She said, “This is going to sound materialistic but I’m going to sue. Not just them, the whole Sheriff’s Department. And the county for running the courts like that, and anyone else we can think of.”
“You’ve hired a civil attorney.”
She blushed. “Myron called. He’s ready to take ’em all on. Can I count on you to be there for me? Just to tell them I’m a good mother and that Rambla’s a good girl and to describe what they did to me?”
“Of course,” I said. “We also need to make sure you and Rambla are doing as well as can be—”
“Therapy,” she said. “You bet. That’ll be part of the settlement.” Smile. “Maybe I’ll have so much money you won’t be able to get rid of me.”
I smiled back. “I can live with that.”
She leaned forward, planted a hot, brief kiss on my cheek. “Sorry if that was inappropriate but I feel I need to … touch you. Not in a sexual way. To connect. To thank you, I mean right from the beginning you could see the truth.”
“Glad I could help.”
Her mouth turned down. “Poor Winky. Thank God Boris is okay — I tried to call him but he didn’t answer his phone. Guess I’d be the last person he’d want to talk to.”
“Not your fault, Ree.”
“I keep telling myself that.”
“It’s true.”
“I know, I know. But I can’t help — guess it’s like you said, it’s going to take time. And we’ll have plenty of time if Myron gets what he says he can get. Not that I’ll let it change me. Getting rich isn’t the point. Living kindly and honestly is. Winky knew that. He was such a good friend. So gentle. And now I’ll never see him again.”
No mention of the other murder victim.
She sagged against the doorway.
I said, “Ree, seeing as we are going to be dealing with all of this, it would help if, at some point, you could tell me everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“You just said Winky had nothing to do with any of it. I took that to mean—”
“He’s not — wasn’t Rambla’s daddy? No he wasn’t. That wouldn’t have been so bad, but Winky couldn’t have kids. So now you’re wondering if Boris was. The answer is no, again. But that begs the big question, right?”
“It does, Ree.”
Her cheeks puffed. She reached for her braid, touched air. Frowned. “I didn’t tell not because I was afraid or ashamed, Dr. Delaware. I did it to be kind. Because he doesn’t know and if he found out, it would change things. For him and for other people.”
“His family.”
Nod.
“He’s married.”
Slower nod. “A good man who”—she chuckled—“strayed. That’s how he put it. After it was over. I thought nothing of it but he felt guilty, said he’d never done anything like that before.”
“You believed him.”
“I did,” she said. “I still do. It was one of those crazy things. The bar at Moonshadows. He was there because he’d had a fight with his wife. I was there because another guy had dumped me and I was feeling low about myself and we just started talking and he was such a total gentleman and a sweetie. Older, the kind of manners old guys have.”
She shrugged. “We decided to take a drive. Up Rambla Pacifico. In his car because it was much nicer than mine. What you’d call a luxury car.” Impish smile. “But don’t ask. We drove and talked, then we came to a spot with a gorgeous view of the ocean and we parked and talked some more.”
She looked to the side. “I can’t even tell you how it happened, Dr. Delaware. Both of us were surprised. He felt worse than me. Said he’d strayed. I ended up comforting him. Next month, I had no period. But I said no way. Second month, I took the test and there it was, a little pink dot. So how do I know it was him? Because that stretch of time was a famine for me. He was the only one. Plus she looks like him. Like his other kids. He showed me pictures. At the bar. They’re grown. Successful. He’s got a great situation. Loves his wife, that night they had a fight. Why should I ruin all that?”
“You haven’t talked to him since?”
“Not once,” she said. “I did do one of those stalker things. Driving by his house, I knew where he lived because he showed it to me, a real beautiful place not far from where we parked. He showed me because he was feeling sad, saying he put so much into it and now it seemed his wife was tired of it, needed a change, he hoped that didn’t mean she was sick of him. But that time, driving by his house, I saw them. Him and his wife, she’s a beautiful woman and they were walking together, arm in arm. So that’s it. He strayed and I ended up with a treasure. I love him in a certain kind of way for giving me that treasure and I’ll never do anything to hurt him. In fact, I’m proud of myself. For being there for him when he was sad. For comforting him when he said he’d strayed. I feel I helped him, was there at just the right time.”
She smiled. “I guess you’d know something about that.”
CHAPTER 45
The criminal cases against Hank Nebe and Kiara Fallows would take months, maybe longer, to prepare. Sixty-seven days after his arrest, Nebe suffered a second jail assault and was transferred to a “location unknown” that I knew to be a federal lockup in New Mexico. Matrons at the women’s wing said Kiara Fallows had become a “queen bee” on her tier and was also being considered for transfer.
Then Fallows’s lawyer phoned John Nguyen. His client was ready to “come clean” in exchange for cooperation from the D.A. That translated to a predictably self-serving summary: Uncle Hank and Aunt Willa had murdered Connie Sykes with minimal assistance from Kiara. Yes, she’d accompanied Willa during the abduction of Ree and Rambla, but no, she had no idea what was going to happen, as Willa had simply said there was “court business to take care of.”
Subsequent examination of Willa Nebe’s duty Oxfords revealed minute traces of Connie’s blood and that fit with the speck she’d carelessly left behind at Ree’s apartment. A couple of knives found in Hank Nebe’s nightstand could conceivably be the murder weapons but no definitive proof would be possible.
Nguyen told the lawyer he’d weigh his options. He told Milo and me Kiara’s chance of avoiding serious prison time was “significantly lower than arctic temperature in Hades.”
Myron Ballister wasted no time filing his deep-pockets civil suit. I was returning from my third deposition at the downtown law offices of the white-shoe firm defending the county when I spotted Judge Marvin Applebaum leaving the building with a good-looking brunette his age.
He didn’t notice me until I waved.
“This is my wife, Jean, Alex. Honey, Dr. Alex Delaware, one of our custody consultants.”
Jean’s handshake was a cool gift of fingertips.
Marv said, “Now that I think about it, honey, if you don’t mind.”
She grinned. “So what else is new,” and walked out of the building.
When the revolving door stilled, Marv said, “Our estate lawyers have offices here, we’re trying to figure out how grateful our progeny will be if we do things the right way.” He turned grim. “That Sykes woman, some mess, huh? Can’t believe Willa was involved, you work with someone all those years …”
I said, “She put on a good show.”
“She was like one of those sitcom moms from the fifties. Bringing fresh cookies. I figured she had a brood of her own back home. Turns out she didn’t. Damned lunatic. What was it, like one of those crazy ladies cuts open the womb of another woman to steal the baby?”
“Something like that.”
“Nancy Maestro’s really freaked out. But Nancy overreacts to everything. Anyway, nice to see you.”
I said, “About Singapore—”
“Pardon? Oh, that. Sorry, I should’ve told you, deal’s off, they’ve reconciled. At least for now.”