Jill smiled. “It’s good to see you developing a social consciousness, given your line of work.”
“There’s something bothering me, Jill. The fake secondary device outside Lightower’s town house. The note on the company form balled up in Bengosian’s mouth. These people have made their motive clear. But they’re trying to taunt us. Why play the game?”
She balanced a red shoe on the edge of my desk. “I don’t know. You’re the one who catches ’em, honey. I just put ’em away.”
There was a bit of a pause. A stiff one. “You mind if I change the subject?”
“Your soybeans,” she said with a shrug, popping one in her mouth.
“I don’t know if this’ll sound silly. I was a little worried the other day. Sunday. After we ran. Those marks, Jill. On your arms. Something got me thinking.”
“Thinking about what?” she asked.
I looked into her eyes. “I know you didn’t get those marks from a shower door. I know what it’s like, Jill, when you have to admit you’re human, like the rest of us. I know how you wanted that baby. Then your dad died. I know you pretend that you can work everything out. But maybe you can’t sometimes. You won’t talk about it with anyone, even us. So the answer is, I don’t know about those marks. You tell me.”
There was stubbornness in her eyes that suddenly turned fragile, something about to give. I didn’t know if I had gone too far, but to hell with it, she was my friend. All I wanted was for her to be happy.
“Maybe you’re right about one thing,” Jill finally said. “Maybe those marks didn’t come from a shower door.”
Chapter 32
There are crimes that are brutal and inexcusable. Sometimes they make me sick, but their motives are open. Now and then, I even understand. Then there are the hidden crimes. The ones you are never meant to see. The kind of cruelty that barely breaks the skin but crushes what’s inside, the little voice that is human in all of us.
These are the ones that really make me wonder about what I do for a living.
After Jill told me what had been going on between her and Steve, after I wiped her tears and cried with her like a little sister, I drove home in a daze. A pall had clung to her face, a whitewash of shame I will never forget. Jill, my Jill.
My first instinct was to drive over there that night and slap a charge on Steve. All along, the slick, self- righteous prick had been bullying her, hitting her.
All I could think of was Jill, the face I saw on her, that of a little girl. Not the Chief Assistant D.A., top of her class at Stanford, who seemed to breeze through life. Who put murderers away with that icy stare. My friend.
I tossed and turned the whole night. The following morning, it took all I had to focus on the case. Overnight the lab tests confirmed Claire’s findings. It was ricin that had been ingested by George Bengosian.
I had never seen the Hall as tense as it was that morning, bustling with dark-suited Feds and media managers. I felt as if I was sneaking past security just to call Cindy and Claire.
“I need to see you guys,” I told them. “It’s important. I’ll meet you at Susie’s at noon.”
By the time I arrived at the quiet counter caf? down Bryant, Cindy and Claire were squeezed into a corner booth. Both wore anxious looks.
“Where’s Jill?” asked Cindy. “We figured she was coming with you.”
“I didn’t ask her,” I said. I sat in the seat across from them. “This is about Jill.”
“Okay …” Claire nodded, confused.
Piece by piece, I took them through my first suspicions about the marks I had seen on Jill while we were jogging. How I didn’t like the looks of them and how maybe, in the aftermath of losing the baby, she had done them to herself.
“That’s ancient history,” Cindy shot in. “Isn’t it?”
“You asked her?” asked Claire. Her gaze was deadly serious.
I nodded, my gaze fixed on hers.
“And …?”
“She said, ‘What if I didn’t make those marks myself?’”
I watched Claire studying me, trying to read my face. Cindy blinking, beginning to understand.
“Oh, Jesus,” muttered Claire. “For God’s sake, you don’t mean Steve …”
I nodded, swallowed.
A deep, sickening silence fell over the table. The waitress came. We ordered numbly. When the waitress left, I met their eyes.
“That son of a bitch.” Cindy shook her head. “I’d like to cut off his balls.”
“Join the club,” I shot back, “that’s all I thought about last night.”
“How long?” asked Claire. “How long has this been going on?”
“I don’t really know. She keeps saying it was the baby. When she lost it, Mr. Sensitivity there laid the blame on her. ‘You couldn’t do it, could you? The big hotshot. You couldn’t even do what every other woman can. Have a child.’ ”
“We have to help her,” Cindy said.
I sighed. “Any ideas how?”
“Get her the hell out,” Claire said. “She can stay with one of us. Does she want out?”
I didn’t know. “I’m not sure she’s gotten there yet. I think what she’s dealing with now is just shame. Like she’s letting people down. Us. Maybe him. Strange as it sounds, I think there’s a side of her that wants to prove she can be the wife, and mother, he wants her to be.”
Claire nodded. “So we talk to her, right? When?”
“Tonight,” I answered.
I looked at Claire. “Tonight,” she agreed.
Our food came and we picked at it without much appetite. No one had even asked about the case. Suddenly Claire shook her head. “Like you didn’t have enough going on.”
“Speaking of which”—Cindy pulled up her bag—“I have something for you.” She brought out a spiral notebook and ripped off a page.
Roger Lemouz. Dwinelle Hall. 555-0124.
“This guy’s at Berkeley. In the Linguistics Department. Globalization expert. Be prepared: his view of life, let’s just say, may not exactly coincide with yours.”
“Thanks. Where’d you get this?” I folded the paper in my purse.
“I told you,” Cindy said, “a million miles away.”
Chapter 33
I pushed the situation with Jill to the back of my mind as best I could; I phoned and managed to catch Roger Lemouz in his office. We spoke briefly and he agreed to see me.
Just getting out of the Hall was a breath of fresh air. These days, I rarely went over to this part of the bay. I parked my Explorer near the stadium off of Telegraph Avenue and headed past the street rats hawking pot and bumper stickers. The sun was beating onto Sproul Plaza, students in backpacks and sandals sitting around, reading on the steps.
Lemouz’s office was in Dwinelle Hall, an official-looking concrete structure just off the main quad. “Please, it’s open,” a strong, Mediterranean accent answered my knock. A hint of something more formal, educated. British?
Professor Lemouz leaned back behind a chaotic desk in the small office cluttered with books and papers.
