Luxuriating in bogus confession.
Despite my aversion to snap diagnoses, a diagnostic label kept creeping into my mind:
Narcissistic personality disorder. Pathological egotism.
It fit. Even with the way he’d chosen to make a living. Beauty and Balance. Access and Excel. The catalogue was a paean to narcissism. I was willing to bet he’d put his brainchild ahead of his children. Put himself ahead of everyone and everything.
I tried to imagine what it would have been like to be one of his children, and my sympathy for Holly climbed another rung.
“So,” he said, “we seem to be doing well. What else can I help you with, Doctor?”
“How did Howard and Holly get along?”
“Very well- no fights.”
“Did they have much to do with each other?”
“Not much. Howard was busy with his activities- studies, extracurricular clubs- and Holly stayed in her room. That’s not to say he didn’t love her- he was always concerned about her, if a bit baffled.”
“How’s he holding up?”
“Like a trooper.”
“Is he married?”
“Of course. Has a big house in Encino, south of the boulevard. One lovely daughter, sharp as a tack. They’re all holding up like troopers. Go visit them, see for yourself. You really should, now that I think about it. Do speak with Howard.”
Sounding urgent.
Go talk to my intelligent child. The one that came out good.
I said, “What about friends?”
“Holly? No, she didn’t have any. When she was very young I remember a few neighborhood children coming over. They made noise and bothered my work and I had to shoo them outside. But eventually that stopped. Holly wasn’t much for group play.”
“When did it stop?”
He thought about that. “What you want me to say is that everything changed after her mother died, right? But in terms of the friend situation, I’m afraid I can’t be that definite. In fact I’m almost certain she lacked playmates well before Betty’s death. She wasn’t much of a playmate herself, liked to go off on her own and leave her little guests in the lurch.”
“What about when she got older? Did she make any school chums?”
“None. She didn’t like anything related to school, wanted to drop out when she was fifteen, nagged me to allow her to take the equivalency test. I knew she’d fail it and refused to let her, but she kept on me- she could be quite stubborn when she set her mind on something. Finally, when she was sixteen, I agreed. She took it. And failed.”
“Did that bother her?”
“Not really. Neither of us was surprised. I made her stick it out at Pali until she graduated- at least get the paper. Not that she’d earned it, but the ninnies just kept passing her through. Typical civil service approach- take the path of least resistance.”
“What did she do after graduation?”
“Stayed home. Listened to her radio- the pop music, and talk shows. She could play it twenty-four hours a day. I assigned her household chores: straightening, cleaning, doing simple paperwork. She enjoyed doing things for me.”
Free live-in help. Convenient. Some men’s idea of a wife. “Did she make any recent acquaintances? Since graduation?”
“How could she? She never went anywhere.”
I said, “I’ve been told she was friendly with a delivery boy from Dinwiddie’s Market. Isaac Novato.”
His jaw set and he moved forward on his chair. “Where did you hear about this supposed friendship?”
“I was told he was someone she knew, they were seen talking.”
“Talking. Well, that’s possible. The boy delivered groceries to our home. Every week. Holly let him in and gave him his tip, so I suppose they might have talked as part of the transaction. What else did you hear?”
“That’s about it.”
“Is it? Well, I doubt they were actually friends. Not that it would bother me if they had been. No doubt you know he’s black. Unlike others in this neighborhood- in this country- I consider race irrelevant. I judge a person by his accomplishments, not the concentration of melanin in his skin.”
Given that credo, I wondered how he’d judged his daughter.
He said, “You seem skeptical.”
“Not at all.”
“Novato was treated decently in this house. Feel free to ask him.”
“That’s not possible,” I said. “He’s dead.”
“Dead?” The shock froze his face, thawing gradually but not completely, leaving him with a distant look in his eyes. First reaction I’d seen out of him that I was certain was spontaneous.
“When did he die?”
“Last September.”
“September. Come to think of it, I don’t recall seeing him for a while.”
“Did Holly show any signs of being upset around that time?”
“Upset? No, not that I noticed. How did he die?”
“He was murdered.”
“Oh, my. By whom?”
“It’s unsolved. The police think it was some sort of drug deal gone bad.”
“The police… Do they think there’s some connection to Holly?”
“No. It just came up when they traced her former acquaintances.”
“Acquaintances,” he said. “One thing I can guarantee you is that Holly had nothing to do with drugs.”
“I’m sure she didn’t.”
“She had nothing to do with shooting at children, either.” Pause. “But what if she got… caught up in something? If Novato got her into something.”
“Such as?”
“Some kind of corruption.”
He closed his eyes. A long silence passed and his face lost expression; taking his self-absorption under wraps. One of the laser printers spewed paper. Some of it fell to the floor. He ignored it, finally opened his eyes.
“Anything else?” he said, still sounding preoccupied.
“The police said it was your rifle she took to the school. Did she know how to shoot?”
“Not at all. She hated weapons. My firearms collection was the one part of the house she refused to clean. So that whole theory is nonsense.”
“She was found with the rifle.”
“That doesn’t make her a murderer. She could have been lured there, convinced to take the Remington with her.”
A flight of wishful thinking rapid enough to make my nose bleed. I said, “Lured how?”
“I don’t know. Yet. But this Novato situation gives me something to chew on. Perhaps one of his gang friends had something to do with it.”
“There’s no evidence he was involved with gangs.”
“In this city, drugs mean gangs.”
Another long silence.
I said, “When did yon notice the rifle was missing?”
“I didn’t, but that means nothing. I rarely looked at the collection- I’d lost interest in it.”
“Where do you keep the collection?”
He got up and took me back out into the hall. The door next to Holly’s room opened to a deep cedar closet lined with gun racks on three walls. The racks were empty. The floor had been vacuumed. The space smelled of machine oil and tarnish.
“The police took all of it,” he said. “Every piece. For analysis. I’m supposed to get it back soon. But you can bet it will take plenty of wrestling with red tape.”
I counted eight slots on each of the three racks. “Nice size collection.”
“All long guns. Antiques, for the most part. Flintlocks. Black powder. In nonfunctional condition. I bought the lot as an investment when I was being discharged from the service. An old army acquaintance needed quick cash. They’ve performed quite nicely as investments, though I never bothered to sell because, frankly, I don’t need the money.”
Thinking of Holly’s poor marksmanship, I said, “What about the Remington?”
“What about it?”
“Was it a collector’s item too?”
“No, just a run-of-the-mill Remington. Legal and registered.”
“For hunting?”
He shook his head. “Used to hunt but haven’t since I was a boy. I was an excellent shot- won marksman’s ribbons in the army- but I had no reason to pursue it any further. The rifle was for personal protection.”