I said, “She may still be in the park somewhere. If she is, they’ll find her.”
Madeleine said nothing, pulled at a finger joint until it cracked.
Melissa made sucking sounds around her thumb.
Madeleine looked at her, then back at me. “You stay, monsieur?”
“For a while.”
“I am here, monsieur.”
“Good. We’ll take shifts.”
She didn’t respond.
Not sure if there’d been a language problem, I said, “We’ll take turns. Make sure she’s not alone.”
She didn’t acknowledge that, either. Just stood there, eyes like granite.
I said, “Is there anything you want to tell me, Madeleine?”
“
“Then feel free to rest.”
“No tired, monsieur.”
We sat together on opposite sides of the couch where Melissa dozed. Madeleine got up a few times to fuss with the blanket, even though Melissa had barely moved. Neither of us talked. Every so often, Madeleine cracked a knuckle. She was working on the tenth one when the doorbell chimed. Hurrying to the entry with as much grace as her bulk would allow, she opened the door and let in Milo.
“Monsieur Sturgis.” Once more eager for news.
“Hello, Madeleine.” He shook his head, gave her hand a quick pat. Looking past her, he said, “How’s our girl?”
“Sleeping.”
He came into the room and stood over Melissa. Her thumb was still in her mouth. Some hair strands had come loose, veiling her face. He made a move, as if to brush them away, stopped himself, and whispered, “How long’s she been out?”
“Since I got her in the car,” I said.
“That okay?”
The two of us shifted several feet away. Madeleine moved in, close to Melissa.
“Given the circumstances,” I said.
Madeleine said, “I will stay with her, Monsieur Sturgis.”
“Sure,” said Milo. “Dr. Delaware and I will be in the downstairs study.”
She gave a small nod.
As Milo and I walked to the windowless room, I said, “You seem to have made a friend.”
“Old Maddy? Not exactly a giggle a moment but she’s loyal and makes a great pot of coffee. She’s originally from Marseilles. I was there twenty years ago. Stopover on my way home from Saigon.”
Papers covered with Milo’s handwriting obscured the blotter on the small white desk. Another set of notes and a cellular phone lay atop a fruitwood writing table. The phone’s antenna was extended. Milo pushed it closed.
“This was Melissa’s work station,” he said, pointing to the table. “We set up Info Command Central in here. She’s a smart kid. Industrious. We were on the horn all day- none of it led anywhere, but she didn’t let it get to her. I’ve seen rookie detectives who didn’t handle frustration nearly as well.”
“She was motivated.”
“Yeah.” He went behind the desk and sat down.
“How’d you find out about the car?” I said.
“We took a sandwich break at seven. She was joking about ditching Harvard and becoming a private eye- first time I’d seen her smile. I figured at the least I was keeping her mind off it. While we were eating I made a routine check with Baldwin Park CHP. Been doing it once per shift so as not to be seen as a giant pain in the ass. Didn’t really expect it to lead anywhere. But the gal at the desk said, Oh yeah, that one just turned up, and told me the details. Melissa must have seen the look on my face and dropped her food. So I had to tell her. She insisted on coming with me.”
“Better than waiting around.”
“Guess so.” He got up, walked back to the writing table, and toed a dark spot on the cream border of the Aubusson carpet. “Here’s where it dropped. Her tuna and mayo, nice little grease spot.”
He faced the Goya portrait and rubbed his eyes. “Before it happened, she was telling me some of the things she’d been through- how you helped her. Kid’s lived a lot in eighteen years. I was too rough on her, wasn’t I? Too damn judgmental.”
“Occupational hazard,” I said. “But you obviously did something right- she trusts you.”
“I really didn’t think it was going to turn out nasty.” He turned and faced me. For the first time I noticed that he needed a shave and his hair looked oily. “What a fucking mess.”
“Who found the car?”
“Park ranger on routine patrol. He noticed the service gate was open, went over to close it, and decided to check. The areas at the bottom are used by the dam people for taking water samples. They like to keep John Q. Public out- no peeing in the drinking water. The lock on this one was missing. But apparently that’s not too weird. Sometimes the dam people forget to lock up. It’s kind of a running joke between them and the rangers- he almost didn’t bother to go down and check.”
“No one saw the car from the dam?”
He shook his head. “It’s a good couple of miles from the dam to that part of the reservoir, and the dam people generally keep their eyes glued on dials and gauges.”
Milo sat back down again, looked at the papers on the desk, flipped them absently.
“What do you think happened?” I said.
“Why she drove out there in the first place and why down that road? Who knows? Chickering made a big deal about her phobia- he’s convinced she got lost and started to panic and was looking for a place to get hold of herself. The others bought it. Make sense to you?”
“Maybe. If she felt a need to practice her breathing and take her medicine she would have wanted privacy. But how’d the car get into the water?”
“Looks like an accident,” he said. “She parked close to the shore- the tire marks put it at eighteen inches away. The gearshift was set to neutral. For that particular model, Reverse is the parking gear, once the engine’s off. She wasn’t exactly an experienced driver and the prevailing wisdom was that she lost control and it rolled in. Apparently these old Rolls have servo drum brakes that take a few seconds to engage. If the hand brake’s not set, they can roll a bit even after the engine’s off and you really have to stomp on the main brake to stop them.”
“Why didn’t it roll all the way in?”
“There’re these steel flanges extending several feet out from the wall of the dam. Like steps, for maintenance. The rear wheels got lodged between a couple of them. Really tight. Sheriff’s investigators said it would take a winch tow.”
“Was the driver’s door open when the ranger found it?”
“Yes. First thing he did was take a look if anyone was trapped. But it was empty. Water was up to the seats. The doors may have flipped open accidentally- they’re put on backwards, attached to the center post, so gravity would have pulled them back. Or maybe she was trying to get out.”
“What’s the prevailing wisdom on whether she succeeded?”
He stopped, looked at his papers again. Gathered a handful, crumpled it, and left it balled on the desk. “Most popular theory is that she either hit her head trying to get out or passed out due to anxiety and fell in. The reservoir’s deep- even with the drought, over a hundred and twenty-five feet. And there are no gradations like a swimming pool- it just drops straight off. She would have sunk in seconds. Melissa says she wasn’t a strong swimmer. Hadn’t gone in the pool for years.”
“Melissa said she didn’t like water,” I said. “So what was she doing out there in the first place?”
“Who the hell knows? Maybe it was all part of her do-it-yourself therapy. Confronting what scared her- that make sense to you?”
