"A million two, though." For Darrel Bracco, son of a cop, a million dollars might as well be a trillion. They were both unfathomably large sums of money, a lifetime's worth of money.
Clearly, though, not so for Fisk. "You ever read a book called Bonfire of the Vanities?"
"Was that a book? I think I saw the movie."
"Yeah, well, the movie sucked, but it was a book first. Anyway, a cool thing in the book was this guy running down the list of his expenses, showing how impossible it was to get along on only a million dollars a year. And this was like ten years ago."
"He should have called me," Bracco said. "I could have helped him out."
"The point," Fisk pressed on, "is that maybe we just did learn something we can use from Aunt Kathy. Instead of concentrating on how rich Ross is, it might be smarter to think how poor he is. I mean, face it, if your expenses are greater than your income, you're poor, right? No matter what you make."
They stopped at Kaiser first and discovered that Mrs. Kensing had called in sick.
The rain that had been falling steadily since last night had found a new life. Monsoonlike, driven nearly horizontal by strong winds off the ocean, the drops pelted both inspectors as they stood on her front stoop. She answered the door wearing heavy gray socks, designer jeans, and a red, cowl-neck pullover. Bracco's immediate impression was that she hadn't slept in a couple of days.
Her shoulder-length blond hair was a mess. Without makeup of any kind, she appeared drawn and gaunt. Still, there was no hiding her attractiveness. Her eyes, especially, were deep-set, wide and compelling, almost electric blue. He'd never seen eyes quite like them.
Even after they'd introduced themselves, badges out, Mrs. Kensing simply stared at them until Bracco finally asked if they could come in. Nodding, she took a step back, opening the door as she withdrew. "I'm sorry," she said ambiguously, then waited another long moment before she brought the door closed behind them all.
The light was dim in the vestibule. They stood dripping on the woven cloth rug in the tiny area. "Maybe we should…" she said distractedly, and not finishing the sentence, led the way a few steps down a short hall, then to the right into the kitchen.
Overflowing onto the floor, a huge load of laundry lay piled on the table. Skirting that, she pulled out a stool. The counter still held dirty dishes from the morning-a milk and a juice carton, two boxes of cereal, some brown pear and banana slices on a cracked saucer. Finally she focused on them where they stood in the small humid room.
"All right. What?" The startling eyes flicked back and forth between the inspectors.
Bracco pulled out his tape recorder and put it on the counter in front of her. He cleared his throat and recited his name and the date, his badge number, the usual. He hadn't rehearsed what he was going to say, hadn't really considered what the woman's state of mind might be before she'd opened the door. But now he had to begin with something soon or, he sensed, she'd throw them both out. "Mrs. Kensing, Tim Markham and you were lovers, weren't you?"
She cleared her throat. "We used to be, but he broke it off. Twice."
"Why?"
"Because he was guilty about his family. Especially he didn't want to hurt his kids. But he didn't love his wife anymore. So he kept coming back to me."
"But he left you again, too? Isn't that right?" Bracco asked.
"Temporarily. He would have come back again."
"So why did he leave?"
"Because he had to try again with them. One more time, he said."
Fisk asked, "And when was that?"
"Last week. Late last week."
"And were you okay with that?" Bracco asked. "With his decision?"
"How could I be? I knew…" Her eyes were hard. "I knew he'd come back to me eventually, just like he always did. He loved me. I didn't see why he had to put everyone through it again. All the back and forth. I told him he should just separate. Make it clean."
"The way you did in your marriage?" Fisk asked.
If she took offense, she didn't show it. "Yeah, like I did. As soon as I realized I loved Tim and not Eric, I told him he had to move out. I mean, what was the point? I wasn't going to live a lie."
Fisk looked across at his partner. "And how did Carla take all this? His leaving her?"
"He never left her," she corrected him bitterly. "I was always on the side."
"But she knew about you? What then?"
"Well, she threatened him, of course. Said she'd leave him and take all his money. He wouldn't get visitation. That's why he went back."
"You mean this last time?"
But Fisk didn't wait for her to answer his partner's question. "You know that Carla and the children are dead, too?"
She went still for a beat. Then, "I saw that, but I turned it all off. I'm not interested in her. She doesn't have anything to do with me." She looked up at them in defiance. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. I don't care about her."
Fisk spoke up. "Maybe Carla didn't take him back? Maybe she was still mad at him?"
Suddenly she broke and raised her voice. "Aren't you listening to me?! It was done." The wind gusted and heavy drops pounded at the kitchen window. "He was going to tell her everything he'd done wrong in his life. Make a fresh start. What a fucking fool!"
"But did he in fact tell her?" Fisk asked.
"Who cares? What could it matter now? I never saw him again after he left me," she snapped. "I don't know what he did."
"And when was that?" Bracco asked more gently. "The last time you saw him?"
She slapped angrily at the counter. "Goddamnit! I don't care! Don't you hear me? What matters is I'm left here." She gestured despairingly around the cluttered, tiny kitchen. "Here. By myself."
Fisk asked abruptly, "Did you know that your husband treated Mr. Markham at Portola?"
"Yeah, I knew that. I saw him right after." Her gaze sharpened. "Why is that important?"
"Markham had broken up your marriage. Maybe he still hated him."
"Yeah, but so what?" She shook her head wearily. "This all shook out two years ago. It's ancient history."
The inspectors shared a glance. "You're saying he wasn't still bitter?" Fisk asked.
"Sure he was bitter. He made no bones about hating Tim. He always…" She hesitated. "Why?"
Fisk told her. "We're trying to find out who killed him, Mrs. Kensing. I know you'll want to know that, too."
Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, killed him? He got hit by a car."
"No, ma'am, he was killed," Bracco said.
"You didn't know that?" Fisk asked harshly. "Didn't you read the paper this morning?"
"Yeah," she answered in a voice heavy with sarcasm. "I got my kids off to school, then had the maid bring in the paper with my coffee and bonbons. She hasn't gotten to the laundry or the dishes yet." Dismissing Fisk, she turned to Bracco. "You're saying somebody ran him over on purpose?"
Bracco shook his head. "It wasn't the accident," he said. "He was killed at the hospital. Somebody shot him up with potassium."
Her eyes flashed with the onset of panic. "I don't know what you're saying."
Fisk took a step toward her. "You're a nurse and you don't know about potassium?"
"Of course I know that. What about it with Tim, though, with his dying?"
"It's what killed him," Bracco replied. "Really."
Slowly, the news seemed to register. "In the hospital?" Then slowly, as the thought congealed, her face changed by degrees until finally it was contorted with rage. "That son of a bitch. That miserable motherfucker." She looked from one inspector to the other, her rasping voice filled with conviction. "You can stop looking," she said. "I know who killed him."
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