“Easy?” Cynthia Aubec said. “I thought I’d never hear from you again.”
3 0 1
W a lt e r M o s l e y
“That might be construed as a threat, counselor.”
“No. I thought you didn’t like me.”
“I like you all right,” I said. “I like you even though you lied to me.”
“Lied? Lied about what?”
“You acted like you weren’t related to Axel but here I see that you signed into the Westerly Nursing Home to visit Rega Tourneau. Cynthia Tourneau-Aubec.”
“Tourneau’s my mother’s maiden name. Aubec was my father,”
she said.
“Nina’s your mother?”
“You seem to know everything about me.”
“Did you know what Axel was trying to do?”
“He was wrong, Mr. Rawlins. These are our parents, our families. What’s done is done.”
“Is that why you killed him?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Axel told me that he was going to Algeria. I don’t have any reason to think that he’s dead.”
“You worked in the prosecutor’s office when Joe Cicero was on trial, didn’t you?”
She didn’t answer.
“And you visited your grandfather only a few hours before he was found dead.”
“He was very old. Very sick. His death was really a blessing.”
“Maybe he wanted to confess before he died. About trips to the Third Reich and pornographic pictures of him with twelve-year-olds.”
“Where are you?” she asked.
“In L.A. At my house.”
“Come up here . . . to my house. We’ll talk this out.”
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“What is it, Cindy? Were you in your grandfather’s will? Were you afraid that the government would take away all of that wealth if the truth came out?”
“You don’t understand. Between the drugs and his crazy friends Axel only wanted to destroy.”
“What about Haffernon? Was he getting cold feet? Is that why you killed him? Maybe he thought that dealing with a twenty-year-old treason beef would be easier than if he was caught murdering Philomena.”
“Come here to me, Easy. We can work this out. I like you.”
“What’s in it for me?” I asked. It was a simple question but I had complex feelings behind it.
“My mother was disowned,” she said. “But the old man put me back in the will recently. I’m going to be very rich soon.”
I hesitated for the appropriate amount of time, as if I were considering her request. Then I said, “When?”
“Tomorrow at noon.”
“Nuthin’ funny, right?”
“I just want to explain myself, to help you. That’s all.”
“Okay. Okay I’ll come. But I don’t want Joe Cicero to be there.”
“Don’t worry about him. He won’t be bothering anyone.”
“Okay then. Tomorrow at twelve.”
i w a s o n a f l i g h t
to San Francisco within the hour. I rented a car and made it to an address in Daly City that I’d never been to before. All of this took about four hours.
It was a small home with a pink door and a blue porch.
The door was ajar and so I walked in.
Cynthia Aubec lay on her back in the center of the hardwood floor. There was a bullet hole in her forehead. Standing over her 3 0 3
W a lt e r M o s l e y
was Joe Cicero. His right arm was bandaged and in a sling. In his left hand was a pistol outfitted with a large silencing muzzle.
He must have been killing her as I was walking up the path to her door.
My pistol lay impotent in my pocket. Cicero smiled as he raised his gun to point at my forehead. I knew he was
