"How long ago was that?"
"A little more than an hour."
"Did you check the hood then for engine heat?"
"Yes, sir. It was cold."
"Do you patrol this area regularly?"
"Once or twice a night."
"Had you been along here earlier?"
"No, sir. This was our first swing through."
Quartermain said to Daviault, "What about the gun?"
"No sign of it."
"Anything in the car?"
"Nothing unusual. Same for the trunk."
"Outside it?"
"No," Daviault said. "The road surface won't sustain tire impressions, as you can see."
"No leads at all then."
"Nothing we've been able to turn up so far."
Quartermain looked at the assistant coroner. "Can you make a preliminary guess as to how long he's been dead?"
"A rough guess, if that's what you want."
"I'll take it for now."
"From the temperature and condition of the body, I'd say no more than six hours, no less than three."
"Do you think he was killed in the car or somewhere else?"
"Difficult to tell. There are no exit wounds, so he's still carrying the two bullets inside him; no powder burns, so he was apparently shot at a distance. That might be significant, considering the close confines of the car. Then again, there's a little blood on the seat and he didn't bleed much after he was shot; death was likely instantaneous, or very close to it."
I moved away from the group and stood looking out to sea; I had heard all there was to hear for now, even though they were still talking it through. Some distance offshore, on a group of tiny rock islands, the dark shapes of cormorants and loons moved and fluttered and sat in sentinel-like motionlessness-and nearby a sleek black or brown sea lion came up out of the water like an iridescent phantom. The peach color of dawn had spread and modulated into soft gold, consuming the gray, and it would not be long before sunrise. It was going to be another fine spring day.
But the climate, as they say, was one of violence.
And pain, I thought. And grief. First Judith Paige-the rape of innocence. And now Beverly Winestock-the bitter fruits of too much family loyalty, and another kick in the groin for a woman who seemed to have been kicked too many times already. How many more were going to suffer? Yeah, how many more? Because it wasn't over yet, and two men were dead already, and Dancer was still missing, and murder and violence invariably beget murder and violence. The tremors beneath the surface of it all had gathered strength now, had become more volatile, had begun to foment further destruction, and you knew with a kind of fatalistic insight just what to expect before it was finally ended…
After a time Quartermain came over and said, "We'll be going now; there's nothing more for us here. We've got other things to do."
"All right," I said. I did not ask him what it was we had to do, because the answer was obvious. And it was nothing I cared to put into words just then; the contemplation of it was bitterly cheerless enough.
She opened the door and looked out at the three of us standing there under the bougainvilleaed arbor-and she knew. It was all there in our faces, unmistakable and irrefutable. Her right hand went out and clawed whitely at the doorjamb, supporting her weight there; her left hand came up to her throat, clutching at the neck of her quilted housecoat in that pathetic little gesture women involuntarily seem to make at such times. Her face was the color of winter slush and her eyes were sick little animals hiding in caves formed by ridges of bone and taut, purplish skin; she was no longer ethereal, no longer hauntingly beautiful, she was on old woman facing the loss of the only real loved one she had in the world. I could not look at her directly any longer. I turned my head away, with emptiness and helplessness heavy inside me; it was the way I had felt facing Judith Paige's grief and the way I would feel facing any grief at all. And I wondered why I had come, knowing what it would be like-why I had not stayed in the car, why I had not asked them to let me off at City Hall, why I did not get out of it and go the hell home.
Quartermain said gently, "May we come in, Miss Winestock?"
She just stood there, motionless, a chunk of gray stone wrapped in bright-colored quilt. Then her mouth and her throat worked, and she got the words free. She said, "It's Brad, isn't it? He's dead, isn't he?"
Hesitation. You never know what to say, or how to say it. So you pause-and when the pause becomes awkward you say it as Quartermain said it; you say, softly "I'm sorry."
"Oh God," she said. "Oh my God." She was still standing absolutely stilclass="underline" no hysterics, no tears. Just "Oh God, oh my God." And somehow, there in the cold dawn, it was worse than if she had fainted or cried or broken down completely.
There was more heavy silence, and then Quartermain said again, "May we come in, Miss Winestock? It would be better than trying to talk out here."
In mute answer she pushed herself away from the door-jamb and moved stiff-legged down the hall-an animated figurine, brittle and graceless. Favor, Quartermain, and I followed her through the archway and into the parlor. It was dark in there, with the curtains closed, and I touched the wall switch to chase away some of the shadows with suffused light from an overhead fixture. Beverly sat down on one of the chairs, her arms flat on the chair arms; her eyes seemed to be seeing inward instead of outward, glistening like rain puddles under a streetlamp.
We took seats here and there, and the silence grew and became awkward again. Quartermain cleared his throat, and she said "How did it happen?" in a flat, dull voice.
Quartermain answered simply, "He was shot."
The eyes closed, briefly. "Murdered, you mean?"
"Yes."
"Who did it? This bald man you keep asking about?"
"We don't know yet, Miss Winestock."
"But you think it might have been that man."
"There's a good chance of it, yes."
"Where did you find him-Brad?"
"Spanish Bay. In his car."
"I see. And you say he was shot?"
"Yes."
"Did he seem to have had much pain, can you tell me that?"
"No, I don't think he did. No."
"That's good," she said. "That's something anyway."
"Miss Winestock…"
"Can I see him? I'd like to see him."
"I'll have a car take you to Monterey. But there are some questions first. Do you feel up to answering a few questions?"
"Yes. All right"
"Were you telling the truth last night-that you didn't know where your brother had gone?"
"Yes."
"And about the bald man?"
"I don't know who he is. I'd tell you if I had any idea."
"Before he left, did your brother make any phone calls?"
She nodded. "One. Just after you'd gone."
"Did you hear any of the conversation?"
"No. I was out of the room and he spoke too softly."
"Then you don't know who he called, or what number?"
"No."
"He said nothing to you before he went out?"
"I asked him where he was going, I begged him to stay home. He wouldn't talk to me."
"Did he talk to you when he came home yesterday afternoon?"
"No. He was very nervous-afraid. He told me to leave him alone and then he started drinking, just sitting in here drinking by himself."
"Was he mixed up in the killing of Walter Paige?"
"I… I'm not sure. He didn't kill Walt, he wasn't capable of killing anyone. And he was home on Saturday; he told you that. I overheard part of your conversation with him."
"Do you think he knew who did kill Paige?"
"He might have. He was very afraid."
"He was involved in something, wasn't he? Something to do with Paige."
"Yes. Yes."
"What?"
"I don't know."
"You're holding something back," he said. "You've been holding something back all along. I think you'd better tell what it is, Miss Winestock."