then they’ll come after him.”
“I don’t know… I don’t know what’s best.”
Casement said, “We’ve got to talk to him, Lynn.”
“I suppose so… yes.”
I said, “Have Kayabalian-and your family physician-present when you do. Show him the report if you have to.”
“Let Jim know I hired a detective to spy on him?”
“We’ll make him understand you did it for his own good,” Casement said.
Her long, graceful hands moved in her lap, lacing and interlacing in that nervously habitual way of hers. Anguish bent her features into disproportionate shapes, like a face in a Dali painting. Casement and I both watched her struggle with decision, the anguish finally settle into a dull determination that readjusted her features and reestablished her poise.
“You’re right,” she said, “there’s no other way.”
“You won’t have to do it alone. I’ll be right there with you.”
She nodded and asked me, “Does Charles know about any of this yet?”
“No. I have a meeting scheduled with him later this afternoon. I’ll brief him then.”
“All right.” Her voice and her manner were more forceful now. Making the decision seemed to have given her strength. “Please tell him to call me. I’ll contact Jim’s doctor and explain the situation to him and we’ll coordinate a time.”
I said I would.
Casement patted her arm; she returned the pat, absently, and got to her feet. “How much do I owe you for your services?” she asked. “I’ll give you a check before you leave.”
I didn’t blame her for that. Once the dirty work is done in cases like this, the professional advice dispensed and considered, the important questions asked and answered, the clients focus on the primary issues and the hired guns like me become superfluous; we’re unpleasant reminders of the fact that we were necessary in the first place and they want us out of their lives as quickly as possible. One more reason you need a thick skin to be a detective.
Tamara had prepared a final invoice; I gave it to Mrs. Troxell, and she wrote out a check and offered her thanks in return. She wasn’t really seeing me anymore, except peripherally, and Casement’s attention was all on her. None of us bothered to shake hands or say good-bye. Even before I let myself out, I felt as though I’d dematerialized-a latter-day invisible man.
How’d it go?” Tamara asked.
“About as we expected,” I said. “I gave her a three-day grace period. And I’m not sure it wasn’t a big mistake. Troxell is probably suicidal and the shock could trigger him the wrong way. I don’t want that on my conscience.”
“Her choice. You didn’t make it for her.”
“Still.”
“She’s not gonna do it alone?”
“No. With Kayabalian and their family doctor present. And Drew Casement. Casement was there with her this morning. She wanted him to sit in, let him read the report.”
“Something wrong with that? He’s a family friend, right?”
“He also happens to be in love with her.”
“Yeah? How do you know?”
“Pretty obvious. The way he looks at her, acts around her.”
“She feel the same way? Two of them getting it on together?”
“No, it’s not like that. She may not even know how he feels. The only person she’s in love with is her poor bastard of a husband.”
“So why do you care how Casement feels about her?”
“I don’t, really. Just an observation.”
“Lots of people in love with people they hadn’t ought to be who don’t love them back, you know what I’m saying?”
“True enough.”
“Love,” Tamara said with sudden vehemence. “Love is bullshit.”
“Now what brought that on?”
Big breath. “Nothing. Like you said, just an observation.”
“One I don’t happen to agree with. Neither did you, not so long ago.”
“Yeah, well.”
“Things aren’t good between you and Horace, are they? You can talk to me, you know-”
She said, “I’ve got work to do,” and went scowling into her office and shut the connecting door.
Women and their secrets. Kerry, Cybil, Tamara. Emily, too, someday, no doubt. Then I thought: Come on, women don’t have a monopoly on keeping things to themselves. James Troxell is living proof of that. Hell, so are you, you narrow-minded, moralistic jerk.
The meeting with Charles Kayabalian went all right. He asked a couple of questions about the source of our information, and I hedged by saying, “I’d rather not reveal that. We had to take risks to get it, in the best interests of all concerned.” He’s a smart man, Kayabalian; he guessed or had a pretty good idea of what the risks were. He said he’d rather not know anyway, since I wasn’t his client and anything I told him would not be privileged, and we left it at that.
He said he’d let me know how the meeting with Troxell turned out; his grimace added that he wasn’t looking forward to it and his expectations weren’t high. Neither were mine, but it wasn’t my problem any longer. I hoped.
By the time I ransomed my car from the nearest parking garage, it was after three thirty, and Friday afternoon commute traffic was already clogging the downtown streets. I had one more piece of business to attend to, but I didn’t need to return to the agency to get it done. I headed home instead. It would be well after four when I got there, and the odds were good that Jack Logan would be off duty and I could leave a message on his voice mail: “Our investigation on that case I mentioned turned up a witness connection to the Erin Dumont homicide, Jack. We’re in the process of trying to verify it. I’ll lay it out for you Monday morning in any case.”
More C.Y.A. manipulation. If Troxell could be kept in one piece and persuaded to report to the Hall of Justice by Monday, the police wouldn’t care how or why he’d been prodded into it. If he didn’t, we’d be officially on record as cooperating.
17
JAKE RUNYON
He called the Morgan Hill number before nine Friday morning, and this time he got an answer. Male voice, young and suspicious when he asked for Sally Johnson. Even when he identified himself and stated his business, the suspicion remained.
“Detective? What the hell do you want with my wife? She doesn’t know anything about any murder.”
In the background a woman’s voice said, “Kevin? Who is that?”
The husband said into the phone, “How do I know you’re who you say you are anyway?”
“Would you like references?”
“… You trying to be a wiseass?”
“Five minutes of your wife’s time, that’s all I’m asking.”
“Why? I told you, she doesn’t know anything-”
“Kevin, let me talk to the man. If he’s calling about Erin, maybe I can help-”
“Yeah, right. Some fucking guy, he could be anybody, one of your boyfriends for all I know-”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Give me that phone!”
There was more, the exchange loud and angry but muffled by a hand clapped over the mouthpiece. Then the
