Her beer came. She drank it from the bottle.
“So, you’re alone and frightened and lonely,” I said.
“Yes.”
“That’s a good reason to come see me,” I said.
“It’s weird,” she said. “The only person I’m okay with is some stranger I hired.”
“We’re not strangers now,” I said. “How is it at home?”
“Awful. My father is, like, hurt, all the time. My mother...” She shook her head. “Basically, my mother won’t speak to me.”
“Who have you been closest to, growing up?” I said.
“My father.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“Was your mother bitchy?” Sarah said.
“She was, ah, difficult.”
“Did she love you?”
“Oh, yes, I think so. But she was limited. She could only love me if I did things that made her feel good.”
“So it was really about her and not you.”
“Maybe a little more complicated,” I said.
“My mother hates me.”
“Straight-out?” I said.
“Yes. She has always hated me.”
“Uncomplicated, I suppose. Why does she hate you?”
“Maybe because I’m not hers.”
“She says you’re hers.”
“Not to me,” Sarah said.
“I know,” I said. “You mentioned that. Do you have any suspicion, no matter how wild or childish, as to whose kid you might be if you aren’t theirs?”
“No.”
“Your father has agreed to have the DNA testing.”
“I know. He seems to feel very bad about it.”
“You’ll have to supply a sample,” I said.
She nodded.
“Tell me about the trust fund,” I said.
“My mother’s father left me some money in a trust fund. When I was eighteen, it came to me.”
“What was your grandfather’s name?”
“Carter.”
“That your mother’s maiden name?”
“Yes.”
“What was his first name?”
“I don’t know. He died before I was born. He’s always been just Grandpa Carter.”
“Grandmother?”
“No. None of my grandparents are alive.”
“Aunts and uncles?”
She shook her head.
“So, obviously no cousins,” I said.
“No.”
“And no current boyfriends.”
“Even if I did,” Sarah said. “I never went out with anybody worth anything.”
“Well, that is pretty much alone,” I said.
“You live alone,” she said.
“I live with Rosie,” I said.
“You know what I mean.”
I nodded.
“Maybe if I were older,” Sarah said. “Like you. Maybe I wouldn’t mind it so much.”
“You might,” I said.
“Do you?”
I thought about how to phrase it.
“I do mind it,” I said. “And I don’t.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Sarah said.
“I’m not sure yet,” I said.
“You just said it, and you don’t know what it means?”
“I want someone in my life,” I said. “But I can’t stand to live with anyone.”
“That’s weird,” Sarah said.
“Almost certainly,” I said.
“You ever live with anyone?”
“Yes.”
“And it didn’t work out?”
“No.”
“You broke up?”
“We got divorced,” I said.
“You were married?”
I looked at her and smiled. “Duh?” I said.
She thought about it, then smiled and nodded, and said, “Duh.”
Rosie had given up on the possibility that food would be served and was sprawled on her side next to me, snoring quietly, with my hand resting on her rib cage.
“Was that why you got divorced?” Sarah asked.
“At the time, I thought it was Richie,” I said, “that he pressed me too hard.”
“For what?” Sarah said.
“For intimacy, for children, for... I don’t know. He wanted too much of me.”
“I wish somebody wanted too much of me,” Sarah said.
“I know,” I said. “When you’re alone, you think there couldn’t be too much affection. When you get too much, and you don’t like it, you think, What’s wrong with me?”
“Did you think you loved him?” Sarah said.
“I know I did.”
“Do you now?”
“I think so.”
“Do you think you might get back together?”
I shook my head. “He’s remarried,” I said.
“People don’t always stay married,” Sarah said.
I smiled. “I don’t think it’s in my best interest,” I said, “to hang around hoping his marriage will fail.”
“This is pretty amazing,” Sarah said.
“That I’m divorced?”
“That you got problems. You’re, like, this really together babe.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“You even got a cool dog.”
“I do have a cool dog,” I said.
“You’re, like, not scared of things. Like everything’s under control. Like you know what to do and you know you’ll be able to do it.”
“Sometimes,” I said.
“But not always?”
“I doubt that there is anything that’s always.”
“But you’re always good at being a detective,” Sarah said.
I saw where this was going. If she couldn’t trust me, she had no one at all. And she was right.
“I am excellent at being a detective,” I said.
Miranda came over and put a large platter of nachos on the table between us. Rosie sat up alertly.
“Amuse-bouche,” Miranda said. “From Spike.”
I looked at Sarah and smiled. “I have cool friends,” I said, “too.”
39
Brian Kelly called me. “I’m working homicide,” he said. “Last year or so. And we got a stiff in Park Square with your business card in his wallet.”
“What’s the name?”
“George Markham,” Brian said.
“Suspicious nature?” I said.
“He was shot.”
“You there?” I said.
“Yeah. Parking lot behind the Castle. I thought you might want to stop by.”
“I do,” I said, and hung up the phone.
The Castle, in Park Square, is a gray granite building that was once a National Guard armory and looks like a medieval fortress. They use it now for trade shows and other events. There were half a dozen police cars parked on Huntington Avenue in front of the Castle, and a bunch more in and around the parking lot off Arlington Street. Lights were set up in the parking lot, and the place looked like a movie set. When I pulled up, a uniform stopped me.
“Crime scene, ma’am. Can’t park here.”
“Brian Kelly asked me to come down,” I said.
“Sit right there,” the uniform said.
He walked over to a cluster of plainclothes people that included Brian. They were looking down at something. The uniform spoke to Brian, who nodded and half turned and waved me in. I parked next to an EMT vehicle and got out.
“Detective Kelly’s over there,” the uniform said.
I smiled and said thank you. I decided not to tell him that I had slept with Detective Kelly and would have recognized him anywhere. What the plainclothes group was looking at was the late George Markham. When I joined them, Brian put his arm around me and gave me a squeeze.
“Frank,” he said to one of the other cops. “Sunny Randall. Sunny, Frank Belson.”
Belson was very lean, midsized, and clean-shaven, though he showed what must have been an eternal five-o’clock shadow.
“Phil Randall’s kid,” he said.
I nodded. We shook hands.
“Liked your old man,” Belson said, and squatted on his heels next to the body.
“What have we got?” I said.
“So far, looks like he took one in the chest, and one in the middle of the forehead.”