“He’s been cleared of any wrongdoing. I hope that’s of some comfort to you.”
Confronted by her unresponsive devastated face, I feel like a total fool, retreating behind even more pompous language: “We are aggressively pursuing the real criminal who we hope will be brought to justice by the legal system.”
She’s not hearing me. She is numb, the words must be coming at her all scrambled.
“He killed himself.”
“I know.”
“The children are back in Boston with my folks. It’s funny, my daughter really loved California.…”
She is actually smiling. A horrible Sardonicus grin webbed with glistening strings of tears.
“… But now she’s afraid to be in this house. That little girl was her daddy’s princess.”
In the examining room Dr. Eberhardt told me about his daughter, a little monkey climbing up on a piano. I remember the easy tenderness in his voice.
“I just saw Jayne Mason on the news. She looked good. She claims she never had plastic surgery and Randall said it’s true. I bet she sells a lot of makeup. We always liked her in the movies, but, really, she has such an incredible voice. Even before she became a patient, we had all her albums. Brought them out from Boston.”
A spasmodic grimace.
“Will you be moving back?”
She doesn’t respond to the question.
“Did you know I got a call from a talk show? They want to do something on ‘wives of doctors who are criminals.’ ”
“That’s gross.”
“I told them Randall was not a criminal. He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“We know that, Mrs. Eberhardt.”
“Jayne Mason did.”
Suddenly the perfume of night-blooming jasmine seems incredibly strong, embracing us both in its sickly burnt-sugar scent.
“What did Jayne Mason do that was wrong?”
Claire Eberhardt’s arms wrap around her waist against a wet sea breeze. The first time we met across this threshold we shared an understanding, nurse and cop, of the way the world works. Once again those imperfect eyes hold mine.
But all she will say is “Good luck,” and softly closes the door.
I walk back and get into my car and start the engine. As I am making a U-turn lights flash in the rearview mirror and I see Randall Eberhardt’s bronze Acura pivoting wildly out of the driveway. Its tires bump over the curb and the brights are on. First it seems to be coming straight at me and I am momentarily blinded. Suddenly the mirror goes dark and I realize Claire Eberhardt has turned and is heading the other way, toward San Vicente Boulevard.
I swing the Barracuda around and follow her down the Seventh Street incline to Chatauqua and onto Pacific Coast Highway heading north.
I keep thinking about that immigrant Japanese woman who was so shamed by a philandering husband that she walked across the sand right here at Will Rogers Beach, through the surf and into the Pacific Ocean, carrying both her young children. The children drowned, she didn’t. But Claire Eberhardt is alone in the car, maintaining a steady fifty-five miles an hour and stopping prudently at every red light. She keeps on going and I relax a little, thinking maybe she’s out for a drive to let off steam, but just past Pepperdine she turns left onto Arroyo Road, which leads to Jayne Mason’s property.
I am prevented from following by an entire motorcycle gang, thirty or forty of them mounted on their Harleys and strung out over a quarter mile, zipping by on the opposite side of the road like an unending pack of maddening bees. Stalled here with the turn signal flashing, my adrenaline pumps higher and higher.
A long time ago, it seems, I was in a free-floating situation like this in the parking lot of a bank. Civilians may have been threatened, I had no way of knowing, but I chose to ride it out on arrogance and guts without calling for backup. That time I was lucky. This time I pick up the radio.
“This is signal 345,” I tell the radio room at the Bureau office. “Request that you call the L.A. County Sheriff, Malibu station, and ask that they respond immediately to a possible disturbance at the Mason property on Arroyo Road. Make sure they know there’s an FBI agent present who needs help.”
The bikers pass and I dive across the highway, cranking the Barracuda up to fifty in second, bumping over the dirt road underneath the eucalyptus trees, along the dark empty meadow, until I see the guard gate coming up fast. Claire Eberhardt must have used her husband’s pass to get through because now the armature is down. Reasoning the barrier would delay the sheriff’s department, certain now that I don’t have a lot of time, I duck my head and crash right through it, catapulting the wooden arm up in the air and into the brush, hoping it didn’t damage the grillwork.
All of this has given Claire Eberhardt a good three-minute lead. I swerve over the gravel of the parking lot, sliding to a stop beside Magda Stockman’s Cadillac. The Acura has been left with the engine running. The front door in the white wall is ajar. She must have gained admission to the house with her husband’s key.
I run into the courtyard, which is underlit by just two sparse spots and wavering green lights in the pool. At the far end of the darkened patio Claire Eberhardt approaches the large figure of Magda Stockman. Stockman says something with a dismissive gesture toward the intruder, then bends over to pick up a coiled garden hose and hang it back on its hook.
I keep coming forward, calling out, “Claire!”
Someone pushes the sliding glass door open a little farther and says, “Hello out there. What’s going on?”
For an instant Jayne Mason is clearly visible standing on the threshold of the lighted room.
Claire Eberhardt pulls a gun and gets off two shots. The glass blows, a triple explosion that takes place in less than two seconds.
My weapon is out and aimed at the doctor’s wife.
“Police. Drop the gun.”
Her head spins toward me in a shining blur of dark hair. I flinch but hold firm. My legs are planted and my arms are steady. I am going on reflex now, hundreds of hours of training enabling a bypass for the emotions clawing at the edges of my mind.
“Put the weapon down.”
Magda Stockman takes a step and Claire Eberhardt whirls, jamming the gun into her chest and forcing her back against a stone planter.
“Put it down,” I say steadily.
“Don’t be stupid,” Stockman rasps. “We have to call an ambulance.”
To my right, out of peripheral vision, I see long cracks and a chunk taken out of the door. Inside the room Jayne Mason is down, sputtering and gasping and coughing up blood that splatters against long ragged fingers of glass.
“Listen to me, Claire. I’ve already called for backup. The authorities are coming.”
“Go ahead and shoot me.” Claire Eberhardt’s face is distorted in the light falling softly like snow.
“You have too much to live for. Think of Laura and Peter. Peter’s only one year old. Do you want them to go through life without a father and mother?”
I have taken a step closer. Her gun is still pinned against Stockman’s chest.
“I have sympathy for you, Claire. I know what you went through. You can make this okay. Put yours down and I’ll put mine down and we’ll talk about it.”
She only stares, malfunctioning.
“Think about your children, that’s all you have to do.”
Very slowly Claire Eberhardt bends at the waist and lets the weapon drop.
“Madness!” Stockman cries, staggering toward the house.
“You did the right thing,” I tell Claire Eberhardt quickly. “Now just relax.”
We hear sirens and, shortly, the clatter of police radios outside the gate. With the subject neutralized and backup on site, I can get up close. Although I holster my weapon, my hand stays on it as I approach, keeping up a
