"My mother wanted to come. She decided."
"And you came along like a good girl," King said. "Did your mother know Claudia too, before she came here?"
"Yes. They were roommates for a while in college. A very long time ago." Careful, she told herself. Don't say any more, don't mention the baby. That was far too private. She had so much thinking to do!
King was watching her struggle to say no more. "And what about you? Did you know her?" he said.
"Not at all. I didn't know who ran this place. I just-" I just blindly followed, she thought.
King said nothing. He rubbed his chin.
"So all of the new guests either knew Claudia before or came with someone who did," Caroline said. "As though Claudia had some purpose in mind in gathering together this particular group."
"She didn't do it as a friendly get-together," King said. "Not her style."
"Tell the police," Caroline said.
"After I find out who killed her."
"You? But why should you?"
"Because her killer took the thing I came here for. I need to get that back. Then the cops can have whoever it is."
"That could be dangerous."
King threw back his head and laughed. A product of who knew how many brawls and riots, he obviously wasn't afraid of much. Then he said, "I'd like that to mean you care about what happens to me."
She got to her feet, and he jumped up and again was standing too close. She had gotten up too quickly-or was it his proximity making her dizzy?-and a fantasy blew into her mind, born of resentment toward Douglas as well as King's slow smile. Any second now he would stretch out his arms to her, pick her up lightly, run off with her into the woods and-
"Caroline?" he said, still smiling, embarrassing her, knowing somehow what she was thinking.
"Yes?"
"What were you doing last night at two a.m.? I saw you go by my cabin."
"I-I-"
He leaned down and put his mouth to her ear, and she could smell the scent of him, woody and slightly pungent.
"I won't tell," he whispered. "Just give me the key you took from her."
"No! It wasn't me!" She stared at him, wide-eyed. His eyes with the lightning bolts gleamed like the lake, and suddenly she thought she caught something cold and terrible in there. He could easily kill Claudia, the way he had lived for so long, lawless and wild. And he was a magician, the way he held you with his eyes and touched you and fascinated you, a master of misdirection.
"You found Claudia, didn't you? You had time to take it. Don't be afraid, I won't tell anyone else. Our secret. But I need the key."
"Maybe you killed her and didn't have time to take this key you're talking about," she said, breathing hard. "But I sure didn't."
He cocked his head, held her eyes, then nodded. "I believe you. Then your mother must have it."
Caroline felt the memory like a knife, saw it all again, her mother touching Claudia's body.
"No!" She shoved him hard, taking advantage of his surprise to get him out of her way, and took off running. The long rays of sun jabbed through the haze here and there, striping the path in dark and gold, confusing her. She ran on in what she hoped was the direction of her cabin, every sense occupied with getting there and avoiding a misstep.
Through her ragged panting she could swear she heard another breath, a panting behind her, rhythmic and determined. King David?
Or someone else?
Vince leaned back in his chair, which he found cloyingly comfortable, put his hands behind his head and his feet up on the granite, and listened to the noise in the corridor outside. The first one to arrive had barged right in, and Vince had kicked him out just as fast.
All the lawyers had arrived by now, in rapid succession, importantly, noisily, tethered to their attaches, raising hell with the patrolman outside for making them wait.
Vince did not budge. He twisted his lower lip and thought. After a while, a skittish police officer finally knocked and edged in, locking the door behind him.
"They all out there yet?" Vince said. "Let's see, we got lawyers for the Hollywood boozer, the husband, the macho employee, the rocker, the Madame Blavatsky lady, and the supermodel."
"There's five Hermes ties and one pair of Manolo Blahnik spike heels out there, sir. The suits are all gray and black. Two of them have been waiting almost an hour. The woman lawyer just got here."
"Fine."
"They're starting to froth, sir. Staring at their watches and barking into their cell phones. The woman has her laptop out, but the men may try to beat the door down if you don't see them soon."
"I hear you, Mike. Did you offer them anything to drink?"
"No, sir, like you said-"
"Good, good."
"Sir?"
Vince was looking out the window again. He had a nice view of the lake, not a hint of the smog up here. Birdies twittered outside and the whole scene was like a postcard. Yeah, staged for the photographer. Ten minutes before, King David and the congressman's wife had been sitting by the lake having a heavy discussion. Then she jumped up and ran around a turn in the path, and he had lost sight of them. "Huh? Yeah?" he said.
"How long before I start bringing them in?"
"Listen, Mike," Vince said, not taking his eyes off the view. "Three hours ago I asked those important people outside to answer a few questions about a murder in their freakin' midst. And you know what they did?"
"No, sir."
"They were disrespectful and uncooperative. They tried to jack me around."
"Not good, sir."
"Right you are. So I gave them time to round up some local mouthpieces, and I applied myself to other freakin' aspects of the case. Because we got a duty, right, Mike? Rich people, that's the problem. Exercisin' rights poor people don't even know they have."
Knock knock knock. "I need to see the detective," an authoritative baritone announced.
Vince motioned with his finger for Mike to come closer. "Fifteen more minutes, Mikey," he said. "Let 'em stew in it, okay?" He turned back to the papers on the table.
"Yes, sir." Mike threw open the door. A balding man in a thousand-dollar suit was standing there, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in fury. "Step back," Mike ordered. "Step back there. Detective Toscana is not ready for you yet."
Fifteen minutes later a slightly less balding man entered, ushered by Mike, clutching a heavy briefcase as if he'd already drafted a bunch of briefs and wrapped the whole thing up. The wait had fired him up and he started talking before he even sat down. Behind him came Howard Fondulac, unshaven, uncombed, and undone. Vince switched on the tape recorder.
"Outrageous," the lawyer was saying. It was a routine lawyer greeting. Sort of like "hello."
"Please," Vince said, feeling better than he had in hours. "Take a seat, gentlemen." They sat down in front of the table and right away the producer, if that was what he really was, Vince was going to check him out, spoke up. "I don't know anything. I've got to go back to LA right away. Important business. Meetings. Commitments."
"I'll do the talking," said the lawyer.
"Well, tell him."
"My name is Eric Derrick." He handed Vince a card engraved so deep it was practically coming apart. He had a slow Southern accent that gave Vince time to grind his teeth between words. "Mr. Fondulac was sound asleep from ten P.M. until eleven a.m. this morning. He is shocked and distressed at this situation, and he fears for his own safety since a killer appears to be running free on the property. He has booked a flight leaving in two hours, and-"
"He's not going anywhere," Vince said.
"But Mr. Fondulac has important business-"
"His current business is right here. Nobody's leaving at the moment."
"But you can't-there's a murderer loose!"
Vince just sat there and looked at him and let the inanity of that statement sink in. Eventually even the lawyer got it, if the merest hint of a blush on the top of the ears was any indication.
"Yeah, you got that right, and we're trying to do something about it," Vince said finally. "Like talk to the witnesses. You mind?"