Paradise Lost

Shh.”

“Sheriff Brady,” the attorney said, “I really must object to this whole situation. You haven’t read Christopher his rights. Anything he has said so far would be automatically excluded from use in court.”

“No one has said that Christopher Bernard is suspected of killing Dora Matthews,” Joanna said quietly. “I’m just trying to get some information.”

“It’s all right, Alan,” Dr. Bernard said. “It’s my understanding that Dora Matthews died sometime Sunday night. Is that correct?” Joanna nodded.

“Well, that’s it then, isn’t it? Amy went to see a play at the Con­vention Center that night, and Chris was with me and some of our friends. Two of the other doctors at the hospital—at TMC—have sons Christopher’s age. The six of us spent Sunday night at a cabin up on Mount Lemmon. We went up Sunday before noon and didn’t come home again until Monday morning.”

“What play?” Joanna asked.

“Annie Get Your Gun—one of those traveling shows,” Amy said. “Richard doesn’t care for musicals all that much.”

Joanna turned to Dr. Bernard. “You can provide us with the names, telephone numbers, and addresses of all these friends?”

“Certainly,” he returned easily. “Amy, go get my Palm Pilot, would you? I think it’s on the desk in my study.”

“They’re not my friends,” Chris put in bitterly. “In case you haven’t noticed, Dad. Those guys were jocks. I’m not. If it was supposed to be a ‘bonding experience,’ it sucked.”

Amy Bernard returned from her errand. After placing her husband’s electronic organizer within easy reach, she once again patted her son on the shoulder. He shrugged her hand away. “Would any one care for something to drink? Iced tea? Coffee?”

“Oh, sit down, Amy. This isn’t a social visit. We’re not serving these people hors d’oeuvres.”

With bright spots of anger showing in both of her smoothly made-up cheeks, Amy Bernard resumed her seat. With the plastic stylus, Richard Bernard searched through his database and then read off names, addresses, and telephone numbers for Drs. Dan Howard and Andrew Kingsley and their two sons, Rick and Lonnie. While Jaime jotted down the information, Joanna turned her attention back to Christopher.

“When’s the last time you spoke to Dora?” she asked gently.

The boy blinked back tears and took a deep breath before he answered. “Saturday,” he said. “Saturday morning. Dora was staying at someone’s house, a friend of hers, I guess. She gave me the number Friday night. When I talked to her on Saturday, she said that she couldn’t go to a drugstore in Bisbee because all the people there would know her. So I told her we’d get the test kit after I picked her up that night.”

“In Bisbee?”

“Yes.”

“Did you go?”

Chris nodded. “I tried to. Dora had given me directions, and I went there, only there was this huge mess on her street, with all kinds of emergency vehicles and everything. I parked the car and walked back up the street. At least, I tried to. It turned out that the problem was at Dora’s house. I couldn’t tell what had happened—if someone had been hurt or if the place had caught fire or what. I tried to get close enough to see if I could find Dora, but the cops chased me away, told me to get lost. I waited and waited, but she never showed up. Finally I gave up and came back home. I thought she would call me again, but she never did. And then Sunday, Dad made me go on that stupid trip to Mount Lemmon. He probably thought if I hung around with jocks long enough, maybe I’d turn into one, like it was catching or something.”

“It sounds as though we’re finished here,” Alan Stouffer began. “Chris has been entirely cooperative. I don’t see how he can

“Do you know when Dora’s funeral is?” Chris asked Joanna.

“Christopher,” Amy said, “I know you were friends, but that isn’t—”

“Do you?” he insisted.

Joanna nodded. “I