Tracy Holland, the second, married sister living down in Ojai, had one stand-out blemish on her record: arrested four years ago for battery on her six-year-old daughter, the charge brought by her mother-in-law. Charge was dropped the next day, either because the mother-in-law changed her mind or because Tracy’s husband had stepped in on her behalf. Social Services had looked into the matter, but they must not have found anything to justify taking further action. The Hollands were still married, still had custody of the child.
Broad hints, both of these. When kids were abused, they often developed one kind of psychological problem or another as they got older, and some of them turned into abusers themselves when they became parents. So if all three Whalen girls had been childhood victims of abusive parents, that might be the answer to why a childless woman like Francine would start beating up on the first kid to come into her charge.
One problem with that idea: the girls’ parents weren’t the likeliest of suspects. The father, George Whalen, had died in a freak industrial accident when Francine, the oldest of the girls, was five and the youngest, Gwen, just two. Pretty young for abuse to start… unless he’d been one of these real sickos who get off on sexually and physically molesting their kids when they’re barely out of infancy. Could also have been the mother, after the father was dead, taking out her frustrations on her daughters-that kind of thing happened often enough-but Arlene Whalen had been in declining health for years with a blood disease that finally took her out when Francine was thirteen. Neither George nor Arlene had any kind of police record, and there were no red flags in their personal or professional lives.
After Arlene’s death, the girls had been raised by her mother in Grandma’s home in Concord. Another possibility there. The grandmother, Joan Cartwright, had been in her mid-sixties, widowed and living alone for eight years, when she took the kids in. Figure her quiet life had to’ve been disrupted by the presence of three young girls and the hassles of coping with them. Possible she’d taken out her frustrations by using them as punching bags.
Tamara did some probing into Joan Cartwright’s life. Nothing there to support the theory. So then she went back and dug deeper into Francine Whalen’s, as deep as she was able to without a lead in a new direction, but all she got out of that was an empty hole.
Well, the sisters-abuse angle was something, at least, for Jake to follow up on. She got him on his cell, caught him free, and laid out what she’d learned and the possibilities it indicated. Nothing more she could do for him now.
Time to bite the bullet, get to work on the backlog of reports and bookeeping. But the phone, which had been silent most of the day, kept ringing to interrupt her. Three calls in the space of half an hour, the first two expected and routine: Bill checking in, then Alex checking in. It was the third call and the reason for it that surprised and rocked her.
“This is David Virden. What the hell’s the matter with you people?” Angry, real angry. “One simple little job and you go and screw it up, make me look like a fool. How could you make such a stupid mistake?”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Finding my ex-wife, what do you think I’m talking about. Christ, no wonder that woman wouldn’t take the goddamn envelope.”
“What woman?”
“The dog-boarding McManus,” Virden said. “Her initials might be the same, she might look a little like Roxie, but she’s not my ex-wife. I never saw that woman before in my life.”
7
JAKE RUNYON
He was in the East Bay, done with interviewing a second witness in the hit-and-run case whose name had been provided by the first one he’d tracked down, when Tamara called. He’d intended to talk to Francine Whalen’s ex-husband before the sister in Berkeley, but since he was in the general vicinity, and given what Tamara had uncovered, Gwen Whalen was a better choice. If there was a history of abuse in the Whalen girls’ childhood, it might explain Francine’s behavior toward Bobby. Convincing anyone to admit to that kind of thing, particularly a woman who’d spent time in mental hospitals, was liable to be difficult. Depended on how close Gwen was to her sister, their joint history. The fact that she worked as a caregiver likely meant she had compassion, a sense of mercy. Work on that angle if he could.
Tamara had provided phone numbers. He called the Sunshine Rest Home first; Gwen Whalen’s shift had ended at four, he was told. The facility was in northeast Berkeley, at the edge of the hills near the Albany line, and her apartment was several miles away, on the southwest side of the university. It took Runyon forty minutes to drive there from Union City.
Four-unit apartment building, old and drab, on a street of similar dwellings. Probably a mixture of off-campus housing for U.C. students and relatively inexpensive rentals for moderate-income members of the workforce like Gwen Whalen. Her apartment was number two, first floor rear. She lived alone, apparently; G. Whalen was the only name on the mailbox.
No answer any of the three times he rang the bell. But now that he was here, he was reluctant to leave. Give it a while. Could be she’d stopped to run an errand or two on her way home.
He’d had to park two blocks away, and lucky to get a space that close; Berkeley’s residential streets were always jammed, particularly the ones close to major arteries like this neighborhood was to Ashby. No point in going back to the car to wait, so he walked it off. Ten blocks one way, ten blocks back to ring Gwen Whalen’s bell again. He did this three times, killing most of another hour, before he finally got a response.
The intercom was ancient and in poor repair; he could barely understand the woman’s voice that came through it amid hiccuping bursts of static. She must’ve had the same problem, kept saying, “What?” each time he spoke, so that he had to repeat himself. Name, profession-shortening it to “investigator”-and a request for a brief interview on a personal matter. The intercom went silent. And again he waited. Maybe she’d buzz him in; maybe she wouldn’t.
She didn’t, but she did come to peer at him through a peephole in her door. When he heard heavy steps approaching, he opened the leather case containing the photostat of his license. Let her take a good look at him, then held the license up next to his face and close to the peephole.
Close to a minute went by before she said, “What do you want with me?” The words were slightly muffled by the door, but the wariness in them came through clearly enough.
“Personal matter involving a client.”
“What client? What personal matter?”
“Her name is Bryn Darby. The case involves her son.”
“I don’t know anyone named Bryn Darby.”
That told him something right there. “My investigation has nothing to do with you specifically, Ms. Whalen. I only have a few questions-I won’t take up much of your time.”
Another minute ticked away. Thinking it over, making up her mind. Curiosity tipped the decision in his favor, as it often did in situations like this. A pair of locks clicked in succession; the door opened partway on a chain. The face that peered out through the gap was moon round, topped by a loose pile of dark, curly hair.
“My neighbors are home,” she said.
Not as much of a non sequitur as it might seem. Runyon understood: she was telling him that if he made any kind of false move, all she had to do was scream and somebody would come running.
“Be easier if we talk inside. If you don’t mind.”
She thought that over, too, but not for long. The door closed, stayed closed for ten seconds or so as if she was still uncertain; then the chain rattled and she opened up. And immediately retreated a few steps and stood in a nervously defensive posture, her hands fisted under heavy breasts, as he stepped inside.