Garden House was a two-story residence in South Pasadena, a vintage Craftsman bungalow with a big front porch and an old, established garden with bleeding heart and flowering shrimp plants that had gone out of style, and bright orange Joseph’s Coat roses on trellises. The lawn was always a bit overtrodden and dusty, because there was always something going on out there—a badminton net had been up all spring, and before that one of the kids had decided it was a good spot for a horseshoe pit. Till had to remind himself not to call them kids aloud, because that irritated Holly. They were adults. Holly was twenty-one already, and she could cook and drive a car, and she had been almost self-supporting for three years. Till smiled to himself. That was better than he had done during his first three years in the detective business.
Whenever Till visited Garden House he drove around the block once, doubled back to be sure he had not been followed, and then parked his car in a different spot at least a block away and walked. He had been a homicide cop for a long time, and now he often took cases that left people angry with him. He had always dreaded the possibility of leading anyone to Garden House, and he knew that beginning today, his precautions would need to be more elaborate: He had just made sure that a potential killer knew his name. He took a last glance behind him as he walked up the sidewalk to the porch and rang the doorbell. Even though Till and the parents of the five other kids had formed a trust that paid for Garden House, the idea from the beginning was that it belonged to the kids, and the parents were guests.
The door swung open and there was Bob Driscoll, his face already in a grin. “Hi, Jack,” he said, his voice loud and happy. “Come on in, Jack.” He pulled the door open wide, and Till followed him into the living room.
“Hi, Bob. How have you been?”
“Great. Just great. I got a different job. It pays a lot better than the car wash. I’m working at this little organic vegetable store on Foothill called Darlene’s Farm. Come in and see us. You’re here to visit Holly, of course.”
“Sure am. Seen her around?”
“Not in a while. She and Marie went to buy groceries. And Nancy, maybe. Yeah. I think the three of them went. Holly, Marie, Nancy. Hey! I bet you could stay for dinner. They were going to get some stuff to make an Italian dinner together.”
“No, I don’t think so, thanks. I just dropped by for a little visit with her. You know I have to see how my little girl is.”
“She’s great, Jack. You’ll see.” He sat quietly for a moment. “And how about you? How have you been?”
“Not so bad, I think. I’m pretty much always the same. How are your parents?”
“I saw them last week. They’re getting old, but they’re still happy.”
As Till looked at Bob Driscoll, he could not keep himself from seeing the distinctive features of a person with Down syndrome—the rounded head and body, the slightly protuberant eyes and small nose. The young people who lived in Garden House all resembled each other more than they resembled their relatives. It was as though Garden House were a family. The young people also seemed to share things that were more fundamental, a set of attitudes and mannerisms that they picked up from each other, and an outlook that often made them seem to him to be like half-wise, unspoiled children. But they were no longer children.
The birth had been in December. During the pregnancy, Rose had decreed that the baby would be Christopher if it was a boy, and Holly if it was a girl. Her obstetrician had not seen any reason to insist on amnio, because all was going well, and Rose was healthy and twenty-four. There had been no warning that something had happened on chromosome twenty-one, and that Holly had Down syndrome.
By the next December, Rose had already walked out on them, and Till was making his first Christmas celebration for his only child, Holly. Her first birthday, on the tenth, had been a quiet two-person affair, with Holly asleep at seven, and he had resolved never to let any celebration be quiet again. Every birthday and every Christmas after that had been big and boisterous, with the house full of people. Till had noticed with satisfaction that since Holly had come to live at Garden House, her three birthday parties had been long, raucous, and messy.
He heard the car come in the driveway, then a couple of doors slam. He stood to look out. Holly and the two other girls were laughing and chattering as usual, and then, as though she had felt his gaze, Holly looked toward the house. “Dad!”
He came out onto the porch. “Hi, Holly. Can I help with the groceries?”
“Sure. I was looking to see if Bob and Randy would help, but I see they’re hiding until all the work is done.”
“That’s how men are,” he said. “I warned you.”
“You’re not that way, Jack,” Marie said.
“That’s because Holly trained me.”
“Hello, Jack,” said Nancy. “Long time no see.”
“I was here on Wednesday, Nancy.”
“I know. I just like to say that.”
“Okay, then.” He lifted some of the grocery bags, went inside with the others and set the bags on the counter.
When their arms were free, Holly threw hers around his neck and they exchanged their usual exuberant hug. “Can you stay for dinner?”
“I don’t think so tonight. I’m in the beginning of a hard case, and I’ve got to do some things tonight. But thanks. I really just dropped by because I wanted to talk to you a little.”
“Really? How come?”
“Because I like to talk to you.”
“That’s because you love me,” she said. “It’s good.”
“I know.”
“Come on, then,” Holly said. “Let’s go for a walk while we talk.”
“Okay.”
She called to the empty doorway to the hall, “Don’t stand there, Bob. You can start the water boiling while I talk to Dad.”
Bob emerged from the hallway, unabashed. “Okay.”
Till and Holly walked out across the porch, down the steps to the sidewalk and strolled up the street past more old houses, all of them refurbished during the past few years. Till said, “How are things this week, Holly? I know it didn’t go too well last week.”
“It’s better. Work has been more fun since I got Nancy hired. We’ve been doing a big cleaning to get ready for the summer sales. We may even paint the place. Mrs. Fournier and I are thinking it over.”
“Sounds ambitious.”
She looked over her shoulder. “We’re far enough from the house now to talk. What’s up?”
“It’s this case.”
“You got it today?”
“Not really. It’s something that happened six years ago. You were about fifteen then. I don’t know if you remember. I was gone for a bit over a week. You stayed with Grandma.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I remember staying with Grandma a few times. Usually you just had a girlfriend and you were sleeping with her.”
He smiled uncomfortably. That was part of it, too. To Holly there didn’t seem to be any special categories of things that weren’t for discussion. “It’s possible,” he said. “But this was something else. It took over a week. It was a girl who was hurt and scared. I took her far away and taught her how to stay hidden from some bad men.”
“Good for you, Dad. You’re the best!”
“Well, it may be that I’m going to get in trouble for helping her hide. I found out that an innocent man—an old boyfriend of hers—is being accused of killing her. So I had to go to the District Attorney’s office and admit that I took her away and she’s living somewhere else.”
“Why?”
“So the DA would tell the police to let him go.”