“By God,” O’Connor said angrily, as understanding dawned on him. “Woolsey! That dumb bastard can’t tell a dog’s bones from a child’s?”
“You’re saying those could be a dog’s bones in the trunk of the car?” Max asked. “A dead dog, not a baby?” He sat down on the bed, looking pale.
“Hold on, hold on,” Lefebvre said. “We don’t know what happened. And just because we don’t know what happened to a dog doesn’t mean those bones weren’t those of the baby. The dog could have been lost off the Sea Dreamer or thrown overboard. The dog could have run away that night and ended up living on a neighboring farm.”
“Or Mitch Yeager could have pressured or paid off the coroner,” O’Connor said.
“It could also be an honest mistake,” Lefebvre said. “Have you ever seen the bones of an infant that age? I have.” He paused and looked away for a moment. “The bones of a two-month-old baby are so small, so fragile. Found in fragments, as most of these were…a dog breed with a rounded skull… you can’t assume that a preliminary finding couldn’t be honestly mistaken.”
“That’s kind of you, that is!” O’Connor said. “And I understand that you need to keep working with the man.”
“O’Connor…” Irene said, looking between him and Lefebvre.
But it was Max who spoke next. “Perhaps you should tell the coroner that he might want to take another look at those bones and make sure he’s right, because Mitch Yeager is not the only person in Las Piernas who is… concerned. I am concerned. I’m sure my friend Lillian Linworth will also want to know the true facts. As will Auburn Sheffield. If the coroner’s not willing to take a closer, honest look, then tomorrow morning I’m calling…” He looked to Irene.
“The State Attorney General’s office,” she said.
“Yes, the State Attorney General’s office, and asking for an independent investigation.”
“Sounds like a newspaper story to me,” Irene said.
“Oh, it is,” O’Connor said. “And if anyone on the County Board of Supervisors reads the Sunday morning edition of the Express, then they just might finally decide it’s time to replace Old Sheep Dip.”
“Have you thought about the possibility,” Lefebvre said, “that he could be right, that those bones are the baby’s?”
“I consider that slim, knowing who was visiting him,” O’Connor said.
“And what reason would Mitch Yeager have to influence him?”
“I can tell you that,” Irene said. “He hoped to ruin Max’s chances of living independently of him. Mr. Yeager didn’t know the terms of the trust and figured Max would have to give up all his money and become dependent on him again. He’s had big plans for Max.”
“Does that possibility seem likely to you, Max?” Lefebvre asked.
“Absolutely. He wanted me to manage his businesses. Now I don’t have to. He’s furious with me.”
“This will take tact,” Lefebvre said.
“You’re screwed then, aren’t you?” Irene said, and he laughed.
“I don’t mean to get you in trouble,” Max said, “but-”
“Mr. Ducane,” Lefebvre said, putting the photos back into the envelope, “a homicide detective who is at war with the coroner might as well stay home. Give me a day to try to find a way past Dr. Woolsey’s defenses. If I can’t manage it, then I’ll let you know.”
“The crime scene photos,” Irene said.
“What about them?”
“I saw your photographer at work. He took photos of everything-every step of the way. If we’re on to something here, then he probably has a photo of some bone that will give it away. A pug must have… oh, a jawbone, for example, or a nose cavity or some other bones or teeth that are very different in shape from a baby’s, right?”
“Yes, but…”
She held up her camera. “Tell him that before the police had a chance to secure the scene, that nosy broad from the Express took a bunch of photos of the contents of the trunk of that car, and that today I started asking you questions about dog bones.”
“Irene…” O’Connor warned.
“I’m not making news here, O’Connor. That’s the truth. I took a lot of photos. I asked questions about dog bones. I wondered about a killer who would keep a baby alive, just to kill him later in a car trunk. That’s all.”
“Do you know what, O’Connor?” Lefebvre said, touching his chest. “I think I feel a little something here. What is it?” He feigned a look of concentration.
“In a human, it would be a heart. In a jackass, indigestion. But what do you feel?”
“Oh yes, now I know. Sympathy for you.”
39
W HEN WE LEFT THE DUCANE HOUSE, O’CONNOR FOLLOWED ME HOME again. It wasn’t that late, about nine o’clock. The lights were on, so I figured Mary and my dad were still up. I invited O’Connor in. He declined. I felt noble for offering.
Once inside, though, I was glad he had declined, not because my dad was in bad shape, but because he and Mary were laughing. Recently, Dad hadn’t laughed all that often.
“Glad to see you’re having a good time here,” I said.
“I was remembering the camping trip.”
We had gone camping together a lot, but “the camping trip” always referred to one adventure in Joshua Tree National Park. On that trip, I was about ten, Barbara fourteen. Barbara and I had caught a bad case of contagious giggles, and infected my parents with them. After three warnings from the ranger, the whole family got kicked out of the campground for laughing too loudly after curfew. Just as we were getting in the car, the ranger asked in a pleading voice, “What was so darn funny?”
It broke us up again. In fact, for some time after that, all you had to do was say “Joshua Tree,” and we’d lose it.
The truth is, I don’t have the slightest idea what the original joke was, or even if there was one. If there was and I heard it again, I suspect I wouldn’t be more than mildly amused. The laughter itself wasn’t really what mattered. What mattered was that all our lives, from that moment on, there was that time in our memories of our family so closely drawn together, a one-of-a-kind something that happened over nothing.
My father looked at me now and took my hand. “Call Barbara,” he said.
“Now?”
“No, tomorrow. Arrange to have lunch with her. Something. Just the two of you. Don’t mention me. Don’t ask her to come here.”
If he hadn’t mentioned Joshua Tree just before he asked, I probably would have made excuses. But I knew what he was remembering, what he wanted of me, and so I agreed that I would.
So I left a message for Barbara. I specified that I wouldn’t be asking her to talk about or take care of Dad. Sister time.
I walked Mary out to her car and thanked her again. After she left, I had an odd sensation of being watched. I looked around, but couldn’t see anyone.
I went back inside and called Barbara again.
I didn’t hear from her.
It didn’t bother me much, because the next few days were wild ones.
40
