Private Eyes

“Are dead people entitled to confidentiality?”

“Ethically, they are. I’m not sure about the legal end of it. If foul play was suspected they could probably be forced to open their records eventually. But without that, I don’t see them being too forthcoming. Any publicity can only hurt them.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Patient in the lake doesn’t shout Nobel Prize for medicine.”

My mind drifted to black water and stayed there. A hundred plus feet of muck. “If she is at the bottom of the reservoir, what’s the chance of finding the body?”

“Not terrific. Like the diver said, visibility’s lousy, the area’s huge- you can’t drain it the way you could a lake. And a hundred and twenty-five’s getting close to maximum scuba depth before you need to get into deep-sea equipment. We’re talking major expense, major time commitment, with little chance of success. The Sheriff’s guys weren’t jumping to fill out the requisition forms.”

“Sheriff’s got sole jurisdiction?”

“Uh-huh. Chickering was happy to punt. The prevailing wisdom was to let nature take its course.”

“Meaning?”

“Wait for her to float.”

I thought of a gas-filled, suppurating lump rising to the surface of the dam. Wondered what comfort I’d be able to dredge up for Melissa if and when that happened.

Wondered what I’d tell her when she woke up…

“Despite the prevailing wisdom,” I said, “do you think there’s any chance she escaped from the car and made it back to shore?”

He gave me a puzzled look. “Abandoning your murder/mayhem scenario?”

“Exploring alternatives.”

“If that’s the case, why didn’t she just wait by the side of the road until someone came by? It’s not well-traveled, but eventually she would have been found.”

“She might have been in shock, disoriented- maybe she even suffered a head injury, wandered off, and lost consciousness.”

“No blood traces were found.”

“Closed head injury. You don’t need blood for a concussion.”

“Wandered off somewhere,” he said. “If you’re searching for a happy ending, that ain’t it. Not if the copters don’t find her damned soon. We’re talking fifty-plus hours of exposure. If I had a choice of which way to die, I’d opt for the lake.”

He stood again. Paced.

“Can you handle more ugly?” he said.

I spread my arms, thrust my chest forward. “Hit me.”

“There are at least two other scenarios we haven’t considered. One: She got to shore, waited by the road, and someone did pick her up. Someone nasty.”

“Psycho motorist?”

“It’s an alternative, Alex. Good-looking woman in a wet dress, helpless. It would appeal to a certain… appetite. Lord knows we see it often enough- women stranded on the freeway, Good Samaritans turning out not to be.”

I said, “That is ugly. No one deserves to suffer that much.”

“Since when has deserving had anything to do with it?”

“What’s Two?”

“Suicide. Gautier- the sheriff brought it up. Right after you and Melissa left, Chickering started explaining to everyone that you were her shrink, got into this little monologue about Gina’s problems- bad genetics. About San Labrador having lots of eccentrics. He may guard the rich folk’s palaces, but he doesn’t have much affection for them. Anyway, Gautier said, given all that, why not suicide? Apparently they’ve had other people jump in the reservoir. Chickering loved it.”

“What did Ramp have to say about that?”

“Ramp wasn’t there- Chickering wouldn’t have mouthed off in front of him. He didn’t even realize I was listening.”

“Where was Ramp?”

“Up on the highway. He started to look queasy- the paramedics took him to the ambulance for an EKG.”

“He okay?”

“EKG-wise he is. But he looked pretty shitty. When I left he was still getting tea and sympathy.”

“Acting?”

He shrugged.

“Chickering’s psychological insights notwithstanding,” I said, “I don’t see suicide. When I talked to her there was no evidence of depression- not even a hint of it. On the contrary, she was optimistic. She had twenty years of pain and misery to contemplate doing away with herself. Why would she do it just at the point where she was looking forward to some freedom?”

“Freedom can be scary.”

“Just a couple of days ago, you had her getting high on freedom- driving to Vegas to whoop it up.”

“Things change,” he said. Then: “You always have a way of complicating my life.”

“What better basis for friendship?”

25

We went to check on Melissa. She was lying on her side, face to the sofa back, the blanket twisted around her in a tight cocoon.

Madeleine sat at the foot of the sofa, only a small portion of her substantial buttocks making contact with the cushion. Crocheting something pink and formless and concentrating on her hands. She glanced up as we entered.

I said, “Has she been up at all?”

“Non, monsieur.”

Milo said, “Has Mr. Ramp come home yet?”

“Non, monsieur.” Her fingers stilled.

I said, “Why don’t we put her to bed.”

“Oui, monsieur.”

I lifted Melissa, carried her up the stairs to her room, Madeleine and Milo behind me. Madeleine turned on the light, dimmed it, and drew back the covers of the four-poster. She spent a long time tucking Melissa in, then pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat. Reaching into a dressing-gown pocket, she drew out her crocheting and placed it in her lap. Sitting motionless, careful not to rock.

Melissa shifted position under the covers, moved again so that she was on her back. Her mouth was open and her breathing was slow and steady.

Milo watched the rise and fall of the comforter for a moment, then said, “I’m gonna get going. How about you?”

Remembering a small child’s night terrors, I said, “I’ll stay for a while.”

Milo nodded.

“I stay also,” said Madeleine. She engaged her yarn, looped it around her needle, and began dipping and tilting.

“Good,” I told her. “I’ll be downstairs. Call me if she wakes up.”

“Oui, monsieur.”

***

I sat in one of the overstuffed chairs and thought about things that kept me awake. The final time I checked my