same dire inklings that must have been visible in my own.
'Grace's color?'
'Women don't have just one color, Russ. Remember our bathroom?'
I did, a veritable makeup department, an entire warehouse of paints and polishes, shadows and liners in every hue and shade; solvents, removers, applicators, brushes, tissue: swabs, lighted mirrors, hand-held mirrors, magnifying mirror: wall mirrors. (It was our favorite place in the world to make standing, carnal, untender, image- drunk love.)
I said that I had not forgotten our bathroom.
'Well,' she said, 'then you know.'
'Bag the nail,' said Chester. 'Perhaps, at some point it will match nine others that we find in Mr. Parish's possession. They are probably among his 'evidence' right now at County.'
I bagged it and continued on through the dusty rubble in front of me. A few minutes later, we were done. We placed the filter and contents in one large evidence bag. Chet arranged the bag in his case with the others after labeling each.
'You didn't get what you wanted, did you?' asked Amber.
'Maybe. Hairs. I don't know. A lot of it depends on the good graces of Mr. Singer.'
'Mr. Singer cannot analyze what he does not possess.'
'Did Alice wear a watch, or eyeglasses?' I asked Amber. I had not forgotten the tiny screw I had removed from the nap of the carpet here just a few nights ago. It was still inside the cap of my pen, with my own spares.
'I hadn't seen her in twelve years, Russell. What now?
'Grace's.'
Amber studied me. 'To find what?'
'If Parish has been there, doing the same thing he did here, we need something to prove it. If there's a 'police investigation' tape up, it's too late.'
There was no tape, and Amber had a key supplied to her by the private detective she had hired to find Grace.
It was the first time I had been inside my daughter's home. I stood in the short entryway, holding the batch of mail I'd gotten from her slot in the lobby, wondering again how I had managed to miss her life. The condo was not only expensive to start with but the furnishings and accents were expensive, too-all financed by Amber, as she reminded me. The carpet was a thick cream Berber, the sofas and chairs heavy rattan with white cotton cushions, and two of the three living room walls were hung with original oils by Laguna artists whose styles I recognized. The east wall was mirrored to extend the depth of the room; the west was all glass, including a sliding door that opened to a long but narrow balcony overlooking the yacht basin and restaurants. The kitchen was done in Euro style, which means everything is the same shape and color (black) and you can't tell the oven from the dishwasher. The bedroom had a big four-poster and was done in pinks. The whole place was organized, clean, neat.
'I guess she got my housekeeping style instead of yours,'
I said.
'What she got was a maid I pay for.'
'How come you keep reminding me who pays the bills?'
'I think you should know.'
'If I remember correctly, my child-support checks came back.'
Amber looked away from me, visibly perturbed. She glanced at Chester, whose presence had started to resemble that of some acute and silent conscience.
'Say what you need to say,' he said. 'You don't have much that will surprise these old and increasingly hairy ears.
'I provided everything I could, Russ. I still do. That's what I mean. And that's why this whole thing she's fantasized hurts me so deeply. I don't expect a medal, but it would be nice if my only child tried thanking me instead of recreating her life with me as some kind of hell.'
'Amber,' I said, 'not everything is about you.'
I considered Amber's misty eyes, her quivering chin, was right, I thought-not everything was about Amber. Nor about myself. This was about Grace, and how we might keep her from Parish's tightening net.
Chester broke the silence. 'Ms. Wilson, begin in the bathroom and research what you can on your daughter's nail: Russell and I will try to find some sign of Mr. Parish. Since you are more familiar with her home than we are, anything you notice that wasn't here before, anything that seems out of place might be of help to us. Remember, Martin Parish's goal is to demonstrate that Grace was in your home the night of July the third. Our goal is to demonstrate that he was here.'
Chester began in the cupboards of the kitchen, no doubt wondering whether Parish had had the audacity to plant something incriminating there-the club, perhaps.
I went into the bedroom. Grace's nightstand held a leather-bound Bible with her name embossed in gold on the cover. Midway through Leviticus was a color postcard of the Champs Elysees, with the words, 'Our city welcomes Grace with an open heart.' It was signed 'Florent.' It had not beer mailed. Hand-delivered to her hotel, I figured, by Florent himself or perhaps a friend, just in time for Grace to take it back with her to Orange County.
Under the Bible was a notebook that was mostly empty. Grace had made a few journal entries-May 2,4,10,21-then stopped. I read them, learned nothing except that her job was boring and she wanted to travel again.
There were two photograph albums at the bottom of the stand drawer. I took them out and looked through: London, Paris, Cannes, Rome, Florence, Rio, Mexico City, Puerta Vallarta, Hong Kong, Tokyo. Most of the shots were faces that appeared once, then never returned. Only a few were actually of Grace. A girl's record of travel, I thought-the sights, the strangers, the obvious. Not one picture was of Amber. Strange.
I closed the drawer and pressed the message button on the answering machine that sat atop the stand. I wrote down in my notebook the names, messages, and numbers. Three calls from Brent Sides. Two from work. Eight from people I didn't know. Three from me, four hang-ups. One from Reuben Saltz, asking after Amber.
I lifted the cordless phone and pushed redial. A recorded voice told me that I had reached the home of Brent Sides. The last call Grace made from home, I thought. I wondered.
For a long moment, I stood there and studied the stuffed animals that crowded Grace's bed and bed stand, covered her two chests of drawers, rested on her windowsills and bookshelves, even the floor. There must have been a hundred of them. The idea struck me that I was more interested in getting to know my daughter-at this late date-than I was in finding some trace of Martin Parish's presence in her house. I tried to concentrate: What could Parish have left behind? What did he transfer from this home to Amber's in order to find it as 'evidence' later?
I dug into Grace's jewelry chest, wondering whether Parish could have had the cunning to remove the tiny screw and leave it at Amber's. If he had, I could not match the screw to any piece of jewelry or to any of the several watches in the chest. Everything seemed… natural.
Chester continued his more objective path: He checked the closets for incriminating clothing that Parish might have put there; I heard him throwing open all the kitchen cupboards and drawers, doing likewise in the laundry room.
I opened the window, sat in a chair, and lighted a cigarette The clock said 11:35. I watched the smoke slide through the window screen, felt the nicotine surround my brain, and realize how exhausted I was. The sounds of Amber's bathroom search issued down the hallway from the bath. Chester had joined her and I could hear their voices, muffled, through the walls. Gad knows what she was telling him. I heard them leave the place and assumed they were headed down to the dumpster. What a pleasant business. I looked across the street to the dark water of the harbor. A rage continued to build inside me, directed at Martin. Had Martin done what he did so that I didn't have to? Had he been chosen for darkness, just as Izzy was chosen for disease and Ing for madness? Did it matter?
I was in no mood for understanding or forgiveness. No, I was much more in the mood to line up all the Parishes and Ings and tumors and evils in the world and bash out their live with my ax handle. I would bash until I could bash no more. I would loose an ocean of blood upon which I would tread-my head held high. My wife would rise and walk to me and we would embrace. We would begin our family. My daughter would smile, thrive. We would have a son. My first-person account of the Midnight Eye would be a best-seller, receive awards, become a major
