I laughed. It hurt, I winced. "Hardly," I said.
Sam arrived at Susan Peterson's threshold long before I did. I was still trying to mount the single step in the walk without having to bend my leg. He turned and looked back down the walk and said, "By the way, I decided not to tell her I was bringing you with me. Thought the surprise factor might work in my favor."
"Whatever."
"Your role inside? In case you're wondering, it's lubricant. That's your job. If the bolt seems stuck, you're the WD-40. Otherwise let me do my thing. Got it? I may be nice to her, I may not. I don't plan these things out. But don't interfere unless things get squeaky."
I nodded. I had a pretty good idea what to expect. In my experience, Sam was almost always the good cop and the bad cop all rolled up into one tasty package.
He waited for me to join him on the landing. "Why don't you ring the bell? She might be happy to see you."
"Sam, the last time I saw her, Susan was bedridden. She's not going to answer her own door. And anyway, it's almost midnight and it's Susan Peterson. She's not going to be happy to see anybody. Go ahead and ring the damn bell."
He did.
Susan's home-health-care worker pulled open the door after twenty or thirty seconds. She was a middle-aged woman with a big smile and bright green eyes. No makeup, wild curly brown hair, peasant blouse. I felt certain she'd been a hippie thirty years earlier.
"I'm Detective Purdy," Sam said, holding out his badge. "I phoned a little while ago."
"Alan Gregory," I added. "I'm a friend of Susan's."
She eyed me suspiciously, as though she was finding it hard to believe that Susan actually had friends. "Hello, hello, we've been expecting you. Come on in. I'm Crystal. Susan's upstairs waiting. Let me show you."
Sam said, "That's not necessary. I know the way." His voice was less than pleasant. I was placing my bet that he was going to start this process in the bad-cop persona.
I said, "The detective has been here before." What I didn't tell Crystal was that Sam's previous visit to this house was the night that Susan's husband was murdered.
My ass throbbing, I gazed longingly at the electric lift that had been installed to assist Susan up and down the staircase. I was tempted to ask Crystal how to use it. I didn't. Sam waited at the top of the stairs while I took the steps one at a time, dragging my wounded leg behind me.
"You're quite a gimp, you know?" He'd lowered his voice to a semblance of a whisper.
"Yeah, I know." After what felt like a technical climb in Eldorado Canyon, I joined him on the upstairs landing.
"You ready? You go first. Go lubricate."
I knocked and walked in. Susan had a hospital bed in her room. Although a bedside lamp was on, she appeared to be sleeping. "Susan? It's Alan Gregory. I came along with that detective who wants to talk with you."
She opened her eyes halfway and said my name. She appeared medicated. I wondered if she was taking something for pain or for sleep.
"Susan, how are you doing?"
"Oh, the pain. I'm having some pain."
"You took something for it?"
"I take things, but they can't find anything that really works. Doctors, doctors. The girl who's here-she's, she's-oh, let's just say she tries to help. I suppose they all try, don't they?" The aroma of her condescension and self-pity filled the room like a tuna sandwich left behind in the trash.
"This is Detective Purdy." I pointed behind me at Sam.
I'd seen Sam interview children before. He had a magical way of folding in on himself to disguise his size and appear less threatening. He managed the same transformation right then with Susan as he approached her bed. He became a big friendly gnome.
"Pleased to meet you," he told her. "I'm so sorry about your husband. I admired his work."
Admired his work? Sam was a private but vocal critic of the dead district attorney's proclivity toward plea bargains-on more than one occasion, I'd heard Sam call Royal Peterson "feckless"-though I didn't think it would be consistent with my role as a can of WD-40 to remind him of that at that moment.
"Yes," she murmured, sighing. "Thank you. It's been a hardship."
The closest chair was across the room. A stack of old newspapers covered the seat. It was apparent that Susan wasn't accustomed to welcoming visitors to her bedside. I cleared off the chair and carried it across the room. I moved an aluminum walker and a fancy carved cane out of the way to make space for Sam before I retreated into the shadows.
"I wish my children were closer," Susan said. "I really shouldn't be alone at a time like this…"
I thought the obvious, that Susan's children had moved from her vicinity as soon as they were able-and that Susan bore some significant responsibility for their migration.
"It has to be hard having them so far away," Sam said. "Especially during a time as difficult as this."
I should have warned Sam to use a light hand when offering sympathy-that Susan was capable of sucking up compassion like a big tornado in Oklahoma sucks up trailer homes.
"I feel like I've been deserted. I'm so alone here."
Her words were weepy. My own compassion reserves were running dry and I didn't plan on using what I had remaining in the tank on Susan Peterson. I wondered if it would be considered rude to go back out the door and check out the operation of the lift on the staircase. But I reminded myself of my role as a can of WD-40.
Sam was searching for words. I chimed in. "Susan? It's funny that you're thinking about your children tonight, because that's what Detective Purdy needs to discuss with you. He has some questions about your first child, your daughter Lucy. From your first marriage."
Susan paled.
She looked away from Sam and me before she spoke again. "All day the phone is ringing. All day. People have questions, questions, questions. They don't even ask how I am. I'm a sick woman who has just lost her husband, lying here in the bed where I'm probably going to die, and everyone has questions about something that happened so long ago. It makes no sense to me. None."
Sam jumped right back in. "The questions I have aren't about long ago, Mrs. Peterson. That's your business. My questions are about the last few days. I'm just wondering if you've spoken to your daughter Lucy recently, if maybe she called you after the story came out in the newspaper."
Susan hesitated before she said, "No. You'd think a daughter would, wouldn't you? I mean call her own mother after something like that shows up in the newspapers." With each word, she sounded older.
Sam straightened up on his chair. The gnome was gone. Sam was now as big as Shaq. "That answer covers today, Mrs. Peterson. What about yesterday? Did you speak to your daughter yesterday?"
"Well, um, let me think. No, no, she didn't call yesterday either." Susan actually smiled, as though she was proud of her answer. I felt myself cringe. I was riding shotgun with Sam now, and saw the transparency of Susan's protestations. If Susan thought she could play Sam for a fool, she was in for a surprise.
She probably couldn't recognize the signs, but I could. She'd pissed him off. Sam pressed her without mercy. His voice was now as intimidating as his posture. "She didn't call. That means she came by, doesn't it? Lucy came by to see you, Mrs. Peterson? When was that, exactly?"
She lifted a bell from beside her bed and shook it vigorously. I imagined it was an effort to summon Crystal. Susan winced and moaned like an old dog sighs. "The pain… I'm not sure, I'm not sure."
Sam stood. "When was she here?"
"I take a lot of medicine."
"And I eat too much food. When was she here?"