"Well," she said finally, shaking her head and steadfastly pulling us back from the edge of the cliff. "I still think for blackmail to work, Tanya would have to have money."
The thought came to me then-a sudden, clear inkling of what else Martin Shore might have wanted from Tanya Dunseth. Just thinking about it made me feel incredibly old. And dirty. And right back on the edge of the precipice.
"Not necessarily," I said. "Maybe he wanted something else."
"What?"
Alex still didn't understand, and I didn't want to tell her, didn't want her to have to know some of the things I know-the ugly things all cops learn sooner or later because they have to. Because they don't have a choice. Alex sat there, her eyes holding mine, waiting for me to say something.
"The streets aren't the only things that have deteriorated over the last few years," I said. "Other things have gotten worse as well."
She frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Choosing my words carefully, I tried my best to explain it without having to come right out and draw Alexis a picture.
"Years ago, eleven- or twelve-year-olds were young enough for this kind of filth. Not anymore. In terms of perpetrators getting away with it, the best candidates for sexual abuse and exploitation are still female children under the age of three. They can't testify, can't say who did it or what they did."
As she grasped what I was saying, Alex's eyes widened in horror. She studied me searchingly for some time after I finally shut up. "You mean Shore would try to blackmail Tanya to let him use her baby the same way? To make a movie?"
"It happens," I answered miserably. "I swear to God, Alex, this kind of crap goes on all the time. You have no idea."
"You're right," she spat back at me, suddenly furious. "I guess I haven't! And I don't think I want to, either!"
Without another word, she stormed out of the shop. I made no attempt to stop her. She needed to be alone for a while. So did I. It's no wonder so many disillusioned cops end up divorced and living alone. Who can live with them? According to the suicide statistics, they can barely stand to live with themselves.
I don't know how long I sat there. Eventually, one of the kids waiting tables came over and took away the remains of both root-beer floats. When he asked me if I wanted anything else, I looked up at him stupidly. The second time around I finally managed to order coffee. He must have thought I'd gone crazy.
Beating yourself up is simple, especially when you've had as much practice at it as I have. In retrospect, I could see exactly what I'd done wrong. Of course I should have kept quiet about my suspicions. Of course I shouldn't have brought up any of it. I was a dumb-ass bum for even mentioning such a thing. But I had, and now I couldn't take it back. The damage was done, and I couldn't see any way in hell to make it better.
Unless, I thought, brightening suddenly at the prospect-unless I could somehow come up with some other theory and prove myself wrong. For people who are expert self-castigators, it's easy to recognize how being totally wrong can turn into a walk-away victory. And if, in order to prove myself sufficiently wrong, I had to bend a few rules, so what? It wouldn't be the first time.
And that's how I really ended up getting involved in Gordon Fraymore's case. Personally involved, I mean. Not because I particularly wanted to, and not, God help me, because I wanted to make his life miserable. Not at all. What I really wanted was to find some way to redeem myself in Alexis Downey's eyes.
I had trotted out only one of my pet theories. I had plenty more where that came from. The first one had been ugly enough to drive Alex away from me and out into the night. There were no guarantees that the real answer, whatever that might be, wouldn't be even worse. But if it meant not losing Alex permanently, I had to make the effort.
So I sat there all by myself and drank cup after cup of coffee. I tried to think my way into Gordon Fraymore's case the same way I'd be trying to think myself into one of my own if I were back home in Seattle and officially assigned to a new homicide investigation. Only here there was an added dimension. My only access to the killer was through what I had learned or could learn from Detective Gordon Fraymore.
At the start of a case, I usually try to do a mental sort, drawing a picture of who all the players are and trying to see how they're interconnected. Because most people are killed by someone they know, that process often leads directly to the killer or to people who know the killer.
To that end, I grabbed a folded napkin out of the holder and began drawing little X's and O's all over it. At the center of the diagram were Tanya and Amber Dunseth. In a circle around them were Martin Shore, Jeremy, Kelly, Monica Davenport, Dinky Holloway, and me. I was about to quit when I realized there were two other people I needed to add, equal O's on the same line-Daphne and Guy Lewis.
I closed my eyes and tried to remember exactly how it had been when Daphne and Guy had stepped inside the Members' Lounge prior to the donors' party. There had been no mistaking Tanya Dunseth's intense reaction. My only problem was figuring out which of the two she'd been reacting to-Gordon or Daphne.
And then something clicked in my mind and gave me my first little glimmer of hope. Guy Lewis. Here was a man who'd already discarded one wife and was having trouble hanging on to number two. Was it possible he was in the market for yet another trophy wife, or maybe just a trophy plaything? I had thought his wave was intended for me, but I wondered now if perhaps it had been intended for Tanya. Maybe he knew more about Tanya Dunseth than just her roles on stage.
Filled with purpose now, I shoved my coffee cup aside, stuffed the napkin into my pocket, and headed for the Mark Anthony. Alex had told me the Lewises were staying there. This time I had no trouble ignoring the smoke, laughter, and pulsing music from the bar. I hurried to the nearest house phone.
"Guy Lewis, please."
"Is he a registered guest?"
"Yes."
There was a long pause. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lewis checked out this morning."
I put down the phone. Disappointed, I was conscious of the smoke and the sounds in a different way now, but I hurried back out into the street before they had a chance to ensnare me. Outside, I was momentarily undecided.
The first few playgoers were just now trickling down the hill from the theaters. Soon it would be a river of people. Seeing them, I decided to go back to Oak Hill. Alex and I had only one house key between us, and Alex had taken that one with her. If I went home now, maybe one of the other guests would take pity and let me inside the house as they returned from the plays. Maybe I could ask Florence for a duplicate. Otherwise, I'd have to go looking for someplace else to stay.
I found the Porsche where we'd left it parked. Seeing it, I was awash with guilt at the idea of Alex walking all the way home in the dark by herself. That night I was a living, breathing guilt magnet.
I drove back to the B amp; B. Except for a night-light burning in the living room, the place was dark, including the windows in the Iris Room up under the eaves. Either Alex was asleep or she hadn't come home. No other cars were parked beside the house. That meant I was the first one home.
Discouraged, I got out of the car. The weight of the world bore down on my shoulders as I walked up the steps.
"Beau? Are you all right?"
Alex spoke to me out of a gloom of shadows. I walked toward the sound of her voice. She was seated on a swing at the far end of the porch, wrapped snugly in one of the blankets from our bed.
"I waited up to let you in," she said. "I knew you didn't have a key."
"Thanks." I sat down gingerly on the far end of the swing. "I'm sorry about tonight. I never should have…"
"Don't apologize," she said. "I was shocked by what you said, but maybe you're right. Maybe Amber is what Martin Shore wanted."