“And an identical doll was left here in my office, without the bloody hands.”
“David, good lord. This is a disturbed person, if the murder itself wasn’t enough to tell you that.”
I asked her not to tell anyone about the dolls, which was information held back from the press. Then I realized I might be sounding like her husband.
“So tell me how David is doing. Just working?”
“I’m fine, Sharon. I don’t know what I want to do with my life. Everything is kind of chaotic right now.”
“New love interest?”
“I don’t know.” Why was I hedging? Was I afraid she would tell Lindsey? Why would I be afraid of that? She never would even run into Lindsey. What did it matter if Lindsey found out?
“So is this the life you’re going to live?” she asked, in another tone of voice, higher, more detached. “David among his old paper records and his old cases, living his life between his ears.”
“Between my ears?”
“You have your nice house in Willo, and your little twenty-something sex machine-or you’ll find another one. You’ll cruise through your forties having affairs and witty friendships, reading books and working for the sheriff as a media celebrity.”
“I’m not…” I protested, but the words didn’t follow.
“You don’t want to venture anything,” she said. “Not after Patty. And you think you’ve found a little island of emotional safety where you won’t have to.”
“What is this about?”
“What do you want?”
I stammered the stammer of the invaded.
“No, dammit,” she said. “Don’t give some politically correct answer. What do you, David Mapstone, want? David Mapstone who has no family, no offspring, and is all alone in the world?”
We stared at each other. She went on, “You’re at the age where if you don’t know that answer, you’re going to ruin the lives of a lot of women.” The last word echoed through the old sheriff’s office and dissipated in the ceiling.
Then, she said, “Sorry, David. I’m all wound up. Mike always found me too intense, so he worked all the time so he wouldn’t have to deal with me.”
“God, I don’t know, Sharon,” I said finally. “I want to keep you both in my life. You know very well I can’t fix whatever’s wrong between you…”
“Like the fact that he hasn’t touched me in five years.”
“I don’t need to know this,” I said reflexively.
“What are you afraid of?”
I thought about that, wrestled down the words flying through my mind, then, “I’m afraid I’ll lose you both.”
She looked at me a long time in silence, an expression on her face I had never seen before.
“I hope that doesn’t happen,” she said quietly and rose to leave. “Please make sure he takes his medicine,” she went on. “He has diabetes, you know.”
I didn’t know.
“He controls it orally,” she said. “Don’t let him cook too much. He cooks bad things for himself.”
I followed her as she walked to the office door, her heels snapping precisely against the old hardwood floor.
“May I ask you something?” She wheeled to face me. “Why is it, all these years, you never made a pass at me?”
“Well, you were married.”
“That never stops men,” she said. “I thought you guys wanted to sleep with every woman you saw.”
“We think about it,” I said quietly.
“So?”
“So,” I said, “some fantasies you shouldn’t act out.”
“That’s my line,” the doctor said, and she suddenly took my face in her hands and gave me a long, prosperous kiss on the lips. Then she slipped through the door like an apparition, leaving me leaning against the wall as the electricity coursing from my brain to my groin subsided.
30
At nine o’clock Friday morning, twenty cops from three law enforcement agencies sardined themselves into a conference room at the sheriff’s office to compare notes on the Yarnell case: Phoenix cops, Scottsdale cops, sheriff’s detectives, and me. Being here made me uneasy for a lot of reasons. For one thing, I didn’t want to run into Lindsey and Patrick Blair. I had a big mocha from Starbucks; they all had plain joe in Styrofoam from the museum-vintage coffee machine down the hall. I sat in the back, committed to keeping my mouth shut.
“Our part of this can be short and sweet,” said Hawkins. He leaned against a wall, wearing a rumpled, short-sleeved dress shirt and a tie that looked like it came from Sears in the 1970s. “The dental records identify the Yarnell twins. The case is closed. We’re prepared to hold a news conference and go public with that fact.”
“We wish you’d hold off,” said one of the Scottsdale detectives, an older guy in a polo shirt and black jeans. He had a droopy mustache like an old West gunfighter and had slung one leg up on an unoccupied chair.
“Why?” Hawkins asked. “The Yarnell kidnapper was executed in 1942. We now have the bodies. The case is closed.”
I tried to focus, but my mind kept wandering to my increasingly chaotic personal life. It wasn’t like me, none of it. I had never considered myself any kind of babe magnet, had gone for years without a date in my twenties. My God, the chief’s wife had kissed me.
“What if the kidnapping is related to the murder of Max Yarnell and the attack this week on James Yarnell?” This from Kimbrough, the sheriff’s detective. He was a thirty-three-year-old buppie on the department’s fast track. Peralta expected him to make captain soon and then go into politics. He dressed the part: stylish three-button coat, worsted wool slacks, bow tie, all in colors that complemented the rich cocoa color of his skin.
Hawkins sighed and sat down. “Whatever. I’m just telling you we’re done looking at this unless something new comes along.”
Kimbrough said, “What about it, Mapstone?” Hard cop eyes all bored into me-and I was dressed more like Kimbrough than Hawkins. I needed the comfort of nice clothes: Brooks Brothers blazer, J. Crew white dress shirt, rep tie from Ben Silver, and pleated chinos from Banana Republic. A brand slut. All those cops knew was that I was the outsider.
“Hayden Yarnell believed someone in the family was involved in the kidnapping,” I said. “He put a covenant in his will that’s still binding.”
I passed around copies of the relevant page from Yarnell’s will.
“It’s like a doomsday bomb for the Yarnell heirs if any new evidence ever implicates the family. As he was being led to the gas chamber, Jack Talbott said that the boys’ uncle put him up to the kidnapping. This uncle was in debt from his gambling, and the Yarnell company wasn’t doing great, either. So there are lots of questions.”
“But no evidence we can take to court,” Hawkins said.
“Right,” I admitted. “But this whole thing is hinky. The man charged in the kidnapping was booked into the city jail the day of the crime.” I wished I could find a record of his release, but I kept running into the chaos of old files. “He claimed he was set up. A reporter witnessed this before he was executed.”
“They all say that,” said Hawkins.
“Nice job saving James Yarnell the other night,” Kimbrough said, and the cops looked at me again, curious now.
“There is one other thing,” I said. “We know Andrew and Woodrow Yarnell didn’t have the same mother as James and Max. Maybe they were adopted. Maybe Morgan Yarnell had them with another woman. We don’t know yet. It just makes me wonder…”
“The kidnapper was convicted and executed,” Hawkins said in a low monotone. “This isn’t complicated.”
One detective said, “My parents are getting very old. And it’s not like they’re rich or anything. But you can already see the children lining up to influence their cut of the will. I just wonder if something like that was at work here. If these twins were a factor…”