I introduced myself, to her obvious pleasure, as an admirer of her work. She accepted the volume of her collected poems and signed it for me.
“How were you introduced to my poetry?” she asked. Her voice was a low, whisky rumble.
“Your son, Hugh,” I replied and, at once, the pleasure vanished. Her eyes narrowed.
“I see. Tell me, Mr. Rios, which of my poems is your favorite? Or have you actually opened this — brand new book?”
“In fact I have, Mrs. Paris, but you’re right, I didn’t come here to discuss them. I’m a lawyer.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Mrs. Paris, I was Hugh’s friend “Hugh was rather generous in that regard. He had altogether too many friends. Were you one of his — special friends?” she asked archly.
“I cared for Hugh,” I said.
“Mr. Rios,” she said, mockingly, “spare me the homosexual sentimentality. What is it you want from me?”
“I believe Hugh was murdered. I’m not sure by whom but the first thing to do is determine the exact cause of death. The body was moved before an autopsy-”
“That’s enough,” she said. “You walk in from nowhere, tell me someone killed my son and ask permission to cut open his body?” These last words were delivered in a tone of rising incredulousness. “Just who the hell are you? One of his boyfriends? Do you think there’s money for you in this?”
Unable to suppress my hostility, I said, “Mrs. Paris, I sympathize with your deep grief, however, I’m talking about a crime.”
“My deep grief? Getting himself killed was the most unselfish thing Hugh ever did. As for the body, it was cremated yesterday. As for crimes, Mr. Rios, you’re now trespassing and in one minute I’m going to call campus security and have you thrown out.” She picked up the phone.
“Why was he cremated?” I asked, rising.
“That is not your business,” she said, “now get out.”
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Paris.” She put the phone down and went back to her writing.
Sitting on my patio an hour later, I finished a gin-and-tonic, watched clouds move in from the ocean and counted up my leads. They amounted to about nothing. There were Hugh’s allegations against his grandfather and the coincidence of his death under odd circumstances. Gold knew more than he was saying, but either he could not say any more or really believed that our interests were sufficiently different for him not to confide in me. Katherine Paris was a dead end. I needed something tangible. It seemed to me that Hugh Paris moved through life like a nomad, using life up as he lived it, and leaving very little behind.
And then I remembered the letters. They were still in the pocket of the coat I had worn three days earlier. I finished my drink and went to the closet to retrieve them. Even as I spread them out on my desk a voice within begged me not to read them. I was afraid of what they might contain. I made myself another drink and circled my desk, vaguely, looking at them — thirteen in all, arranged from the earliest, in June, to the most recent, only a couple of weeks earlier. Finally, I sat down and started reading.
They were not exactly the rantings of a lunatic. On the other hand, there was little in them that could be called civilized discourse. Mostly, they were excruciatingly detailed invective of a psycho-sexual nature — literate but profoundly disturbed. I refolded the last letter and tucked it back into its envelope. It seemed impossible these could come from Hugh, but the details told. I said to myself that I was now his advocate, not his lover, and an advocate accepts revelations about his client that would send the lover running from the room. It’s part of the masochism of being a criminal defense lawyer to want to know the worst, in theory so the worst can be incorporated into the defense, but in actuality to confirm a blighted view of humanity. If I believed that people are basically good, I would have gone into plastics. People are basically screwed-up and often the best you can do for them is listen, hear the worst and then tell them it’s not so bad.
It wasn’t so bad, Hugh, I said, silently. I’ve seen worse. And the letters contained solid information. Hugh believed his grandfather was responsible for the deaths of his grandmother and his uncle, Jeremy. He also accused the judge of imprisoning his father, Nicholas, in an asylum. Finally, he accused the judge of depriving him of his lawful inheritance. There wasn’t much elaboration since, obviously, Hugh expected his grandfather to understand the allusions. It wasn’t evidence but it was something. A lead. A theory. Hugh’s death was part of a cover-up of earlier murders. All right, so it was melodramatic. Most crime is.
I collected my thoughts and called Terry Ormes. Her crisp, friendly voice was a relief after the dark muttering voice of the letters. I told her, briefly, editing out the lurid details, what the letters contained.
“That’s still not much,” she said.
“Well, it’s something. Apparently, Hugh’s grandmother and his uncle were killed up near Donner Pass on interstate 80 about twenty years ago. Can you contact the local police agency in the nearest town up there with a hospital?”
“Sure,” she said, “but if it happened on 80, it was probably a CHP case. What am I asking for?”
“Everything you can find out about the circumstances of their deaths. Any reports, death certificates, anything. And find out anything you can about Hugh’s life the last six months. Rap sheets, DMV records, any kind of paper.”
“Call me in two days,” she said. “What will you do?”
“I have one other card to play,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”
The line went dead. I gathered up the letters and buried them beneath a pile of papers in the bottom drawer of my desk. I closed and locked it. For a long time I sat, nursing my drink, thinking about the hole where my heart had been.
5
The next morning I sat down to dial a number I’d not called in four years. The receptionist I reached announced the name of the law firm in the hushed tones appropriate to old money. I gave her the name I wanted and waited the couple of minutes it took to work through the various intermediaries until a deep unhurried male voice spoke.
“Grant Hancock here.”
“Grant, this is Henry Rios.”
There was the slightest pause before breeding won out and he said, “Henry, it’s been a long time.”
“Four years, at least.”
“Are you in the city?”
“No, I’m calling from my apartment. Grant, I need your advice.”
“Surely you don’t need the services of a tax lawyer on what you make with the public defender.”
“I’m not a P.D. anymore,” I replied, “and what I want to talk about is death, not taxes.”
“Anyone’s in particular?”
“Yes, Hugh Paris. I thought since you’re both — well, old San Francisco stock — that you might have known him.”
“Indeed I did,” Grant said slowly. “How well did you know him?”
“Well enough to think that he was murdered.” The line buzzed vacantly. “Grant? Are you still there?”
“Yes,” he said. “I don’t want to discuss this over the phone. Can you come up here tonight?”
“About nine?”
“Fine. I’m still at the same place. You know the way.” I agreed that I did.
“Henry, did Hugh mention me? Is that why you called?” His voice was, for Grant, agitated.
“No, he never said anything about you. It was my own idea to call. I know how thick the old families are with each other.”
“I knew him a long time ago,” Grant said in a far-off voice, and then stopped himself short. “I’ll talk to you
