“You didn’t want to hurt your mother, but your father…”
“You get to a point,” said Murphy. “And Dad and I were never close. He was always working, always too busy. I didn’t resent it, he did what he had to do, we just weren’t close. Even after I started living with him, we had very little to say to each other.”
She flinched, sucked in a breath, quickened her step.
“How long did you live with him?”
“On and off,” Murphy reiterated. “A month or so. I kept most of my stuff at my house, would bring a few changes to Dad’s. The story I gave him was I was working a double shift and didn’t want to drive home tired. Dad’s place was a lot closer to the hospital.”
Covina to Hollywood was an hour drive, minimum, a lot hairier with traffic. The trip from Solis’s house on Ogden near Olympic was a lark in comparison, so that much rang true.
“When did you tell your father the truth?” said Petra.
“I didn’t. My sibs did. A few days before the murder.”
“What about Dave?”
“Dave already knew. He wasn’t angry, he was sad. Depressed. Don’t go there. Really.”
Petra decided she’d be talking to Dave Murphy, sooner rather than later. She nodded at Murphy, tried to look reassuring. “So is there anything about your father’s murder that you’ve thought about since the first detectives spoke to you?”
“I only talked to one detective,” said Murphy. “Big, heavyset kind of Scandinavian guy.”
“Detective Hustaad.”
“Yes, that’s him. He seemed nice. Had a real bad cough. Later, he called me to tell me he had cancer, was going in for treatment. He promised to make sure Dad’s case got transferred to someone else. I felt terrible for him. That cough, it didn’t sound good.”
“The case was transferred to Detective Weber. He never talked to you?”
“Someone did call me,” said Murphy. “Once. But a long time… years after Hustaad got sick. I’d called the police station a few times- honestly, not a lot, I was dealing with my own stuff. When no one called me back, I let it go… I guess…”
“What did Detective Weber tell you?”
“He said he was taking over Dad’s case, but I never heard from him again. I guess I should’ve followed through. I guess I figured after no clues came up right away, it would be hard to solve. Being a stranger and all that.”
“A stranger?”
“A burglar,” said Murphy. “That’s what Hustaad figured.”
“Did Detective Weber ask you anything?”
“Not really- oh, yeah, he did ask about Dad expecting the cable guy. Which I’d already told Detective Hustaad. It was the only thing I did tell Detective Hustaad that I thought might be relevant. Mostly, I was a basketcase. At the time, I mean… finding Dad.”
Nothing hysterical about her now. Talkative woman, calm. Resigned to the fact that her father’s murder would probably never be solved.
Petra kept walking, waited for more.
Half a block later, Murphy said, “Detective Hustaad didn’t seem to have much energy.”
“You’re wondering if he worked the case as hard as it should’ve been worked.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I guess I’m a pretty factual person.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can accept facts, even if they’re tough. If Dad had been killed by a burglar, the only way they’d solve it was if the same criminal did it again, right? That’s kind of what Detective Hustaad implied.” She turned to Petra. “Is your case a burglar, someone pretending to be a cable guy?”
“Everything’s preliminary, ma’am.”
“So I shouldn’t get my hopes up.”
“It’s a long process.”
“What was weird to me, if it was a burglar,” said Murphy, “was that the only thing taken was food. A fresh head of lettuce, some whole wheat bread, and two cartons of lemon yogurt. That’s a pretty strange burglar, no? But Detective Hustaad said they do that- eat food, mark their territory. He figured the guy got scared before he had time to steal anything.”
She shrugged. “Maybe cash was taken, I don’t know. I don’t think so because the moment Dad had any extra cash, like from his military pension, he banked it.”
Murphy slowed her pace and Petra adjusted. Traffic on Sunset was fast and thunderous and the two of them swerved to avoid some construction workers who’d blown a hole in the sidewalk and set up orange-and-white sawhorses.
Murphy looked at the hardhats. “Dad did that. Worked construction, after he left the Marines. Then he had his own business. A tire store in Culver City. When that went under, he was sixty-five, said he’d had enough. Mostly, he watched TV.”
“You’re pretty specific about which food was taken,” said Petra.
“Because it was my food. I bought it the day before. Dad was more of a chorizo-and-fried-potatoes kind of guy. He made fun of the way I ate. Called it rabbit chow.”
Pain in her eyes said there’d been more than dietary conflict between father and daughter.
“Your food was taken,” said Petra.
“It couldn’t mean anything. Could it?”
“Is there anyone who’d want to get back at you through your father?”
“No,” said Murphy. “No one. Since the divorce, everything’s been smooth. Dave and I are friendly, we talk all the time.”
“Any kids?”
Murphy shook her head.
Petra said, “Tell me about the cable call and why you think it could’ve been phony.”
“That day in the morning, when I left for work- Dad told me the cable company was sending someone out to work on the set.”
“At what time?”
“Late afternoon, early evening, you know how they are,” said Murphy. “Dad sometimes napped at that hour, wanted me to wake him by seven.”
“Were you having transmission problems?”
“No, that’s the thing,” said Murphy. “Supposedly it was something to do with the neighborhood lines.”
“He wanted you to wake him,” said Petra. “So you were home by late afternoon?”
“No. I called at three, told Dad I’d be home late. He asked me to call again.”
“At seven.”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“I did and he was up.”
“How did your father sound?”
“Fine. Normal.”
“Then you went back to work?”
Murphy touched her finger to her jaw. “Actually, I’d left work early. It had been a tough afternoon, shuttling back between Dave and Bella. When I hung up with Dad, I was in my car. I took off and went to see Bella. We had dinner, went to a club, did some drinking. Neither of us was in the mood to dance. She wanted me to come home with her but I wasn’t ready for that, so she drove back to her place and I drove to Dad’s. Walked into the house and smelled food- cooked food, bacon and eggs. Which was strange. Dad never ate late. He’d have a beer or two, maybe some chip-and-dip while watching TV, but never a hot meal at that hour. If he ate heavy food too late, he had indigestion.”
Maria Murphy stopped walking. Her eyes were wet. “This is harder than I thought.”
“Sorry for bringing it all back.”
“I haven’t thought about Dad for a while. I should think about him more.” Murphy pulled a hankie out of a dress pocket, patted her eyes, blew her nose.
When they resumed walking, Petra said, “So someone had cooked.”
“Breakfast food,” said Murphy. “Which was also weird. Dad was a very disciplined person- ex-Marine, very regimented. You ate breakfast food in the morning, sandwiches at lunch, a main meal at supper.”
“You don’t think he cooked the food.”
“Scrambled eggs?” said Maria Murphy. “Dad didn’t like scrambled eggs, he always had his eggs fried or soft-boiled.”
She burst into tears, walked faster, at a near-run.
Petra caught up. Murphy threw up her hands and ground her jaws.
“Ma-am- ”
“His brains,” Murphy blurted. “They were on the plate. Along with the eggs. Pilled on top of the eggs. Like someone had added lumpy cheese to the eggs. Gray cheese. Pink… can we please turn around, now? I need to get back to work.”