The child, alone and hesitant, stood looking longingly after him, hoping he'd relent and let her accompany him. He didn't. Down the hall and well out of sight, a door slammed shut, giving voice to James Rothman's final answer. Dejected, Jennifer turned her back to the closed door and surveyed the long dining room with its empty tables and chairs.
Uncertain of my reception with her, I waved tentatively across the deserted tables. As soon as she saw me, her desolate elfin features brightened. In a day of sudden upheaval, I was someone vaguely familiar, someone she recognized. After all, I had been her brother's roommate.
Dubiously, she waved back.
"Would you like to come sit here with me?" I called.
Jennifer Rothman had come to Ironwood Ranch the previous week as part of her brother's family week experience. In my book, she was the proverbial sweet-tempered petunia trapped in an onion patch full of schmucks. She was a beautiful child-fair-skinned with straight long blonde hair and deep blue eyes. When Joey had initially introduced us, I fully expected her to be a brat. After all, chronic phoniness seemed to run in the family.
Her half-brother was an out-and-out jackass. Jennifer's parents, unrepentant yuppies, showed up at every group session dressed in matching sets of Fila sweats. Daddy was a loud, obnoxious blowhard-Joey came by his boorishness honestly-and Marsha, his stepmother, moved in a cloud of resentment that belied the skin-deep show of marital harmony suggested by their matching outfits. I figured Jennifer would make it four for four.
But she fooled me. Jennifer Rothman turned out to be well-behaved and cheerful to a fault. Wide-eyed and innocent, she faced the world with an unfailingly sunny disposition-a latter-day Pollyanna. Her only apparent defect was what I regarded as an incredibly misplaced case of hero worship which she lavished on her no-good half-brother. During family week she had spent every free moment dogging Joey's footsteps like some adoring but ignored puppy, waiting patiently for him to pay her the slightest bit of attention or to toss her the smallest morsel of kindness.
That's how I had gotten to know her. She would come down to the cabin at mealtimes and hang around while Joey finished showering and dressing so she could have the dubious honor of escorting him back up to the dining room. He had carelessly accepted her unstinting devotion, shrugging it off as though it was no more than his just due, all the while making jokes about it behind her back. His callousness toward the child had made my blood boil.
Now, nodding wordlessly, Jennifer Rothman threaded her way through the scattered tables and chairs, stumbling toward me while her cornflower eyes brimmed with tears. I half expected her to throw herself into my arms and fall sobbing against my chest. Instead, she checked herself a few feet away.
She stopped short and with well-bred reticence climbed up onto the far end of the couch where I was sitting, discreetly distancing herself from me. Someone had drilled impeccable manners into Jennifer Rothman. Daintily she crossed her legs at the ankle and then smoothed the skirt of her plaid pinafore before she looked up at me and spoke.
"Joey's dead," she observed quietly, glancing at me surreptitiously under tear-dampened eyelashes, curious to see how I would receive the shocking news.
"I know," I replied.
"Somebody already told you?"
I nodded.
"Daddy had to come get me from school," she continued. "He's talking with a detective right now. He says for me to wait here until Mother comes to get me."
"Your daddy's right," I said. "It's much better for you to wait out here."
I was grateful James Rothman had shown at least that much sensitivity. Seven-year-old children should never be subjected to the gruesome details of homicide investigations, particularly an investigation into the death of someone they love.
A long, uncomfortable silence followed. Every once in a while she would sniffle or mop away at the determined tears that continued to course down her reddened cheeks.
"Dead means he won't ever come back, doesn't it?" she asked eventually.
I nodded. "That's right. Not ever."
"How come?"
How come people don't come back after they're dead? Where the hell do kids come up with questions like that, and how the hell do you answer them? I'm a cop, not a goddamned philosopher.
I searched my memory banks for some lingering scrap of Sunday school wisdom that might not answer her question outright but would at least offer a smidgen of comfort. I came up totally empty-handed.
"Daddy told me Joey's in heaven now," Jennifer continued when I said nothing. "Is that true?"
"Yes." I answered quickly, not daring to hesitate. "I'm sure he is."
I tried to sound as convincing as possible although I personally had grave doubts as to her brother's eternal destination. The Joey Rothman I knew seemed a most unlikely prospect for halo and wings.
There was another long silence while Jennifer waggled the toe of her scuffed baby tennis shoes. Reeboks, naturally.
"What's Mother going to do now?" she asked, breaking the silence with another totally unexpected question. I wasn't at all sure I understood what she was asking.
"What do you mean?"
More tears spilled out of Jennifer's eyes, but she maintained a surprising level of composure. "Mother always liked Joey best." She spoke the words slowly and guardedly, but with unwavering conviction. She paused and swallowed hard before she continued. "If Joey's dead, will she still love me?"
Jennifer Rothman had dragged me entirely out of my depth in the child psychology department. The Smothers Brothers may have elevated the old "Mom always liked you best" shtick to a money-making art form. The same routine coming from a mourning, grief-stricken seven-year-old child was anything but funny. Her look of utter abandonment sliced through my heart like a hot knife.
Before I could tell her I was sure she was mistaken, before I could offer the reassurance that I was sure her mother loved her just as much as she had loved Joey, the dining room door crashed open once more. Marsha Rothman, Mother herself, hurried inside.
"Mother, Mother," Jennifer wailed, letting loose a cloudburst of noisy sobs. She clambered off the couch and raced toward her mother, catching Marsha Rothman in a desperate tackle as the woman started across the room.
"Joey's dead," Jennifer whimpered, burying her face in her mother's woolen skirt. "Joey's dead."
"I know."
Marsha Rothman's usually unemotional face was distorted by her own grief. Distractedly she placed both hands on Jennifer's heaving shoulders. "Where's Daddy?" she asked.
Jennifer sobbed all the harder and didn't answer.
Feeling like an eavesdropper, I followed Jennifer across the room and stood waiting for the two of them to notice me. Melting mascara had left muddy tracks on Marsha's pallid cheeks. Her skin had the leathery look of someone who has spent years in search of the perfect tan, but now there was no trace of color in her skin. She looked pale, gaunt almost, but not a lock of her perfectly sculpted haircut was out of place.
I was only a few feet away, but she didn't see me. I didn't necessarily like the woman, but at a time like that, personal preferences don't mean much. Marsha Rothman's stepson was dead, and I would do whatever I could to help.
"I'm sorry about Joey," I said quietly, wanting to let her know I was there without startling her.
Despite my cautious tone, Marsha Rothman jumped when I spoke but regained her composure. My words of condolence seemed to strengthen her somehow. She swallowed and stiffened.
"Thank you," she answered formally. "Thank you very much. Do you have any idea where I could find my husband?"
"He went down the hall," I told her. "Probably into Louise Crenshaw's office. The detectives have been using that for a base of operations."