here are men. Talk about denial—she figured he was gonna change, just because she’d moved out for a couple of weeks. Men like that never change. They just wait.”
It was a voice of experience speaking, and Kate had seen enough domestic violence, had in her uniform days separated enough bloody, screaming couples, not to argue with her assessment of the Larsen situation. As Carla Lomax had said, James Larsen would have gotten his wife back, and he would have put her in the hospital, if not the morgue.
“So you finished around nine. Did everyone leave then?”
“Oh, no. Nikki, like I said, she was gone, and Carla. And yeah, Phoebe must’ve been here, ”cause I remember she left with Carla. But the rest of us had a cuppa tea in the kitchen and made the kids’ lunches for the next day. Roz was around, with somebody who came in at the end— I didn’t know her. That Roz,“ she said wistfully, ”she’s really somepin‘, isn’t she? Has a knack for makin’ you feel good about yourself. Like you’re bigger’n you really are. Important, almost. But anyway, then that woman left and Roz came back in and sat in the meeting room with Emily. They were still there when I went off to bed.“
“What time was that?”
“Maybe ten-thirty? I had a bath and I was in bed before eleven, so yeah, ”bout ten-thirty.“
“You said Roz came back in. She had left for a while then, with this woman?” The Lomax cousins stirred simultaneously, the inevitable response to that question from the police, but Crystal did not see any import in it, and after a moment’s consideration, she answered.
“I think so. I think the two of ‘em just went outside to talk, in the woman’s car maybe. It’s sometimes hard to get much privacy here. Which is fine,” she hastened to add, looking at the shelter director. “I like havin’ company, and it’s sure great for the kids. But if you’re wantin‘ to have a quiet talk with someone, it’s best to step outside.”
Kate nodded her understanding. “How long were they out there?”
“Oh, I dunno. Half an hour maybe? By the time Roz came back in, all the cups’d been washed and put away. She joked about havin‘ good timin.
Kate consulted her notes. “So other than Roz and her friend, and Nikki, Carla, and Phoebe” (Phoebe; wasn’t that the name of Carla’s secretary?), “did anyone else leave the house, even for a little while? Maybe disappear and then come back a while later?”
“They could’ve, I guess,” Crystal said doubtfully. “People was comin‘ and goin’—they always are. Emily I know was in the kitchen till Roz came and got her, and the rest of us were there. Joanne may have gone up to check on her kids—she usually does—but I think I’d‘ve heard if someone went out. But I’m not real sure. Sorry.”
“Oh no, don’t be sorry. That’s very helpful.”
“Was that all you wanted, then? I should go get my kids ready for bed.”
“Yes, thank you. If you think of anything else, give me a call, here’s my card. And—good luck with the job hunt.”
When Crystal had left, Kate turned to the Lomax cousins. “Do you know who this woman was who came and got Roz?”
“No,” Diana said, “but it was someone she knew. Roz is— Do you know Roz, Roz Hall?”
“I do, yes. She told me she’d been here, in fact.”
“I should have guessed,” Diana said. “Everyone knows Roz. Anyway, this woman stuck her head in the door and Roz spotted her, and told her she’d be out in a bit.”
“Did you get the impression that this was a prearranged visit, that Roz was expecting her?”
“No, she was surprised to see her.”
“Can you tell me about the other women Crystal was talking about?”
“Tina, Joanne, and Sunny are still here, you can talk with them if you like. Carmelita Rosario is the one who went back to her husband. You know the word
Kate looked over her notes and came up with another name. “Phoebe?”
Carla answered this time. “You met Phoebe at my office—Phoebe Weatherman. She’s my secretary.”
“Was she once a resident here?” Kate asked. That might explain the woman’s deep respect for security measures.
“Not this one, but she was in a shelter for a while, yes.”
“She seems very competent.”
“Not everyone who ends up in a shelter is from the unemployable dregs, Inspector,” Diana said coldly.
“I didn’t think they were,” Kate told her, unintimidated. “Still, women with marketable skills tend to have more options than those without. And often savings accounts as well.”
“Some women who come here do need more time than others,” Diana admitted. “We give them training and help them with anything from bus schedules to taxes. And true, others find jobs quickly and move out. But any woman can find herself a victim, Inspector Martinelli. It only takes one bad turn to end up in an ugly place.”
“Roz Hall,” Kate asked in an abrupt return to the earlier topic. “How often does she come here?”
“It depends. She used to be here all the time when we first opened up, but since then she’s been appointed to a couple of commissions and she can’t get free as much. And then she’s trying to finish her Ph.D. thesis, and leave a little space for Maj. You know her partner, Maj?”
“Well enough to have dreams about her tiramisu.”
At that both Lomax cousins laughed. Diana said, “How many potluck dinners have been planned just because of Maj’s desserts? God knows how either of them are going to have time for their baby. But they’ll manage. Especially Roz. She always does—though I don’t know where that woman gets her energy.” Kate smiled, having wondered the same thing herself. “Anyway, some weeks Roz is only here two or three times, sometimes half a dozen. She does come regularly on Mondays and Thursdays for the group sessions, but other than that, it’s whenever we need her. Or if she happens to be nearby, she’ll stop in for a few minutes, have a cup of coffee, see how things are going.”
“Fine. Can we see one of the other residents now? Tina?”
“She’ll be with her kids. How about Sunny?”
“Sunny will do.”
But Kate learned nothing from any of the other three residents, nothing but the details of life as a woman struggling not to be a victim. Joanne was gay and her abuser a woman, but the language of violence was the same for all, and by the time she finished her interviews, Kate felt the need for a strong drink. Instead she dropped her notebook into her pocket and rubbed her face.
“Don’t you just despair sometimes?” she asked, more a rhetorical musing than a question, but Diana eyed her from her broken face, and then she nodded.
“All the time, Inspector Martinelli. All the time.”
KATE DROVE THE DEPARTMENT unmarked car through streets thick with freeway-bound traffic to the Hall of Justice. As the light faded outside and the honks and squeals of frustrated commuters drew to its peak, she typed up the report of the interviews, found them every bit as unsatisfying as she had thought at the time, and went looking for Al Hawkin. Sometimes it helped to toss around ideas. This time it didn’t. They went home, to try for a fresh view of things in the morning.
Things in the morning began with the news that the Ladies had struck again overnight, in another park, this time with a middle-aged drunk who was giving his girlfriend hell for some imagined infraction involving their neighbor. He had slapped her, hard; she had set out for a friend’s house a few blocks away with him on her heels, shouting and threatening. When she got to the friend’s house, she realized gratefully that he had dropped off her trail. In the morning it was found that he had dropped out of the world for a few hours.
Taser, again; duct tape, again, against a splintery tree this time rather than a frigid metal light post. And they had added a twist: the note was attached to his bare buttocks with Superglue. The emergency room told him
