“By sticking a knife in a girl’s heart? Is that what passes for genius in your family?”
Her daughter-in-law’s eyes remained fixed on her, and for a brief moment Cora exchanged glances with her before coming back to me.
“He was a passionate man, Jack Parson. Something of an enfant terrible, I suppose. In Europe he saw many dreadful things, as anyone there did in those days. I think that was what finally calmed him, brought him back down to solid earth. Only then did he fully see how far he’d taken things. Before, with that film.”
“You mean with that murder.”
“If that’s what you prefer. I believe he regretted deeply what he had done, for what it’s worth to you. But he could not very well bring her back, could he? And should the world be deprived of the many important films he made after, just because of some low, Midwestern vaudeville slut?”
With that, the old bitch smirked. She actually smirked at me, daring me to make something of it. For a fraction of a second, I considered it. I considered pulling that trigger and putting that inhuman woman down like you would a rabid dog. But that would have been too easy and too much trouble for me. Instead, I switched gears to what I’d really come to know.
“Your time is running out, Mrs. Parson,” I said, my voice finally breaking as I prepared myself for what I was about to say. “Probably you’re right about the cops. I made quite a racket coming in here and I doubt the nice people you live around are used to that sort of thing. So you might as well tell me now, and damnit, don’t make me ask twice — what did you do with Helen?”
Almost beyond my control the gun in my hand inched closer to her pale, stolid face. She blinked and said, “Nothing at all.”
Police sirens wailed in the middle distance. There was no question where they were heading.
“Here they come, Mrs. Parson. You’re done and you damn well know it. They already know what you’ve done. Why lie about one more killing?”
“I’ve told you, Mr. Woodard. I haven’t harmed a hair on her drug-addled little head.”
“She was my wife, you old bitch. Jake said she’s dead. What did you do?”
A small, wry grin formed at her white lips and she emitted a throaty little laugh.
“I met her in what I gather was the same way Ms. Wheeler met her, at that little theater where she worked. She proved useful to me, keeping me informed of that homosexual woman’s plans, and when I grew worried that there might be police involvement, I convinced her to hold a significant amount of money for me. Lest it be seized, of course. It’s extraordinary what you can persuade an addict to do with a little help from their chosen vices, Mr. Woodard. Though I suspect you already know that perfectly well.”
“Cora,” the other woman whispered, astonished and horrified. Finally she got it. She believed and she understood. She’d married into a family of monsters. I felt sorry for her. “Cora, my God.”
“Oh shut up,” Cora answered her. “We’ve all suffered here. I’ve lost both of my sons.”
“And you seem so broken up about it, too,” I hissed. “You’re a real piece of work, Cora Parson.”
The sirens pierced the air as they came onto the street. Through the drawn curtains of the window behind the women I could see the blue and red lights pulsing right in front of the house. As soon as I heard the shuffle of approaching footsteps, I gently set the gun down on an end table — away from Cora.
And before the police reached the door, I turned back to the old woman and looked deep into her soulless eyes, and I said, “Where is she, Cora?”
The old hen half-grinned, her age-worn lips all but cracking at the strain. She said, “For the record, that colored girl isn’t dead. Shawna, you said? Yes, I think that’s right. It isn’t as though I didn’t know my building had squatters. How did you suppose Gary found you there?”
My stomach dropped, half-turned over at the thought that Shawna’s willingness to tattle to Cora had gotten Duff — her friend — killed. I wondered if she would be able to live with herself when she found out, but pushed the thought away in favor of getting my question answered.
“Where, Cora?” I persisted. “Where is she?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea where your wife is, Mr. Woodard. In some gutter, I’d imagine.”
“Not Helen. Grace. Where is Grace Baronsky?”
Fists pounded on the front door and a deep male voice shouted, “El Centro Police Department — open up.”
Cora met my gaze and raised her eyebrows.
“Oh,” she said. “Grace.”
She told me.
EPILOGUE: GRAHAM AND JAKE
Two things I learned upon my return to Los Angeles knocked me on my ass. The first was that Jake never left town. He was waiting at the station when Shea brought me in, having gone to a hell of a lot of trouble keeping me out of jail back in El Centro. I even got a police escort the whole 220 miles back, since the cops weren’t too keen on letting me drive a technically stolen vehicle used in the commissions of numerous crimes. Jake had already heard all of it and, to my surprise, didn’t have an obnoxiously snarky comment for me when I came into Shea’s office that afternoon. He gave me a hug.
“I wasn’t going to give up on you, man,” he said in my ear, squeezing me tighter than any man ever had. “But I’d never thought you’d escape from the frigging hospital, you moron.”
“He’ll be going back, too,” Shea put in. “The smart money says you haven’t done your well-being any favors with this little adventure of yours, Graham. You’re going to have to pay the piper for that crap.”
“I know,” I said. I felt like I was in the principal’s office just then. It didn’t help that I was leaning awkwardly to the side with my knees pressed together like a scolded kid. Actually, I was just in a lot of pain and my coordination was shot to hell.
“And that’s not even mentioning the inquest,” Shea said. “You’ll be fine, but you’re going to want to get yourself a lawyer.”
“I’ve already been cleared,” Jake beamed. Like we were thug-killer brothers now, or something. I sighed and decided not to dwell on it.
An officer brought in some more of that lovely police station coffee for the three of us and, after Shea thanked the kid and politely kicked him out, he asked both of us to sit down. I sipped at the sludge and waited for bombshell number two, though I didn’t know it at that exact minute.
“Graham, Helen has been located, and she’s alive.”
I froze and the office tilted a little as my stomach plummeted and then righted itself again. I said, “Oh, my God.”
And I erupted into tears.
There’s nothing in the world wrong with a man crying when it’s called for, but the amount of tears I’d shed between Grace Baron and my ex-wife, who I’d believed dead for much too long, was enough to fill my quota for a lifetime. Jake squeezed my shoulder and both he and Shea waited me out. I was a good deal embarrassed to break down like that in front of them, but goddamn, it felt good.
Once I managed to stop blubbering, Shea gave me the not-so-good news.
“She was picked up in Venice. She, uh, she had half an ounce of coke on her and she was so blitzed she could hardly see straight. She’ll be doing a little time for that, I’m sure. I’m sorry.”