“It’s called a presumptive test. Luminol occasionally gives a false positive.”
“It glows like that when it hits something other than blood?”
“Like bleach. That’s why people use bleach to clean up a blood spill. It camouflages the stains. Animal blood would luminesce, too. And horseradish. I know, more than you need to know.”
Horseradish? How weird was that? Because the cocktail sauce that she’d gorged on at the party and then thrown up all over herself had been spicy. It could have been that. Maybe. But if that’s all it was, why would Bunny and then her father have held on to it for all these years?
Deirdre said, “I’m amazed at how bright the reaction is, given how old the stain is.”
“The older the stain, the stronger the glow. But like I say, it’s not proof positive. If you want to know for sure if it’s human blood, I’d need to take a sample to the lab and run more tests.”
Knowing whether the stains were blood wouldn’t bring her any closer to understanding how they’d gotten there or how her father had ended up with the dress. But it would be another piece of information about what happened that night. Eventually, all of it had to fit together.
“Could you?” she said.
“Sure. I’ll take a sample.”
While he was digging in his backpack, she considered whether to show him the knife and ask him to test it, too. But he’d said luminol glowed when it came in contact with animal blood, and surely the knife had been used to carve meat.
Tyler used scissors to cut a small square of stained fabric from the dress and tucked it into a plastic bag. He gave her back the dress and she stuffed it into her bag.
“Sorry,” he said. “Forensics is not an exact science. Sometimes the more you know, the less you’re sure of. Do I still get to take you to breakfast?”
A little while later, Deirdre was sitting next to him on a stool at the counter at Canter’s on Fairfax, inhaling the aroma of pastrami and garlic pickles. The waitress, wearing a shirtwaist with white trim almost exactly like the one Bunny had dressed Deirdre up in for her visit to City Hall, brought them coffee and took their orders. Even as early as it was, the restaurant hummed with customers.
Deirdre sipped her coffee. When she looked across at the mirrored wall opposite them, she caught Tyler staring at her reflection. “Twenty-year-old bloodstains,” he said. “So does this have to do with your car accident?”
Deirdre felt her face flush. She looked away. She was ready to call him for help at five in the morning but not ready to spill her guts.
“Okay, don’t tell me,” Tyler said. “But I might even be able to help with whatever it is that’s got you so stuck.”
“I’m not stuck.”
“Yeah, you are. You can’t even look me in the eye and talk about it.”
The waitress brought over their plates and topped off their coffees. Deirdre poked at her egg. Took a bite. The potatoes in the corned beef hash were crisp and the eggs were done exactly right.
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “These last few days have been a bit much. Between my father and the fire and the mess, it’s a lot to deal with.”
Tyler tucked into his pancakes. “I can’t even imagine. Though I do know cleanup is brutal after a fire, even when you’re not grieving. You know, there are companies who will come in and do it for you.”
“I need to do it myself. At least a first pass. My father named me executor of his literary estate, and a lot of what should have been preserved was up in his office on the second floor of the garage.”
“Have you started? Because water can be just as damaging as fire, especially to paper.”
“So far, the only thing I’ve managed to save is a sleazy photograph.”
“A photograph?”
Deirdre found it in the bottom of her bag and showed it to Tyler. “How’s this for legacy?”
“Joelen Nichol,” Tyler murmured. He took the photo from Deirdre. “You two were always together.”
Of course Tyler remembered Joelen—he and the rest of the male population of Beverly Hills.
Tyler raised the photograph to the light. “You think that’s your dad?” he asked, pointing to the photographer reflected in the mirror over Joelen’s head.
“Isn’t it?” she said.
He slipped a key ring from his pocket. Hanging on the ring along with keys was a small magnifying glass. Tyler examined the photograph through it. “Have a close look, why don’t you?” He handed Deirdre the magnifier.
Deirdre positioned the lens and looked through it. The photographer’s face was hidden behind the camera’s viewfinder, the lens accordioned from its box. The man had her father’s hair. Same general build. Same stance. But that wasn’t what sent a shiver down Deirdre’s back as she leaned closer to the magnifying glass. On the arm of the photographer’s leather jacket was a Harley-Davidson double-winged eagle patch.
Her father wasn’t a biker. Her brother was.
Chapter 34
Staring at the Harley eagle patch, Deirdre tried to remember when Henry had gotten into muscle bikes. Seemed like it hadn’t been until after he dropped out of college with only a collection of electric guitars and a few demo tapes to show for his dreams of becoming a serious musician.
“What are you thinking?” Tyler asked. He pushed away his empty plate and signaled the waitress to top off their coffees.
“I’m thinking it’s a shame that my brother never finished college.”
“He was cool. I remember in high school, he had that swagger. And girls—” Tyler whistled.
“Yeah. Girls were all over him. I think he had a great time in high school. Not me. I was so glad when it was over.”
“Me too.”
They talked for a while longer, comparing notes on what Beverly had been like if you didn’t cheerlead or play football or drive a Ferrari. Deirdre could easily have stayed and talked longer, but at half past eight Tyler said he had to get to work. He told her that first thing in the morning was the best time to file a request for the record that the insurance adjuster needed. The Records Office at City Hall opened at nine. Deirdre stopped on her way home, pulled the number 12 from the number dispenser, and was out of there twenty minutes later.
As she drove home, she thought about Henry. He’d tacitly deflected the blame to Arthur for photographs that he’d taken. He’d also let her father take the blame for the car accident that left her crippled. Which reminded her of something Arthur had mentioned in his memoir—Bunny’s comment that Arthur was as much to blame for what had happened as she was.
When Deirdre got home, she would question her mother and Henry, both of them. Together. She wanted to know exactly what each of them knew about what happened that night. No more sidestepping, shading the truth, or lying to protect anyone, including herself.
But when she neared her father’s house, she realized a dark sedan was parked in front. She pulled over to watch from a distance as a pair of uniformed police officers got out of the car and started up the front walk.
Any plan she’d had of confronting Henry and Gloria evaporated. The police must have obtained another search warrant, as Sy had predicted. If they looked in her bag, she didn’t have a good explanation, even for herself, for what was in it.
She drove slowly past the front of the house. Caught a glimpse of the front door opening. Just then, a motorcycle came roaring out of the driveway and sped past her, up the block. Deirdre recognized Henry’s red-and-gold helmet. He’d probably seen the police arriving and decided to disappear. She made a quick U-turn and took off after him.
Henry slowed at a stop sign a few blocks later. Deirdre tooted her horn and flashed her lights. But he barely glanced over his shoulder. Just flipped her the bird before peeling out and roaring up the street.
So it’s like that, is it? She accelerated, peeling out after him. Thirty miles an hour. Forty. Henry slowed but didn’t stop to turn left onto Sunset. Deirdre had to screech to a halt at the corner as a stream of cross traffic held her back. Taking advantage of a minuscule gap between cars, she nipped out onto Sunset, earning herself a horn blast and her second expressive middle finger of the morning. Ahead of her, she could see Henry on his bike slowing. Turning into the driveway of the Nichols’ estate. Why was he going there?