her mom’s …” And then he fell silent as his own emotions overcame him and he choked back a sob.
“It’s all right,” Finnerty told him. “Just try to take it easy.” He searched his memory; then it came to him. “You’re Bob Carey, aren’t you?”
Bob nodded, and seemed to calm down a little.
“Have you called your folks yet? Do they know what’s happened?” Bob shook his head. “Okay. I’ll call them and have them come over here. Then I’d like to talk to you. Will that be okay?”
“Nothing happened,” Bob said. “We just came over here, found her, and called the cops.”
Finnerty patted the boy on the shoulder. “Okay. We’ll get the details in a little while.” He found the phone and the phone book, and spent the next five minutes assuring Dave Carey that his son was all right. Then he went back to the living room.
Slowly he pieced together the story. The longer he listened, the more he was sure he knew what had happened. It was a story he’d heard over and over during his years as a cop, but this was the first time in his experience that the story had ever ended in death. Only when Dave Carey arrived did Finnerty return to the kitchen.
Two detectives were there, and Finnerty watched in silence as they went over the room, methodically looking for clues as to what might have happened there.
“How’s it look?” he asked when Bill Ryan finally nodded to him.
Ryan shrugged. “Without talking to anybody, I’d say it was premeditated, and pretty cold. No signs of a fight, no signs of forced entry, no signs of rape.”
“If what the kids say is true, it was the husband. He was drunk, and they were having an argument when the girl left this morning. In fact, that’s why she left — her father was pissed at her, and her mother was trying to get him to lay off. The girl thinks her mother was going to try to get her father into detox today.”
“And he didn’t want to go.”
“Right.”
Suddenly the back door opened, and Tom Jackson appeared, his right arm supporting a bleary-eyed man whose hands were trembling and whose face was drawn. Without being told, Finnerty knew immediately who he was.
“Mr. Lewis?”
Alan Lewis nodded mutely, his eyes fastened on the sheet-covered form on the floor. “Oh, God,” he whispered.
“Read him his rights,” Ryan said. “Let’s see if we can get a confession right now.”
“I still can’t believe it,” Carol Cochran sighed. “I just can’t believe that Alan would have killed Marty, no matter how drunk he was.”
It was a little after nine, and the Cochrans had been at the Lonsdales’ since six-thirty. All through a dispirited dinner which had gone all but untouched, the Cochrans and the Lonsdales had been discussing what had happened in La Paloma that day. Now, as they sat in the still only partially furnished living room, with Lisa and Alex upstairs and Kim asleep in the guest room, the discussion threatened to go on right through the evening.
“Can’t we talk about something else?” Ellen wondered, although she knew the answer. All over La Paloma, there was only one thing being talked about tonight: did Alan Lewis kill his wife, or did someone else?
“Don’t ever underestimate what a drunk can do,” Marsh Lonsdale told Carol, ignoring his wife’s question.
“But Alan was always a harmless drunk. My God, Marsh, Alan’s not very effectual when he’s sober. And when he’s drunk, all he does is pass out.”
“Hardly,” Jim Cochran observed. “Last time I played golf with him, he wrapped his putter around a tree, and took a swing at me when I suggested maybe he ought to lay off the sauce.”
“That’s still a far cry from killing your wife,” Carol insisted.
“But there weren’t any signs of a struggle,” Marsh reminded her. “As far as the police can tell, Marty knew whoever killed her.”
Carol shook her head dismissively. “Marty knew everybody in town, just like all the rest of us. Besides, she always felt safe in that house, although God alone knows why.” Her eyes scanned the Lonsdales’ living room, and she shuddered slightly. “I’m sorry, but these old places always give me the willies.”
“Carol!”
“Honey, Ellen and I have been friends long enough so I don’t have to lie to her. Besides, I told her when she first started looking at this place that if she didn’t do something drastic to it within six months, I’d never visit her again. I mean, just look at it — it looks like some kind of monastery or something. I always feel that there ought to be chanting going on in the background. And what about the windows? All covered up with wrought iron — like a prison!” Suddenly running out of steam, she fell into a slightly embarrassed silence, then grinned crookedly at Ellen. “Well, it’s what I think.”
“And in a way, you’re right,” Ellen agreed. “Except that I happen to like all those things you hate. But I don’t see what it has to do with Marty.”
“It’s just that she always said that old fortress made her feel safe, and look what happened to her.”
“Honey,” Jim protested, “murders can happen anywhere. It didn’t matter where the house was, or what it looked like.”
Once more, Carol sighed. “I know. And I also know it looks as though Alan must have done it. But I don’t care. I just don’t think that’s the way it happened at all.”
Suddenly Lisa appeared in the wide archway that separated the living room from the foyer, and the four adults fell guiltily silent.
“Are you still talking about Mrs. Lewis?” Lisa asked uncertainly. Her mother hesitated, then nodded. “Can I … well, is it all right if I sit down here and listen?”
“I thought you and Alex were listening to some records—”
“I don’t want to,” Lisa said, and the sharpness in her voice made the Lonsdales and the Cochrans exchange a curious glance. It was Ellen who finally spoke.
“Lisa, did something happen up there? Did you and Alex have a fight about something?” Lisa hesitated, then shook her head, but it seemed to Ellen the girl was holding something back. “Tell us what happened,” she urged. “Whatever it is, it can’t be so bad that you can’t tell us about it.
“With Alex?” Lisa suddenly blurted. “How can you have a fight with Alex? He doesn’t care about anything, so he won’t fight about anything!” Suddenly she was crying. “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say that but—”
“But it’s true,” Marsh said softly. He got up and went to Lisa, putting his arms around her. “It’s okay, Lisa. We all know what Alex is like, and how frustrating it is. Now, tell us what happened.”
Somewhat mollified, Lisa sat down and dabbed at her eyes with her father’s handkerchief. “We were listening to records, and I wanted to talk about Mrs. Lewis, but Alex wouldn’t. I mean, he’d talk, but all he’d say were weird things. It’s like he doesn’t care what happened to her, or who did it. He … he doesn’t even care that she’s dead.” Her eyes fixed on her mother. “Mom, he said he never even met Mrs. Lewis, and even if he had, it wouldn’t matter. He said everybody dies, and it doesn’t make any difference how.” Burying her face in her handkerchief, she began sobbing quietly.
There was a long silence in the room. Carol Cochran moved over to sit next to her daughter, while Marsh, his expression cold, gave his wife a long look. “It … it doesn’t mean anything—” Ellen began, but he cut her off.
“No matter what it means, he doesn’t need to say things like that. He’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut sometimes.” He turned and started toward the foyer and the stairs.
“Marsh, leave him alone,” Ellen protested, but it was too late. All of them could hear the echo of his feet tramping up the stairs. Ellen, her voice trembling, turned back to Lisa. “Really, Lisa,” she said again, “it doesn’t mean anything.…”
Marsh walked into Alex’s room without knocking, his breath coming in short, angry rasps, and found his son lying on the bed, a book propped against his drawn-up knees. From the stereo, the precise notes of
