than irritation. When Gage called him back an hour later, just as they'd agreed, there was even more relief in Quinn's voice than before.
Quinn told him John and Becky Larson were indeed Abigail Heddle's parents. They'd been devastated to learn about her death but not all that surprised, since she'd run away at seventeen and they hadn't heard from her since. They'd booked an early bird flight to Portland and planned to be in the police station at two, Tuesday afternoon. They wanted to bring Abby home for burial in Santa Fe, but they'd agreed to answer questions. They didn't even ask for a lawyer.
A quarter after two the next day, after checking on Mattie and finding she was no worse but no better, Gage found himself tapping his fingers on the wide walnut table at the station and watching the leafless maple saplings swaying in the breeze. The sun had burned off the last of the morning fog, and the shadows from the blinds striped the table with horizontal bars. Irritated at waiting, he was about to get up when Quinn entered, accompanied by a rumpled middle-aged man with only a scattering of gray hair, liver-spotted cheeks, and deep bags under his eyes.
"Gage," Quinn said, "this is Detective Brisbane. He's the lead on this case, along with Detective Trenton. You want coffee? Alice should have gotten you—"
"Where are they?" Gage said.
"Coming back from the morgue with Trenton, I imagine. Should be here any minute. We had to get that formality out of the way."
Gage was sitting in the corner, facing the door. Quinn took a seat on the same side farther down. Brisbane sat next to him. He'd walked in wearing the facial expression of someone who had just eaten something sour and it hadn't changed.
"So you're the guy going around stirring up trouble," Brisbane said.
"Excuse me?" Gage said.
"Easy now," Quinn said. "We're all friends here."
"What do you mean, stirring up trouble?" Gage said. "All I'm doing is inviting folks to the policemen's ball. Having a hard time, though, because people heard how Brisbane got drunk last year and sang Moon River in his underwear."
Brisbane's sourpuss face remained, but a hint of red crept into his cheeks. The door opened and a lanky redhead, so tall he actually had to duck under the doorframe, entered. His gray trench coat was six inches too short. Right behind him was a man and a woman, practically midgets in comparison. The man was mildly overweight; she was morbidly obese. The man wore a blue suit and red tie that looked like they'd been driven over in the parking lot. Her gray wool sweater was big enough to cover a boat, and her makeup was so thick he wondered if she'd applied it with a trowel. Her eyeliner was badly smeared. Her long auburn hair was remarkably pretty, and would have been the first thing Gage would have noticed had she not been so large.
Introductions were made, hands were shook. When they were seated, it was the woman, Becky, who spoke first.
"So you're the one who found her?" she said to Gage. There was a quaver in her voice.
"That's right," Gage said.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
She tried speaking, got choked up, and slumped her head. John glanced at his wife only briefly, but there was a look of such disdain that it actually startled Gage. Sometimes he could tell a lot about how people felt about each other from a single look.
She started crying. Since no one moved, Gage offered her the handkerchief from his jacket, which she accepted.
"What do we have to do to take her home?" John said. He didn't sound like a man who'd just lost his daughter. He sounded like a man who'd bailed his daughter out of jail too many times.
"Well," Quinn said, folding his hands on his table, "first off, now that you've ID'd her and we know there's no mistake, I just want to say how sorry we are for—"
"When can we take her home?" John repeated.
"We're going to make it as easy for you as possible, but you know that she is part of a murder investi—"
"Murder?" Becky said. She dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief. "You didn't say anything about murder on the—"
"I'll handle this, dear," John said. He looked at Quinn. "You made us a promise, Chief Quinn. You said we could take our daughter home if we cooperated."
"And you will," Quinn said. "I'm just not exactly sure about the timing. Most likely it'll be in the next day or two."
John banged his fist on the table. "This is insufferable! We can't just hang around this podunk town. Abigail wasn't murdered. Why would anyone murder her? She tried to kill herself three times when she was living with us, and this time she managed to do it right."
Though he'd raised his voice, his facial expression never changed, giving Gage the impression it was all an elaborate charade. It
was the tall Trenton who answered.
"I understand your frustration," he said, in the soothing tone of a practiced psychologist. "You've had a long day. We're just trying to make sure things are done right, that's all."
"What would be right," John said, "would be to let us take Abigail home."
"Wait a minute," Becky said, sniffling, "when you say murder . . . We're not suspects, are we?"
"Don't be ridiculous," John snapped. "They don't think . . ." He trailed off, looking at their faces. "No, really? You can't honestly think something so stupid!"
"Hold on now," Quinn said. "Nobody said you're suspects."
"We were a thousand miles away!"
"I said hold on." Quinn raised his voice. "Let's not make this an unfriendly conversation. You have a lot of information that might help, that's all. You're not suspects."
"Well," John said, "when you go around pointing the finger—"
"We're not pointing the finger at anybody. That's just it. We don't have anybody to point the finger at. No suspects, no motives. But she had some bruises and lacerations on her wrists that make us think she was bound. It also makes us think suicide is less likely."
John shook his head. "I saw those marks a few minutes ago. The last year she was with us, she had marks like that on her wrists all the time. She was into some of this . . . this kinky stuff with her scuzzbucket boyfriends." He made a sour face.
"Bondage?" Gage said.
Everybody looked at him, like fraternity brothers who'd just noticed somebody crashing their party.
"Yeah, that's the word for it," John said.
"How many boyfriends did she have?" Gage said.
"A lot. Hundreds."
"Oh, not that many," Becky said with a nervous laugh. "John exaggerates. There were probably a dozen."
Her husband snorted. "You really weren't paying attention. She had a guy up in that bedroom of hers every night of the week, and it was always a different guy."
Becky looked teary-eyed. "Oh, John. I wish you—I wish you wouldn't."
"Wouldn't what? Tell the truth? That's what these guys are after. You don't want them to know she was a slut? Well, she was."
"John! Please."
"I don't know why you beat yourself up about it, honestly. By the time she got to us, she was damaged goods. Nothing we could do about it. I told you that at the time, but you wouldn't listen."
Becky didn't speak. Everybody looked uncomfortable. Quinn scratched his chin. Brisbane was scribbling in a little notebook he'd pulled out of his pocket.
"You said she tried to kill herself three times before," Gage said. "Can you tell us more about that?"
"You know," Brisbane said, looking up from his notebook at Gage, "this really is a police investigation. We don't mind you being here, but—"
"It's all right," Quinn said.
"But Chief—"
"It's all right," Quinn said more curtly. "I was about to ask the same question."
They looked at John and Becky. Her whole face trembled, as if all that anguish would coming pouring out at any moment, her layers of makeup crumbling like a soggy avalanche. John shrugged.
"I don't know what there is to tell," he said. "They happened in the last year she was living with us. She was never very happy. We did everything we could—bought an old Datsun pick-up, converted the attic above the garage to her bedroom so she had more privacy, gave her plenty of allowance. None of it mattered. She hated us from the first moment she lived with us, and even adopting her didn't make one damn bit of difference."
"That's not true," Becky said.
"Oh yeah? I warned you not to spoil her, that it would only make it worse, and look what happened."
"How did she try to kill herself?" Gage asked.
Brisbane shook his head. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"Maybe nothing," Gage said. "Maybe everything. Humor me."
"Humor you?" Trenton said. "What, is this some kind of game to you? These two lost their daughter. The least you could do is show a bit of sympathy."
"What, are you Dr. Phil now?" Gage said. "I don't need any cheap pop psychology, thank you very much. And I doubt that either of these two need it either."
"Watch your mouth," Trenton said.
"Or what? Or you'll pop me in the face? Go ahead. Of course, you only get one swing. I'm charitable that way. It gives my conscience a pass. After that, I'll drop you."
"Stop it, you two!" Quinn said.
"I think the Larsons just want to get this thing solved so they can get their daughter out of here," Gage said. "If you could solve it without me, I wouldn't be here."
"All right, all right," Quinn said. "Let's not start pissing on the floor to mark territory. I'd like to hear what the Larsons have to say."
John ran his hand over his wrinkled tie. "Well," he said, "the first time—"
"Maybe we should get a lawyer," Becky said.
"Don't be ridiculous. We've got nothing to hide."
"I don't like these questions."
"I don't like them either," he said. "But do you really want to drag this thing out?" He waited for her to answer, and when she didn't, he pressed on. "I didn't think so. So let's see. The first time was right after Christmas. I remember because she had all her gifts from us piled in the corner, not even touched. The second time—"
"But how did she try to do it?" Gage said.
"Okay, well, it was a bottle of Becky's antidepressants, prescription stuff. She swallowed the whole damn thing. If Becky hadn't gone up to say goodnight—"
"Do you always go up to say goodnight?" Gage asked.
Becky nodded.
"All right. How about the second time?"
"Well, let's see," John said. "She cut her wrists—"
"That was the third time," Becky said.
"Right. That was the third time. The second time she was going to jump off the bridge near our house, but a policeman talked her down. When she cut her wrists, she did it at school, in the girl's locker room, and the gym teacher found her. She didn't quite manage to cut her veins, though, so all she did was make a mess of herself."
"When she cut her wrists," Gage said, "did she do it in an area where it was likely the gym teacher would find her?"
"I guess. It was in the main showers. Why?"
"Well," Gage said, "it's hard to say for sure without knowing more about her, but many people who attempt suicide are doing it as a cry for help. They don't have any intention of going through with it. In all three of these cases, it sounds like she knew it was likely someone would find her right away."
John shook his head. "So you're saying she didn't really want to commit suicide?"
"I'm saying that's a possibility," Gage said.
"You know how many times the school called because they found some note or something she wrote where she said she wanted to off herself?"
"That would fit the pattern, too," Gage said.
"What pattern?"
"The pattern of 'crying out for help.'"
Becky teared up again. "But we did everything for her! We tried to get her help—we did! We—we took her to counseling—"
"I'm sure you did everything you could," Gage said. "Just because someone's crying out for help doesn't mean they know they're being heard."
"Just because she was crying out for help before," Brisbane interjected, "doesn't mean she wasn't serious about committing suicide here in Barnacle Bluffs."
"Exactly my point," Gage said. "We're just talking about odds here, that's all."
The woman made a gurgled sucking noise. "My girl, my little girl."
"Oh, God," John said, "she was in our lives for like three years. She wasn't your little girl."
Nobody said anything for a moment. Who could say anything after something so callous? Gage had to suppress the desire to crack the guy on the side of the head with his cane.
"I worked on a missing person case once," Gage said. "The woman's only child had been abducted. The mother h
ad been trying on a dress at Macy's, and when the woman wasn't looking the little girl crawled under the dressing room door. It was maybe twenty seconds before she noticed. When she went looking for her, the girl was gone."
"Your point?" John said.
"The girl was only two," Gage said. "By your standards, the mother shouldn't have been very attached. And yet, when they found the girl's body in a culvert, I don't think anyone doubted how much she loved her. I'd say she was pretty upset."
"That's not the same—"
"Hey, hey," Quinn said, shooting Gage an angry look, "we don't need to get into a philosophical question here about love. We're just interested in finding out how she died, okay?"
John nodded, but his placid demeanor had finally been broken. He looked like he wanted to kill Gage. It was what Gage had been hoping to see. He also wanted to accomplish something else, and he got that too: a look of gratitude from Becky Larson.
* * *
They talked for another hour and a fuller portrait of Abigail Heddle emerged. Her parents died in a car crash when she was twelve. She was tight-lipped about them, but John and Becky had learned that they were traveling hippies of sorts, selling beaded artwork and other crafts at county fairs and art shows across the country, living out of a tiny Toyota motor home. They were in Santa Fe at the time of the accident. Abby spent the next two years bouncing around foster care.
She was apparently the worst kind of problem child. She lied. She stole. She tried to get other kids into trouble. When Becky Larson turned thirty-nine, she had something of a midlife crisis. She'd never been able to have children, and at her age didn't really want to start with an infant, but she suddenly wanted to make a difference in a child's life. She didn't want any child, either. She wanted a child who needed her.
Child and Family Services had just the child for her. John tried dissuading Becky, but when he couldn't, he figured it was just a passing phase. He thought maybe having a difficult foster child would get it out of her system. It didn't. In fact, the more awful Abby treated Becky, the more resolved Becky became. In the end, despite a lot of protesting from John, they eventually adopted her.
The Gray and Guilty Sea Page 14
