Liar

“I wish I had known about Briana’s funeral,” I said.

“There was no funeral to speak of,” Mary said.

“What?”

“She was a Jane Doe.”

“A Jane Doe? Briana?”

“In Las Piernas?” Frank asked.

“No,” Mary said, answering his question first. “She was the victim of a hit-and-run accident in San Pedro. Well, perhaps ‘accident’ isn’t the right word for it. She was walking home from the neighborhood market one morning, didn’t have any identification on her. It took almost two weeks for them to figure out who she was.”

“San Pedro?” I asked. “What was she doing there?”

“She moved there after all the notoriety of the murder case drove her to leave Las Piernas. She stayed here for a time, found a fairly good job as a secretary, but sooner or later she would encounter someone who knew her story. It was very painful for her-for Travis, too, I’m sure.

“So she moved. It took her awhile to find work, but she eventually got a job as a file clerk in a health clinic. Never did have a lot of money. She kept to herself. Life just kept getting harder and harder for her. She had been having health problems lately-something wrong with one of her knees, I think. A couple of months ago, it got so bad it forced her to leave her job. She was living on a small disability check. She hadn’t lived in this last apartment for very long.”

“Travis told you all of this?”

She shook her head sadly. “No, but I suspect Travis hasn’t been in touch with her for some time. And no one over there at this new place really got to know her before she died. Oh, she’d met a couple of her more curious neighbors, but I don’t think they ever learned much about her. I learned a few things from them, but they didn’t even know she had a son. When the police finally figured out which apartment she lived in, they found an Easter card I sent to her a few weeks ago, and that’s how they got in touch with me. I told them I would bury her.”

I tried, but could not reconcile this image of a lonely recluse with that of my aunt Briana. I thought of the last time I had seen her, at my mother’s funeral.

“Travis-” I said.

“That’s what I need you to do, Irene. I want you to find him. A child should be told when his mother is dead. And even if he’s like you, and doesn’t want to visit the grave, at least he should know where she’s buried. But I also need your help-yours and Frank’s-to find out who killed her.”

“The LAPD is calling this a homicide?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” she said, as her phone rang. Even though it was now after ten-thirty, most of Mary’s friends would know that she’s up late. But this wasn’t a social call.

“Yes, Detective McCain,” she said to her caller. “… No, no, this isn’t too late! Not at all! As I told you, I don’t usually go to sleep until just before dawn. But I promise you, you don’t need to bring a wooden stake or garlic when you visit. I’m not a vampire.”

She listened, then suddenly looked over at us, frowning. “Yes, I know Irene Kelly,” she said into the phone. “She’s my grandniece. She’s sitting here right now, with her husband-did I tell you he’s a homicide detective, too? Oh, I did. Yes, he’s the one. Well, let me ask them.”

She covered the mouthpiece. “Detective McCain is a homicide detective with the LAPD. He wants to know if he can come over to talk with you.”

4

People who got their ideas about detectives from television probably would have been disappointed in Detective Jim McCain. He was gray-haired, plain-faced, a little thick in the waist, but-we quickly realized- not between the ears. He was of medium height and stood up straight, his posture neither ramrod nor slouched. He didn’t smoke, didn’t wear a fedora or a crumpled raincoat. His shoes had seen better days, but had leather soles, and while his suit wasn’t an Armani, it was still neat and clean. He didn’t look as if he had punched or shot anyone lately. He smiled warmly when Mary opened her door, thanked her politely when she let him in. I decided his voice, soft and low, was one of his assets. It was a voice that invited confidences.

He was still smiling when his dark blue eyes rested on Frank and me, but they widened slightly when Mary introduced Frank.

“Harriman?” he said, with a note of recognition.

“Yes,” Frank answered. I could see him tensing, waiting for the inevitable questions: Were you the hostage? Just how did that go down? How did they manage to get the drop on you? Questions he had been asked just about a billion times.

But instead, McCain extended a hand and said, “An honor to meet you. Glad you came out of that okay.”

“Thanks,” Frank said, obviously relieved.

McCain turned to me and shook hands as we were introduced-smiling, polite and sizing me up. What the verdict was, I’m not sure.

Once he was seated and had resisted all of Mary’s offers of food and beverage, he took out a little notebook, turned to me and said, “Ms. Kelly, I assume your aunt Mary has told you that I’m investigating the death of Briana Maguire?”

“Yes.”

“She was your mother’s sister?”

I nodded.

“And when was the last time you saw her?”

“Over twenty years ago. At my mother’s funeral, when I was twelve.”

“Not since then?”

“No.”

“Any other type of contact with your aunt since then?”

“No.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Frank sit forward.

“No phone calls?” McCain asked.

“No. No phone calls, no letters, no contact at all.”

He said nothing, just watched me. I didn’t try to fill the silence, but Mary did. “I explained all that to you,” she said.

He smiled. “Is there a room where I could talk to Ms. Kelly alone?”

“Perhaps she should talk to you another time,” Frank said. “In the presence of an attorney.”

McCain’s smile didn’t waver. “She is, of course, absolutely free to do so, but right now, I’m just asking questions. You know how this goes, Harriman. Lawyers cause unnecessary complications, just to make their clients think they’ve earned their fee. I don’t need that kind of grief, and neither do you. Better this way. None of us would ever get a thing done in this line of work without a little cooperation.”

I knew this last didn’t necessarily refer only to my cooperation with him; I could see from Frank’s face that he got the hint as well-McCain was saying, You want cooperation from LAPD on any of your cases, don’t screw with our cases.

“I’ll talk to him, Frank,” I said.

“What brings my wife into this?” Frank asked, ignoring me.

“I’ll be happy to tell you in a moment,” he said. “Just a few more questions, Ms. Kelly? In fact, if your husband wants to be present-”

“I get the picture,” Mary said. “I’ll go into the kitchen.”

He thanked her and stood as she rose to leave the room. She laughed and made some remark about courtly manners, then shut the door between the two rooms.

Frank, I could see, was still wary.

“Now, where were we?” McCain said, flipping though his notes. “Oh, yes. Well, let’s skip the family history for the moment.”

He flipped back a few pages in his notebook and said, “You drive a Karmann Ghia convertible?”