I’d never reveal to even the most assiduous interrogator. I cooked some fragrant jasmine rice to perfection. I called up Francis, my favorite local wine merchant. He found a bottle of Chateau Beaucaillou 1990 hiding in a back corner of the cellar. Send it over, I said. I set an elegant table, yet discreet. No candlelight. Nothing obvious. Just nice. Pretty. Ordered.
The bell rang. Kelly was closer to the door, and turned to it with a mischievous smile.
I cringed.
Kelly opened the door.
Hi, said Dorita. You must be the angel child I’ve heard so much about.
Daddy! reproached Kelly.
I’ve just been reading Philip Pullman’s latest, Dorita went on without a pause. I bet you’ll love it. I’ve brought it with me, she said, with a questioning lilt at the end of the phrase, a little ‘Is this okay, am I allowed?’
I love Philip Pullman, Kelly said.
Oh, I hope you haven’t read this yet. It just came out, Dorita said, pulling the book from her bag.
No, no, said Kelly. Thank you. Thank you.
I swear I saw a little blush. On both of them.
Another new side of Dorita.
This was going to take some getting used to.
We sat for dinner. Kelly and Dorita did most of the talking. There were some awkward silences. But not too many. I poured the Beaucaillou. I allowed Kelly half a glass. She was almost seventeen, after all. I’d started hanging at the local tavern at thirteen, I reminded myself.
Hey, Kelly? I said at one point.
Yo, Dadster.
Remember when you were eight or nine, and we arm-wrestled, and I told you how amazingly strong you were?
Sure, Dadster.
That’s what made you want to do wrestling, wasn’t it?
She looked me in the eye. She cocked her head. She smiled.
Dadster? she said.
Yes, angel child?
You’re seriously deluded.
Dorita left after dinner. Her departure was chaste. Free of innuendo. It felt good. I had deflected the demons til bedtime, at least.
88.
When I woke, late the next morning, Kelly had already left for school. I was a little bereft. But I knew that it was a good thing.
My cell phone rang. I looked at the screen. Laura.
I have some results, she said.
I’ll be there in twenty, I said.
I grabbed a cab. It had a funky smell.
Despite my haste, she wasn’t there when I arrived. Called out on an emergency, they told me.
Emergency? All her patients were dead. Couldn’t they wait?
I was anxious. I wanted to know. I couldn’t sit still. I went out back. I had a smoke. I had three.
The back door opened. Laura stuck her head out.
Keep that up and you’ll be my next patient, she said, eyeing the cigarette.
I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have exploring my entrails, I said. You got something for me?
You won’t necessarily like it.
Well? I said, a touch impatiently.
It’s ambiguous.
Shit.
Sorry.
What do you mean, ambiguous?
We got a match. But it wasn’t with the semen.
What then?
A hair.
What hair?
A hair from the sofa.
Shit. That doesn’t mean anything. He’s been there. He’s been on that couch.
Which makes it even more ambiguous.
You can’t date a hair.
Not unless you’re really, really weird.
I paused. I wasn’t used to jokes from Laura. I tried to keep a straight face. But I couldn’t. The joke was just too goddamn stupid. I snorted. I guffawed. She smiled.
Well, I said, can you?
Within a day or two? No.
Damn.
Sorry.
Don’t be sorry.
Listen, Rick, there’s something else.
What?
I don’t want to tell you now. I want to run a couple more things. To make sure.
Laura, come on. You can’t do this to me.
Nothing serious, Rick. Just something a little strange.
Laura.
Seriously, Rick. These things come out funny all the time. Contamination and things. I just need to double- check. I’ll call you tomorrow.
Laura, you’re killing me here.
Rick, I went out on a limb for you. You can wait a day.
She had a point.
89.
I went to Starbucks. I fired up the laptop. Dorita had sent me copies of the newspaper articles about Suspect Number One in the mysterious death of…my wife. It still didn’t sound right. ‘Death of my wife.’ It couldn’t be real. I’d found myself doing double takes every time a dark-haired woman walked by. Could that be her? May I please wake up?
The pictures were blurry, inconclusive. A high school yearbook photo. The perp getting into a car, holding his hands up over his face. Certainly a resemblance. But not enough to be sure it was Jake. I realized that I hadn’t asked Dorita how she knew that this was him.
I called her up. I told her about Laura’s results.
Hm, she said. Ambiguous.
Exactly Laura’s word, I said. Anyway, how the hell did you track him down?
I hate to reveal my secrets.
Sure. Save it for the ADA. How’d you find him?
