“But she didn’t die on the beach?”
“No. She died on the rocks. Her body had premorbid wounds from the rocks. And the broken window in her back door? It’s not public information, either. Therefore Sterling knew something he shouldn’t know.”
“Why was the window broken? Is there is evidence of a struggle in the house?”
“No comment.”
“You haven’t talked with Sterling yet?”
“No. He’s in Florida. Something tells me he’s going to lawyer up anyway. I’m proceeding as though we’re not going to have an opportunity to interview him.”
“Do you have enough to arrest him?”
“If we did, he’d be in custody.”
I tried a segue-free transition of my own. “Why a tide pool? The killer must have known the body would be discovered soon enough.”
“Louise Lake’s body was not placed in the tide pool. It was dumped into the Pacific, we think it got caught on something, and was in the water for almost thirty-six hours before it floated free and back into the tide pool during high tide.”
We walked to the entryway, and I helped her with her coat.
“You can’t repeat any of this,” she said.
“Of course,” I said. I was already wondering why she had told me what she’d told me. I wasn’t considering the possibility that her volubility on the subject of Louise’s murder was evidence of indiscretion. Rather, I assumed that Reynoso had another motive for talking with me. What? I wasn’t smart enough to know.
She went on. “I heard from a couple of local cops that over the years you’ve demonstrated some wisdom about forensic things-you know, from a psychological perspective-so let me ask you something. From what you know about him-I’m talking Sterling Storey, obviously-could he have done it? Could he have killed Louise Lake?”
I considered the flattery-the spoonful of sugar-and the question-the bitter pill-that she wanted me to swallow. I said, “I’m sorry, but answering that would take me places that I’m not permitted to go, confidentialitywise. I wish I could respond, although I’m not sure of the value of what I might have to offer. Opinions are opinions, you know.”
That little crease reappeared above her nose. She said, “I think I’ll just take that as a yes.”
Changing the subject seemed like a good idea. “Are you okay driving in this? In snow?”
“How would I know?”
“If you don’t know, then you’re not okay.”
“Any tips for a virgin?”
“Take it slow. Don’t be afraid to use second gear. Ignore the assholes plowing by you in four-wheel-drive pickups and SUVs.”
“And if I skid on the ice?”
“Don’t. It’s better if you don’t skid.”
“Thanks. I’ll try to remember that.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Lauren and Grace arrived home less than ten minutes after Detective Reynoso departed.
Their arrival wasn’t a pretty sight. They had both left the house dressed for a warm fall day, and both were wet from the storm and chilled to the bone. Lauren’s violet eyes had taken on the gray-purple pall of extreme fatigue; whatever she and Grace had been doing since I’d left to meet Sam that morning had worn her beyond whatever limits she possessed that day.
How guilty was I feeling?
With Grace in my arms, I cranked up the heat in the master bathroom and began running a bath for Lauren. Then I took Grace into her room, and got her dry and clean and into fresh warm clothes. My daughter, sometimes a tough kid to put down for a nap, found the sanctuary of sleep moments after her head hit the mattress in her crib. I promised her, silently, that because of her compliance during this crucial moment in our lives, I would overlook at least one moderate-to-severe teenage indiscretion that was certain to occur in her future. She seemed to smile back at me from her sleep, as though she were already planning whatever it was I would need to forgive her for.
I shuddered at the thought.
When I got back to the bathroom with a steaming mug of tea, I found Lauren in the tub.
“No caffeine?” she asked.
“Mint. No caffeine. I’m sorry, I screwed up today.”
“I know you’re sorry.”
“Sam-”
She shook her head, just a little, and asked, “He’s okay?”
I nodded. She forced a smile in reply.
“You didn’t look too good when you came in,” I said.
She lowered herself farther into the soapy water. She was covered all the way to her chin. Her toes and colored toenails, painted a shade of coral that I was sure Grace had selected, popped out of the water at the far end of the tub. “Something’s cooking, Alan. I have brain mud. I’m more tired than Bill Gates is rich, and in case you haven’t noticed, my eyelids aren’t blinking at the same time.”
I tried hard to look her in the eyes but not stare at her eyelids. “So what can I do?”
“Let’s give it a few hours, see what develops. The pin is definitely out of the grenade. We’ll see what’s going to blow up.”
“Maybe it’s a dud. Can I get you something to eat?”
“No, I’m not hungry. Some quiet, okay? Take the dogs, and don’t let me sleep past five. I love you.”
Multiple sclerosis roughly translates as “many scars.”
When a new wound forms on the protective covering of a nerve in the brain or spinal column-apparently caused by the body mistaking its own neural insulation for a gremlin of some kind-symptoms develop. What symptoms? It depends on what nerve is involved. As the wound heals and scar tissue grows to replace nature’s myelin, the symptoms either disappear totally, or they don’t diminish at all, or-and this is most likely-something happens in between.
It’s a total crapshoot.
Lauren and I didn’t often use the word “exacerbation.” To use it had the ugliness of a profanity. But as I left her toweling off after her quick bath-I stayed until then because I feared sleep would take her right there in the bathtub-we both knew that an exacerbation, a fresh wound on some previously unaffected nerve, was what we feared was happening.
If we were right? I didn’t want to think about it. But I knew the list of potential consequences was as long as the list of the body’s miraculous capabilities. Numbness, blindness, paralysis, weakness, bladder problems, GI problems-I stopped myself before the list grew any longer. And it could have grown much longer.
But repeating the litany of potential disabilities wasn’t helpful.
Did I cause Lauren to have an exacerbation by not taking my daughter to her friend’s birthday party?
No. Of course not.
I didn’t. Really.
Really.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Sunday was full of surprises. None of them good.
Lauren never really woke up from her Saturday “nap.” She opened her eyes for a while, but whatever was going on with her neurologically and immunologically was consuming enough of her energy that she didn’t venture farther from the bed than the bathroom.
She declined dinner. Grace and I ate alone.
As was typical, I was the first in the family out of bed on Sunday morning. Instead of pulling on Lycra and Gore-Tex and heading to my bicycle-the pre-Thanksgiving snowstorm made my typical weekend morning ride impractical-I tugged on some fleece sweats and thick socks and carried the local paper and a cup of coffee to the living room.
The sky above the Front Range of the Rockies was the color of deep tropical water, the soaring granite slabs of the Flatirons were bearded with snow, and the earth was carpeted white as far as my eyes could see.
It was absolutely enchanting. I hoped Carmen Reynoso was someplace she could enjoy this view.
I listened for the sound of Adrienne mangling Christmas carols or the rumble of her John Deere. Nothing. Lauren had left some Debussy in the CD changer. I flicked it on, turned down the volume, and lifted the hefty Sunday paper to my lap, fearing that the tale of Sterling and Gibbs Storey might have finally made it from the police files to the newspaper.