But that wasn’t what she said.
“Meredith told me… he’s moved back here. His name is Nicholas Parrish. I wanted to warn you about him.”
“Warn me?”
“Yes.” She twisted the bedsheet in her hand. “Quinn-Quinn, he thinks he’s your father. But he’s not!”
“Why should he think that?” he asked, able to tell, as he always was, that she was lying. But what part of it was the lie?
“Stay away from him, Quinn. Please! Promise me.”
“Why?”
“He’s very dangerous. That’s why I was so happy when he left. He left before I found out I was pregnant with you, or God knows what he would have done. It doesn’t matter, because-Well, he’s wrong. I was so angry when Meredith told me she’d mentioned you to him. But… well, she doesn’t know. I’m hoping she’ll go back to him and tell him she was wrong. But either way, stay away from him, all right? Promise me.”
“Okay, I promise.” He was the better liar.
“I was always afraid Nick would come back. I married Harold because he was big, and I thought he could protect us.”
“Some protection. Harold beat us both.”
She looked away, then looked back at him. “He was mean, but he was mean enough to keep Nick away. Nick would have killed us. Nick is a killer.”
“A killer?” He almost laughed. “You should tell the police.”
“No good. Can’t prove it.”
“All right, but there must be more to the story than that. How do you know he’s a killer?”
She didn’t answer, but even through the haze of drugs, her fear was palpable.
She stayed silent, brooding, until the weariness that had hold of her in those last days of her life allowed her to drift off. When she awoke, she said, “I wonder if he did it.”
“Who did what?”
“Nick. I’ve always wondered if he killed Harold.”
Perhaps, he thought, she’s being devious. Trying to trick me into an admission. What was the natural response? He wasn’t sure. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“What makes you so sure Harold is dead, let alone murdered?”
“Harold never would have left money and his car and his house behind.”
“True,” he said. “But… probably he just had an accident.”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
She was staring at him. Time to change the subject. “So if this Nick Parrish isn’t my father, who is?”
“He’s dead,” she said quickly.
“How sad. But who was he?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’ve forgotten his name. But he was good. A good man.”
She was lying, of course. She was such a shitty liar, he wondered why she even bothered. Even if he had doubted Nick Parrish was his father, he wouldn’t have believed this story of hers about an imaginary good man. Quinn knew she had never been attracted to a good man in her lifetime. But that wasn’t the real reason for his rejection of the fairy tale she was trying to sell him.
He knew himself. No one who was good had anything to do with the making of Quinn Moore.
Quinn drove out to the airport that afternoon. At nineteen, he met his father-a man who would, within a few years, be infamous. The day after that meeting, Meredith failed to show up for work. Other than a mention in the annual article on local missing persons cases in the Las Piernas News Express, she was all but forgotten.
TEN
I slept better that night than I had for several days. I suppose it could have been a matter of sheer exhaustion, but no one will ever convince me it was anything other than having Frank and the dogs back at home.
When Frank came through the door, I didn’t care about the “been camping” funkiness, the week’s growth of beard, or who was watching-he gave me a fierce hug and a kiss that under any other set of circumstances would have had me taking off my underwear. As it was, I managed not to let the dogs trip us, or to forget to say hello to Jack, who just grinned knowingly, set down the gear he was helping to carry in, and said, “I’ll be next door if you need me.”
“Let me give you a hand with your gear, Jack,” Ethan said and left with him.
“Ethan, giving us privacy?” Frank asked when they were gone.
“You’re wasting the four or five minutes of it we’ll get,” I said.
Once the dogs had completed their exuberant rituals to celebrate the reunification of the pack, and Frank had cleaned up and stowed his gear, he asked me all the questions Reed had asked and a few more, doing all he could not to make it seem like an interrogation. It really wasn’t-he wanted to be caught up, but not so that he could take over the case. I understood the way his mind worked. We both were in professions that require a person to be inquisitive, and the only way to the real answers is through the right questions.
Ethan came back to say he had walked down to the end of the street but complained there was no getting anywhere near the crime scene. He gave Frank a hopeful look, but Frank shook his head. “I’m not going to get my ass chewed out for interfering just for your sake.”
Ethan shrugged. “I wasn’t down there for my sake.”
Frank looked chagrined. “Of course. Look, thanks for coming over here last night. I owe a lot to you and Ben for that. But as much as I’m grateful, this would be the worst time for me to try to butt into Vince and Reed’s investigation.”
“Yeah, I understand. Besides, even the television news ’copters can’t get a view of it. Coroner’s got those privacy barriers up.”
We watched the late news together and saw that Ethan was right-the coroner’s office had essentially tented the car, protecting the body-and most of the car-from being seen by cameras. The television reporters didn’t have anything we didn’t know-in fact, we had more details. The police hadn’t released the information that the body was frozen, or that it was painted.
“Better check with Reed and Vince before you write anything about that,” Frank warned.
Ethan and I exchanged a look, and Frank swore under his breath but didn’t say more.
Ben came to the house to pick up Ethan. He told us that the police had no leads on the identity of the woman in the trunk, but we all knew that if none of her personal effects were in the car, and she wasn’t a known criminal or otherwise familiar to the police, in all likelihood much more time and lots of effort would be required to find out who she was.
A good portion of that work would probably fall to Ben, since the coroner’s office often brought him in to help with any case where the body wasn’t newly dead, or where it was found in an unusual condition. He’d use his expertise as a forensic anthropologist and that of whatever team he assembled to work with him to preserve as much evidence as possible from the trunk and her remains. He’d then try to determine the victim’s identity-if not from her DNA or fingerprints, which might not be in any law enforcement-accessible database-then by studying indicators of age in her teeth and bones. He’d discover whatever her remains might tell about her general health, previous injuries or surgeries, whether she was most likely left- or right-handed, and perhaps her possible occupation or hobbies. He’d learn what he could of her dental health, and perhaps where she most likely had had any dental work done. He’d learn whether she had been injured before being killed. He’d also be looking for evidence left by her killer that might lead to that person’s identity. He’d study the style and nature of the artwork on her body, the materials used, and determine whether she had been painted before or after death.
Ben looked troubled, but I didn’t get a chance to ask him any questions-he was needed at the coroner’s office and didn’t have time to do more than pick up his gear and take Ethan home. By then, everyone was ready to call it a night.