I nodded.
“You don’t care about a case,” my father said, “you don’t do it.”
“It’s why I left the police,” I said.
“Alternative would be to care about them all.”
“Did you?” I said.
“I tried to.”
“But?”
“But some I didn’t give a rat’s ass about,” my father said.
“But you did the cases.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t quit.”
“I had a wife and two daughters,” my father said.
“So you couldn’t quit.”
“Have to take care of your family,” my father said.
He smiled at me. “And generally, I liked the work.”
“And you were good at it,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “I was.”
The waitress brought a fried-egg sandwich for my father, tuna salad for me.
“I don’t know where to go with this,” I said.
“You think Markham thought the DNA would prove his paternity?” my father said.
“Why would he take it if it wouldn’t?”
“So why would he think it would?” my father said.
“Because he thought he really was her father.”
“And why would a man think someone was his child?”
“Because the child’s mother told him,” I said.
The waitress came and refilled our coffee cups, and moved on to fill other cups at other tables.
“So why didn’t he take it the moment the question came up?” my father said.
“My best guess,” I said, “is that Mrs. Markham was opposed.”
“And she still won’t do it,” my father said.
“DNA? No.”
“So who’s the kid’s mother?”
“You think she refuses because she knows she’s not the mother,” I said.
“Yes.”
“So why conceal it?” I said. “Lots of people adopt children.”
“But Markham thought the kid — what’s her name?”
“Sarah,” I said.
“Markham thought Sarah was his.”
“And Mrs. Markham knew she was not hers,” I said.
“So who was Sarah’s mother, and why did Markham think he was her father?”
“And why did she... hell, does she... pretend that Sarah is theirs?” I said.
My father dabbed a trace of egg yolk off the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin.
“Tell me about the trust fund,” my father said.
“Money comes from a bank in New York,” I said. “First of every month. Brian Kelly is on it.”
“Might be interesting to see if any other money comes to that family,” he said.
“Lolly Drake is in on this thing,” I said.
“Maybe she’s the momma.”
“Oh, Phil, you said it. I was hoping you would.”
He smiled at me.
“Phil?” he said.
“We’re pals, too,” I said.
“Good.”
“You really think she could be the mother?”
“She knew Markham at the right time.”
“I would dearly love to get a DNA sample from her.”
“Not likely,” my father said.
“I can try to establish sexual contact between them, at the appropriate time.”
“Twentysomething years later.”
“Hard, but not impossible.”
“She would have the money to pay somebody off,” my father said.
“And a reason to want to conceal her pregnancy,” I said. “She bills herself as the voice of the moral majority.”
My father smiled again.
“A phrase from my youth,” he said. “Or she may just be a coincidence.”
“The hell she is,” I said.
“Either way,” my father said, “there’s two other things I’d be doing. I’d follow the money.”
“I’ve heard that works,” I said.
My father nodded.
“You can always trust money,” he said.
“What else,” I said.
“Well,” my father said. “If there’s hard evidence, forensic stuff, cops will get it. Or they won’t. Either way, you don’t do that kind of detecting.”
“I’m not equipped,” I said.
“No, you’re not. What you’re equipped to do is talk to suspects and witnesses. Which, by the way, you do very well.”
I felt a small thrill of pleasure. My father had complimented me.
“So what you got,” my father said, “is you got the daughter, who has probably given you most of what she’s got. You got Lolly Drake, who is nearly bulletproof. And you’ve got Mrs. Markham.”
“She’s probably not told me all she knows,” I said.
“Probably not,” my father said.
“And I can get to her.”
My father nodded.
“We are driving toward a logical assumption here,” I said.
“Was my case,” he said, “I’d squeeze the hell out of Mrs. Markham.”
48
My father and I finished our sandwiches. We were quiet for a moment while we drank our coffee. The waitress asked about dessert.
“I’ll have a piece of that pie,” my father said.
The waitress looked at the pie on the counter under the glass dome.
“Oh, let me check what kind,” she said.
“I don’t care what kind,” my father said. “I’ll have a slice, with some cheese and more coffee.”
“Certainly.”
The waitress looked at me. I smiled and shook my head. She went to get my father his pie.
“No decaf?” I said.
“I hate decaf,” my father said.
“Most people say as they get older, real coffee keeps them awake.”
“It does.”
“It keeps you awake, but you drink it anyway.”
“I do.”
“You could learn to like decaf,” I said.
“Fuck decaf,” my father said.
“Oh,” I said, “of course. I hadn’t thought of that.”
The waitress came with the pie and cheese. The pie was apple. My father ate it the way he did everything: straight ahead. Without flourish.
“I’m seeing a psychiatrist,” I said.
My father swallowed a mouthful of pie.
“How come?” he said.
“Richie,” I said.
My father nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s a hard one.”
“One of the things I’m trying to figure out is why it’s so hard.”
My father drank some coffee.
“Who’s the shrink?” he said.
“Dr. Silverman,” I said. “In Cambridge.”
My father smiled.
“Susan Silverman?” he said.
“Yes, you know her?”
“I do,” he said.
“Tell me about her.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t know a ton about shrinkage,” my father said. “But I’m pretty sure it’s not improved by having people talk about your shrink.”
“But you like her?” I said.
“Yes.”
“If you didn’t, you’d say so, wouldn’t you.”
“I like her,” my father said. “So I don’t have to think about what to say if I didn’t.”
I felt slightly chastised.
“Sure,” I said.
“She’s a smart woman,” my father said. “And you’re a smart woman. And she’s tough. And you’re tough. I’m pretty sure you’ll do some good things together.”
“We are talking about you and Mother,” I said. I felt like I was confessing.
“I bet most people in therapy, especially early in therapy, are talking about their mother and father,” he said.
“I’m dying to find out how you know Dr. Silverman,” I said.
“Ask her,” my father said.
“God,” I said, “you’re as bad as she is.”
“Or as good,” he said.
We looked at each other happily.
“Will you tell Mother?” I said.
“I think I won’t.”
“Because?”
“Because it’s not information she can make much use of,” my father said.