“Did Brian ever talk to you about it again?”
“No. And I never told Frank how I happened to find the van. He was so wrapped up in those kids, I didn’t see much of him in those first few months anyway.”
“You think Brian killed Powell?”
She hesitated, then said, “No. I know it might look that way, but I don’t. Did you know Brian?”
“No, I’m sorry to say. No, I didn’t.”
“It just wasn’t something he would do. I don’t think he was sorry to see Powell go. Good riddance. But Brian wouldn’t kill someone in cold blood.”
I reached into my purse again.
“I don’t need any more tissues,” she said. “I’m okay now.”
I handed her the folded fax.
She took it warily and opened it.
“I haven’t even shown that to Bea,” I said as she began to read. “So I guess I don’t have to tell you that this is absolutely confidential.”
She nodded. “ ‘Father’s Day’?” she read aloud.
“Yes. I think Bret Neukirk wrote it.”
When she had finished she looked as though she might cry again after all.
“I can’t believe it!”
“There’s nothing to believe,” I said, “except that Brian wasn’t the one responsible for what happened on Father’s Day. But I think he had a friend who was.”
“Don’t you understand? Brian fits the description of this man!”
“Physically, yes. But Brian Harriman would never be involved in drug dealing.”
“He did hate dealers with a passion,” she said, then frowned. “Or said he did. What if that was all for show?”
So Cecilia didn’t know about Diana. If this woman — whose new phone number was on Bea’s autodialer — wasn’t privy to the family secret, Frank’s older sister surely was well hidden. As much as I disliked the notion of helping them continue to hide her, I owed Frank my silence on the subject for now. “It wasn’t for show.”
“How the hell can you be so sure?” she asked.
“You said you never met him.”
“No, but Frank talks about him.”
“Frank hero-worships him,” she said.
“I don’t know if I’d go that far. Look — I can’t say anything that will convince you. Convince yourself. Think about Brian — you knew him for what, about ten years?”
She thought a moment. “Eight. Eight years.”
“Would he have worked with Chris Powell? Would he encourage someone like Powell to take two ten-year-old boys and their fathers to a basement prison?”
“No, but…” She looked back at the fax, then simply said, “No.”
“What are you doing tonight?”
She looked puzzled, then said, “If you want me to chauffeur you all over Kern County—”
“No, I was thinking of asking Bea to extend an invitation to a dinner party to you.” I explained the situation.
“Greg Bradshaw, Nat Cook, Gus Matthews,” she said. “Those were his closest friends all right. There were a few others in that age range, though, and Brian was well liked. You’re smart to check at the county library.”
My God. A compliment. “I could use your help tonight,” I said. “I need someone who has worked around here, who knows these men better than I do, who’s observant. You might be able to pick up on something that will go right past me or Cassidy.”
“Okay, sure. I’ll be there.”
We got in the car and headed back to Bakersfield. We didn’t talk much, but this time the silence was companionable. As she pulled into the parking lot of the Beale Library, she said, “Why are you so sure about Brian?”
“Are you having doubts again?”
“No, not really. But you never met him. How can you know what he would or wouldn’t do?”
“I know his son,” I said. “And while I’ve found the man can be remarkably mule-headed, I’ve never seen any cruelty in Frank. If Frank had been raised by a drug dealer or a murderer, he still might have somehow managed to be a decent fellow. But if he had been raised by a man who knowingly made the call that sent Frank walking into that basement? Forced his own son to be the first one on the scene?” I shook my head. “If Brian Harriman had been a father that coldblooded, Frank wouldn’t have grown up to be the man I know.”
Cecilia sighed. “You’re right.”
I got out of the car and was almost to the sidewalk when she honked and made me jump half out of my
