“I gathered that,” Frank said. He lit the cigarette. “Of course, that’s nothing new.”
“But I have no idea what happened to her,” Karen said, “and if she was murdered, I don’t know who killed her.”
“It’s her life I’m looking for right now,” Frank said.
“Why?”
“So I can trace it.”
“To its end?”
“That’s the way it works when you do it by the book,” Frank told her. He took a sip of Scotch, and the warmth hit him suddenly like a sweet promise of relief. He realized he’d want another after this, and then another. He placed the glass firmly down on the table.
Karen looked at him oddly. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” Frank said quickly. He leaned back in his seat, drawing himself away from the beckoning glass. “Did you really not know anything about how Angelica lived?” he asked.
“I tried to watch out for her. I was her sister, after all. But she resented the intrusion.”
“Well, the only things I know right now are that she was rich and beautiful.”
Karen leaned forward. “Does that make it more likely that she was murdered, money and beauty?”
“Less likely, I’d say,” Frank told her. He took a draw on the cigarette. “There’s a saying in a homicide investigation: Follow blood or money.”
“Which means?”
“Well, in most cases people kill each other over money or some family matter.”
Karen shook her head gently. “I didn’t kill my sister, Mr. Clemons.”
“I was thinking more of money,” Frank said. “Did Angelica have much of her own?”
“Yes. She had a trust fund.”
Frank took out his notebook. “She had access to it?”
“Not until recently,” Karen said. “Arthur Cummings administered it. He was my father’s lawyer. And he was, you might say, Angelica’s guardian. At least, he was the guardian of her money.”
“Did he keep tabs on her?”
“I don’t think so,” Karen said. “I don’t think she would have let anyone do that.”
Frank wrote Cummings’ name in his notebook. “Where can I find Arthur Cummings?”
“Cummings, Wainwright and Houstan,” Karen said. “Have you heard of it?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Well, not really. It’s a major law firm, that’s all.”
The sort of high-powered legal muscle that people in Karen’s circle knew about, Frank realized immediately, and people in his circle didn’t.
“I know mostly bailbondsmen and ambulance chasers,” he said.
“You think Cummings is any different?” Karen asked.
“Better suits,” Frank said. He allowed himself to smile with her for the first time. “With the guys I deal with, it’s mostly Mart.”
Karen snuffed out her cigarette, but said nothing.
“Was Cummings your guardian, too?” Frank asked.
“For a few years,” Karen said. “I was almost of age when my parents died. He was my guardian until then.”
“How well do you know him?”
“Not very well,” Karen said. “I recognize his signature. It was always on my checks.”
“And nothing else?”
“He was my father’s best friend. That’s all I know.”
“And as far as you know, Angelica was no closer to him than you?”
“As far as I know,” Karen said. She took a sip of wine. “Besides, if Angelica was murdered, it could have been anybody.”
“Why?”
“Because she was beautiful,” Karen said firmly, “and anyone could have desired her: Arthur, the taxi driver, the kid with the groceries, the stranger in an elevator.” She paused. “Even you, Mr. Clemons.” She picked up the now-empty glass of wine and twirled it in her hands. “Anyone could have desired her, and because of that, anyone could have killed her.” She placed the glass back down on the table and leaned slowly toward him. “Was my sister raped?”
“I don’t know,” Frank said.
For what seemed a very long time, she simply continued to look at him. Then, slowly, a line of moisture gathered in her eyes.
5
When Frank got back to headquarters, he found Caleb already waiting for him, his huge frame slumped in a padded metal chair beside his desk.
“Two things for you,” Caleb said.
“What?”
“Message from your wife.”
“Ex-wife.”
“In my opinion there’s no such thing,” Caleb said. He shrugged. “Anyway, from Sheila.”
“What’s the message?”
“She just wants you to drop by after work.”
“Okay, what else?”
“This,” Caleb said. He took a thin manila folder from his lap and dropped it on Frank’s desk. “Lab work on Angelica Devereaux.”
“Have you read it?”
“Just finished.”
“Any surprises?”
“Well, she wasn’t raped, if that’s what you mean.”
“Does that surprise you?”
Caleb shook his head. “Not much. In my experience, you don’t have to be a looker to get raped. Fat or thin, old or young, it don’t matter.” He smiled sadly. “Like the saying goes, Frank, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” He slid the folder across the desk. “Take a look.”
Frank picked it up. “I met her sister,” he said. He looked at Caleb. “The two of them had lived together since the plane crash.” He shook his head. “Now she has nobody, as far as I can tell.”
Caleb stared at him, unmoved. “When you get down to the wire on it, not many people do. That’s a true fact, unrecorded.” He nodded toward the still-unopened manila folder. “Anyway, we’ve got a cause of death now.” His eyes seemed to withdraw into their large round sockets. “Drano.”
“What?”
“Drano, or something like it,” Caleb repeated. “A lye-based poison. That’s what the lab boys call it.” He took the report from Frank’s hand and opened it. “Here it is,” he said. Then he read directly from the report. “A lye-based poison administered by multiple injection within the pubic region.” He closed the folder. “What do you think?”
Frank eased the report from Caleb’s hands and began to read it. Very little was out of the ordinary. There was no rape, just as Caleb had said, and neither were there any drugs present in her bloodstream.
“Didn’t have so much as a drink for the road,” Caleb said.
Frank continued to read while Caleb stood over him, staring down.
“I can save you some time, Frank,” he said at last.
“What do you mean?”
“She was pregnant,” Caleb said bluntly.
Frank lowered the folder to his desk.
“Meaning it could be something simple,” Caleb added.
“Like what?”
“The law calls it ‘wrongful death.’”
“Meaning what?”
“Maybe she was trying to give herself an abortion.”
“With lye?” Frank asked unbelievingly.
“Anything,” Caleb added. “Some friend at school could have said something, just a line about how lye’ll get rid of a baby.”
Frank continued to watch him doubtfully.
“Remember that Johnson kid, remember him?”
“The kid who hanged himself.”
“That’s right. Everybody but his parents thought it was a suicide.”
“Well, that’s what you think, Caleb, when you’ve got a kid swinging from the rafters with a knocked-over stool right under him.”
“But it wasn’t suicide, Frank,” Caleb said. “His mother kept telling me that, and I believed her.”
“I thought it was the fact that he was naked that bothered you.”
“That, too,” Caleb said. “So, anyway, I checked around and found out that a few kids on the basketball team had told him how great it was to jerk off while you’re just at the edge of consciousness. That’s what he was trying to do.”