This, Cerrone was sure, was what had happened. And the beauty and pathos of it was that there was no way that Graham could own up to what he’d done, not if he ever wanted to work again.
After her morning meeting with Glitsky, Sarah’s turmoil increased by the hour. By sunset, when she parked down the street from Graham’s place, she was a wreck. Twice during the day Marcel had wanted to come up here to Edgewood, find Graham, push a few of his buttons, see what popped up. Sarah told him they ought to wait, get more on him, bide their time. In reality she wanted to keep Marcel out of it, to go see Graham again by herself. This was dangerous on many levels, she knew, and unprofessional on all of them, but she was going to do it anyway.
For the first time in her career she wasn’t sure she was after the right person. Suddenly, after last night’s really meaningless discussion at the ballpark, she’d lost her cop’s simple take on Graham Russo. He’d become mostly a human being, not mostly a suspect.
And worse, he was a human being she could be attracted to, was already attracted to. It was wise to acknowledge that, keep it in front of her.
She knew it was a bad situation, untenable really. She ought to take herself off the case. Her objectivity was shot.
But what if that apparent objectivity led her and Marcel to the wrong conclusion? They might, for the second time, arrest the wrong man – a black mark on each of their careers, a possible false-arrest lawsuit, to say nothing of the grief to Graham. This is what she wanted to avoid, why she wanted to see Graham without her partner hovering.
She’d talk to Graham and get it clear to her own satisfaction, lay this ambivalence to rest. He was either a murder suspect or not. She had to know for herself. Then she could do her job.
That was all it was. She was just making sure, taking that extra step, being a good cop. That’s what she told herself.
But there was one other problem: she found she couldn’t shake a kind of simmering anger at Graham for having put her in this position. Was he manipulating her, or trying to? Who was this guy? He shouldn’t have come up to her at the ballpark. They were enemies, on opposite sides. What was that all about? Arrogance, as Marcel contended? Or was Graham simply, as he’d appeared, a sweet guy who held nothing against the woman who’d arrested him, had wanted no more than to tell her that he knew she was only doing her job? No hard feelings.
She just didn’t know. It was personal somehow, and it shouldn’t have ever gotten to there. It made her mad.
She was going to find out who he was.
Graham and another man stood talking out in the street in front of his place. It was full dusk and the fog had thinned up here on the hill, though the wind still gusted fitfully, shaking fistfuls of blossoms, snowlike, from the trees around them.
Sarah walked up, dressed for business in a blue suit as she’d been all day. ‘Hello, Graham.’
He turned to look at her. She thought she saw something welcoming in his face, though it disappeared instantly.
She kept moving toward him. ‘Your father called you twice on Friday morning. What did you two talk about?’
It tore at her heart to see something go out of Graham’s shoulders, but he recovered quickly, bringing his companion into it. ‘This is my favorite cop, Sergeant Evans. Sarah, Mike Cerrone. He’s a reporter.’
The reporter put out his hand, and she took it. ‘You’re not with the Chronicle.’ Sarah knew the locals, and this guy wasn’t one of them.
‘Time,’ he answered.
‘My, how the word do get around.’
In truth, she’d been expecting something like this. The shop talk at the Hall was about how big this had gotten in a hurry. And now Time.
‘You boys been drinking?’ she asked. To Cerrone: ‘I could call you a cab. Here in the Wild West it’s considered bad form to drink and drive.’
Graham had his grin back. ‘What did I tell you? She is some pistol. Don’t let her sweet looks fool you.’
‘I don’t think they were going to,’ Cerrone said. He never took his eyes from her. In fact, Graham had mentioned her, but only in passing. Now it seemed to Cerrone – an instinct – that there was something more here, or might be. More story. An attractive female investigator coming up alone to interview him at night? ‘How ’bout coffee instead? Go inside, kill an hour, get sober.‘
‘Coffee just makes you wide-awake drunk.’
‘I don’t think I’m drunk.’
‘Nobody thinks they’re drunk. That’s kind of the problem.’
‘Hey!’ Graham said, getting their attention. ‘What’s with you guys? I think I’m drunk, how about that? I’ll make coffee.’
Evans looked at him levelly. ‘If you invite me in without a warrant…’
But Graham had already turned, heading for his door. ‘What a hardass,’ he said. ‘I’m going in, I’m freezing. You can come or don’t, I don’t care.’
Cerrone, in a mock gallant gesture, indicated Evans should precede him. She did.
Nobody was in a hurry to get down to business. Graham had put on the coffee, then some music – Celine Dion’s French Album. Cerrone hated it. Didn’t Graham have any Alanis Morissette? Evans was somehow relieved that Graham didn’t. She didn’t want to think he had that much affinity for rage. In the end he put on Chris Isaak’s Baja Sessions, came back to the table. Sarah finally asked him again about his father’s phone calls on the morning of his death.
Graham sighed wearily. ‘Okay, we talked twice on Friday.’
‘What did you talk about?’
Graham drank some of his coffee, then seemed to remember something. ‘Are you recording this? Not that it matters. With Mike here I’ve been recording all day. How many tapes we go through today, Mike?’
‘Five.’
Sarah processed that, then got out her own recorder. ‘The electronic age, you gotta love it.’ Her face dimpled prettily. ‘Thanks for reminding me.’ She gave her introduction, and asked again.
‘We talked about his pain mostly.’ He paused and stared out at the blackness. ‘Actually’ – his voice took on a husky edge – ‘Sal and me, we had the same discussion twice. The first one kind of went away. Maybe the second one, too, I don’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘It was one of his bad days.’
Sarah found that she had to blink. This response – ‘It was one of his bad days’ – was Graham’s first real reference to the day-to-day fact of Sal’s condition. In her concentration on the son she’d nearly forgotten the father.
With difficulty she found the thread and picked it up again. ‘Your father called you seventeen times in the past month, Graham.’
He nodded. ‘Something like that, I guess.’
‘So what did he want you to do?’
The huskiness remained in his voice. He’d obviously been drinking. His defenses were down. She was sure this was honest and raw emotion, an open wound. ‘I don’t know what he wanted that day. It wasn’t one thing – it varied. He was dying, you understand? He’d wake up and not know where he was. He was scared. He needed his hand held. He just wanted to talk to somebody. Take your pick, Sergeant. He counted on me.’
At the opposite end of the table Cerrone was an irritant. God only knew what impression this interrogation was making on him. But Sarah had a tipsy and emotional Graham talking voluntarily. The opportunity had to be taken if she was to get what she needed.
Cerrone stared at her disapprovingly, but she ignored him. ‘All right, he counted on you. And what did you do, that day, after the second call?’
Graham sipped at his coffee. He put the cup down and brought his hand to his face, rubbing at his jawline as though it had gone numb. When he spoke, his voice was flat. ‘It wasn’t just a bad day. It had been a terrible couple of weeks, just terrible. Everything was going downhill – the pain, the forgetting, all the sudden, way worse than it had been. I don’t know what happened, if the tumor affected the Alzheimer’s somehow. I don’t know what it was. But something had changed. Something was going to have to be done.’