Jo drew a deep breath, closed the lid, and slid the box into her shirt. She walked past Becca toward a partitioned kitchen area. “My family made their fortune in the meat and railroad industries, dating back to the Civil War.”
Becca heard the formality in her tone, a note absent in Jo’s voice since their earliest meetings. She figured the shock of the break-in and destruction below merited a little shielding.
“As you’ve probably gathered, my work is largely self-funded.” The sound of liquid splashing into a glass came from the kitchen. “At least the dead of the world appreciate how I’m investing my trust.”
“Has it made it harder for you to connect with people, being wealthy?” Becca felt a pang of sympathy at Jo’s defensiveness; she seemed almost ashamed to have Becca learn of her wealth. Prosperity might have erected as many barriers in this solitary scientist’s life as it had opened doors. “Money can do that. Folks can be weird about it. I wonder if that made things even more lonely for you sometimes, while you were growing up.”
Jo stepped around the partition, holding a shot glass filled with bourbon. Her stance was uncertain now. “With one exception, the few friends I had were more like paid staff. It was impossible to tell if their liking for me was genuine.”
Jo had just revealed immensely personal information, and it mattered to Becca a great deal, but she couldn’t lift her gaze from the drink in Jo’s hand. She felt her stomach roil with renewed tension, remembering the scene of violent destruction below them. She was suddenly terribly thirsty.
“Becca. I’m sorry.” Jo sounded dismayed, and she set the glass down on a bookshelf. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“Will you relax, please?” Becca was glad her tone was casual, because she was astounded by a craving that had never plagued her before. Alcohol had never been her drug, damn it. But now Jo was the one needing reassurance, for once, and she found herself wanting very much to offer that. She walked to her carefully, as if not wanting to startle a wary panther. “Just being in the presence of booze isn’t going to hurt me. And all your being rich means to me is you’re buying our damn lattes in the morning from now on. I’m on a social worker’s salary, for heaven’s sake.”
Becca had reached Jo, and she did what came naturally — she slid her arms around her waist and looked up into her eyes. “I was fond of you before I knew you were rich, amiga. I like you because you’re crazy smart and interesting and you hang out with the cool kids, like Xena and the Lady of the Rock.” She rested her head on Jo’s shoulder. “You’ve earned my liking, Jo. It’s all you.”
The side of Becca’s face fit perfectly against the firm swell of Jo’s shoulder. There was obvious physical power in the long lines of Jo’s body, but she slid her arms around Becca carefully, as if she might break. Becca smiled into the white linen of her shirt.
“It’s all you, too,” Jo whispered.
Becca heard a faint, far-off whine of sirens, and she lifted her head reluctantly. “I think the cavalry is here.”
“Yes.” Jo’s face was inches from her own.
They stood together until the bell down at the front gate sounded a chime in Jo’s quarters.
“It doesn’t look like anything’s stolen, right? Just wrecked.” The cop’s uniform badge identified him as N. Simmons. “You’re sure you don’t know anyone who might have done this, Dr. Call? No enemies, no one with a grudge against you?”
“No one, as I’ve said.” Jo found this interview interminable. The two officers, Simmons and a black woman about Becca’s age, were meticulous and thorough. They moved slowly around the shattered space of Jo’s office, taking copious notes.
“It’s good you didn’t touch anything.” N. Simmons had now said this three times, as if he needed their repeated assurance. “We’ll get some techs in here to try to lift some prints. We’ll need you to come down and have yours taken, Dr. Call, for elimination purposes.”
“My prints are on file.” Jo took her ID back from him, trying to suppress her impatience. “I’ve gone through security clearances to access government research.”
“Very good. And we’ll need contact info from you, Miss. Uh, Becca.” Simmons turned Becca’s driver’s license over and peered at it. “Miss Healy.”
“Becca Healy?” The other officer turned to her, her eyebrows lifting. “You’re Rebecca Healy?”
Jo thought Becca had introduced herself quite thoroughly when the officers came into the room, but her name seemed to register with the woman — P. Emerson, by badge — for the first time. She studied Becca with keen interest, as if taking her measure all over again.
“Right, I’m Rebecca Healy,” Becca affirmed politely.
“You’re Madelyn Healy’s daughter?”
“Right.” Becca looked at Jo with muted dread.
The two cops exchanged glances.
Jo doubted the decades-old deaths of the Healys were remembered by many in Seattle. The city was large enough to offer a history of more lurid crimes, such as the depredations of John William Voakes. These two officers would have been children when it happened, and it was curious that even police would recall this case.
“You still hate dolls?” Emerson’s voice was friendly, but Jo stepped quietly closer to Becca.
Emerson still carried the professional reserve of a good cop on duty, but it was easy enough to read the subtle undercurrents in her features. Jo discerned no malice in her odd question. The woman’s tone was respectful, and as she took in Becca’s startled expression, her face softened. “I’m sorry. You and me met once before, many years back. My name is Pamela Emerson. My dad is Detective Luther Emerson.”
She waited, apparently expecting some recognition. Becca only stared at the woman blankly, but Jo made the connection.
“Luther Emerson was the SPD detective who investigated the shootings in seventy-eight.” Jo’s impatience fled. “You said you’ve met Becca before, Officer Emerson?”
“Pam. Yeah. We met the night your parents died.” Pam was studying Becca with compassion as she folded her notebook into her pocket. “I’d just turned ten. I didn’t need a sitter, but Dad wouldn’t leave me alone that late. He hauled me over to that house with him, across from the cemetery, and ordered me to stay in the car. I sat there a while. Then I looked out the windshield and saw this forlorn-looking little white kid sitting on the front steps, all alone.”
“Did you talk to me?” Becca looked unsettled but fascinated. “Jo, I don’t remember any of this.”
“I’m not surprised, after what you’d been through.” Pam hooked her fingers in her belt and swept some broken glass slowly away from Becca’s feet with her boot. “I don’t know how they lost track of you long enough to let you escape to the porch, but you seemed pretty wretched. So I rummaged around in the backseat for one of the toys my dad kept back there, for little kids. I came up on the porch and handed you a baby doll. You wanted nothing to do with it, to say the least. You chucked it into the bushes.” Pam chuckled softly. “I understood. I never had much use for dolls myself. But we sat together for a bit.”
“Is your father still alive?” Jo bit her lip, realizing her bluntness, but Pam just nodded.
“Retired ten years now, healthy as a horse.”
“Would it be possible to meet with him?”
“You mean this afternoon?” Pam threw a sardonic glance at her partner.