Memory of Murder

toward the chair beside his desk, “Why don’t you have a seat, Ms…”

“Merrill. Lindsey Merrill.” She took the invitation, but perched on the chair rather than sat in it, shifting her shoulder bag into her lap and clutching it as if she were walking alone on a mean street.

And this time, with his gaze focused on her face, he caught the look of…what? Vexation? Embarrassment? Okay, yeah, but with a touch of fear, too. Maybe. There and then, as before, too quickly gone for him to be certain.

“The thing is,” she said on a soft exhalation, “I’m not sure it’s any kind of case, cold or otherwise. I’m not even sure it actually happened.” Her deep blue gaze slid sideways to meet his, reluctantly, it seemed to him. “I don’t want to waste your time.”

“You’re not.” He kept his tone genial, his posture relaxed, hoping to put her at ease, at the same time wondering whether he’d be as patient if she wasn’t an attractive, single-he surmised, from the absence of rings on her left hand-classy-looking woman. “Why don’t you tell me what makes you think it might be a case, then let me decide if my time’s being wasted or not.”

“Trust me,” she said dryly, “I know exactly what you’re going to think. And I will say ‘I told you so.’”

The little flash of humor was a surprise, and he found himself answering her wry smile with one of his own. “Okay, I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” He gave her an encouraging nod, and when she still seemed to hesitate, added another gentle nudge. “You say this happened before you were born? So, you must have either heard or read about it. I assume we’re talking about a homicide?” She nodded. “Okay, so, let’s start with that.”

Another hiss of exhaled breath; obviously, this was the big hurdle for her. She gathered her courage, then: “This is something my mother told me.”

“Ah.”

“My mother has Alzheimer’s.”

She waited through about two beats of his silence, then said gently, “See? I told you so.”

“Okay.” He cleared his throat, straightened and swiveled toward her, frowning. “Let me get this straight. Your mother has Alzheimer’s, and yet, something she told you made you think you should talk to a police homicide detective. Must be a pretty compelling story. So, I’m listening.”

For a moment, she just looked at him, and he saw a fierce shine of tears come into her eyes. Her hands tightened on the straps of her purse. “It’s crazy. It’s impossible. I know it is. But…she’s so upset. She truly believes this happened, and she won’t leave it alone. I had to promise her. She made me promise I’d talk to the police. What could I do?”

The anguish in her face was hard to look at. The tear shimmer in those movie-star eyes made him feel slightly dizzy. “I understand,” he said, his nod nudging her on.

“She claims-” She cleared her throat, then continued in a choked voice, “My mother claims that my father, Richard Merrill, the man she’s been happily married to for forty-five years, is not her husband. She claims he killed her real husband-murdered him-and tried to kill her as well. Not only that-” her voice rose dangerously “-she says she had another child. A little boy. She says-” she finished it, almost in a whisper “-his name was Jimmy.”

And that, Lindsey Merrill, is the part you can’t dismiss out of hand.

The thought came to Alan in a flash of the insight that made him-he was not being immodest, it was a fact- good at what he did. Along with the realization that he wasn’t going to be able to dismiss it, any more than she could. Not out of hand. Not without looking into it.

His name was Jimmy.

Funny about that one little detail. It changed everything. The rest could easily be chalked up to Alzheimer’s paranoia, but not that. Alzheimer’s was supposed to be about forgetting things, not remembering.

He definitely wanted to hear more about this, but right now, tense and wired as this woman was, he had a feeling he was going to have to pick and pry every detail out of her. And his stomach was starting to growl.

“Have you eaten?” he asked abruptly.

She looked startled, then dismayed. “Oh-oh, I’m sorry. I should have realized.” She popped up off the chair, still clutching her purse. “I won’t take-”

“No, no-” He’d already risen, too, and was shrugging into his jacket. “I’m not brushing you off. I do need to eat, though, and I thought, if you haven’t had lunch either, we could grab a bite while you tell me your story. We could go to the cafeteria here, but it can be noisy during lunch hour. You like sushi?” He flashed her his most charming smile, hoping again to put her at ease.

Again, without much success. She just looked at him. Opened her mouth, closed it and gave her head a little shake.

“What? Come on, I thought all women liked sushi.”

“Oh, I do,” she said with the same touch of dry humor he’d glimpsed before, as she obeyed his gesture and preceded him through the maze of cubicles. “I’m just amazed you do.”

“Don’t let the tough-guy image fool you,” he said, and was rewarded with a soft laugh. It appeared his plan to get her to relax might be working after all.

As they waited for the elevator, she gave him a measuring look and said, “You’re not from here originally, are you?”

He gave her back the look, and was surprised to discover he liked the fact that she was almost tall enough to look him in the eye. That it stimulated him in a way he couldn’t quite figure out-and very little stimulated him these days, in any way. “Nah,” he said, “grew up in Philly. I’d guess you’re a native, though, right?”

She nodded. “San Diegan born and raised.” She gave a sigh that seemed almost regretful. “I had the perfect childhood. I really did. That’s what makes all of this so…hard.”

The elevator dinged as she said the last word. It had the effect of underlining it, although she hadn’t, and in fact, as she finished, her voice had dropped to barely a whisper.

A dozen things sprang into Alan’s head, questions he could have asked, remarks he could have made, gentle reminders that Alzheimer’s was notorious for robbing people of the best parts of themselves. He didn’t say any of them, but waited for her to precede him, then followed her into the elevator.

There were a couple of other people already in the elevator, probably having come from the cafeteria on the seventh floor. The four of them rode down in the kind of awkward silence that seems to be the norm in elevators, most people being unwilling to share even whispered conversations with total strangers. The other couple got off and the silence became even more strained.

What am I doing here? Lindsey thought. His eyes are so hard…he’s not going to believe a word of this.

Alone in an elevator with a police detective, instead of feeling safe, Lindsey felt trapped; her thoughts chased each other through her mind like rabbits desperately searching for a hole in the fence.

I should never have come!

But she had, against her better judgment, and now she was stuck. Even though Detective Cameron was probably only being polite about listening to her story, she knew she couldn’t just change her mind now and decide she didn’t have a case for him after all. He was a homicide cop, and she’d mentioned a possible murder. Of course he was going to insist on hearing the whole awful, miserable story. Then he would say something kind-a little patronizing, no doubt-about it almost certainly being the Alzheimer’s talking, and he was truly sorry about her mother, but unless she had something more concrete to give him…

The elevator bumped to a stop and the doors opened onto the street-level lobby.

“There’s a sushi place a couple blocks from here,” the detective said, once more politely waiting for her to exit ahead of him. He glanced down at her low-heeled sandals. “If you don’t mind walking.”

“No, not at all,” Lindsey said, and was seized by a sense of unreality. None of this was what she’d expected. He wasn’t what she’d expected, not that she’d ever personally met a homicide detective before, so how would she know what to expect? He seemed nice, and yet, she felt uneasy in his company. He’d be judging her, she was sure of it. She could feel him observing her, scrutinizing her facial expressions and body language. Weighing every word she spoke. Looking for inconsistencies and hidden agendas. Of course she had none, nothing whatsoever to hide, no reason to evade or lie. And yet, she felt tense and uncomfortable.