He opened it, pulled out the photos, and after a surprised look crossed his face, took out his notebook and said, “Who took them?”
“Harold Richmond.”
“The guy with one idea?”
I felt the parts of my face that weren’t purple turn red. I explained who Richmond was, told him who had hired him. “I think you’ll find that he matches the description of the man who was trying to break into Briana’s apartment. The neighbors would probably be thrilled to pick him out of a lineup.”
While McCain continued to study the photos, I wrote down Richmond’s address and phone number, and told him how to get to Margot’s place on Rivo Alto. “You’re more likely to find him there,” I said, “or at a bar called the Wharf.”
As I said this last to him, an idea struck me. Fortunately, he was absorbed in studying the photos, so he didn’t see the little light bulb go on over my head.
“Because there’s a connection between your case and the bombing of the camper,” I said, “I think the Las Piernas Police are also going to want these negatives. So promise me you’ll share them with your good friend Reed Collins.”
He looked up then, and said, “You think this man killed your aunt?”
“I’m not saying he did or he didn’t. But he was taking her photo in the very place where she was killed.”
“And other places as well.”
I didn’t trust myself to speak. You re angry.
“If someone you loved had been photographed at her husband’s funeral, all for the entertainment of her spouse’s enemies, wouldn’t you be a little pissed off?”
“Yeah,” he admitted softly. “Yeah, I would.”
“One other thing. DeMont owns a Camry that was in a wreck a few weeks ago.”
His brows went up.
“I can give you the address of the body shop it’s in, if you don’t think it’s too late to find evidence on it.”
“We’ll probably find what we’re looking for. They may not have started working on it-a reputable shop will report anything that has signs of being in a pedestrian versus vehicle accident.”
“But it wasn’t in the shop until this week.” I explained the situation. “He might have cleaned it up before his sister hauled it off to the shop.”
“Don’t worry, if you’ve got the right car, we’ll know it.” He paused, then said, “You’re a reporter-got a strong enough stomach for some details?”
I nodded, not sure that was true.
“Blood, hair and other matter will still show up on a car that’s been washed-on the undercarriage, behind the grill and in other places most people wouldn’t think of cleaning. As for the time that’s passed, sure, we’d like to find any evidence as soon as possible, but even if the blood, fiber and other evidence have been destroyed, the LAPD collected parts of that car from the scene. We’ve got pieces to match up to the damage, and autopsy observations that will help do the same. And of course, there are the tires.”
“The tires?”
“There were tire-tread marks visible on the body.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t tell you this to distress you,” he said. “Just to let you know that I think we’ll have plenty of ways to link the car to the crime if it’s the one that was used to kill your aunt. He could have taken it through a car wash, and we’d still be able to show a jury that it’s the one.”
He reluctantly handed the photos back, then said, “You know these weren’t taken on the day she was killed?”
“Wrong sweater.”
He smiled. “You talked to Mr. Reyes.” He put on his jacket and tucked his notebook away. He studied me for a moment, then said, “You must get along well with Rachel.”
“If I could have chosen my own sister, I would have picked Rachel. You should see who I got instead.”
He laughed and said, “Thanks for the help. I need to get going on all of this.” He looked around, then said, “You think you and your cousin will be safe out here?”
“Does this mean I’m no longer a suspect?”
“Whoever said you were one?”
I groaned. “Maybe a long talk with Richmond will make you a little less suspicious of me.”
“One can always hope,” he said, smiling to himself as he walked toward his car.
I put the envelope on the small table in the van, then went back out to get the chairs. When I returned, Travis was standing next to the table, his hair sleep-tousled, a look of bewilderment on his face.
“Where are we?”
“A park on the east side of Las Piernas.” I picked up the envelope and explained why we had left Mary’s. “We tried to wake you, but the pain pill made that impossible.”
“I vaguely remember walking out to the van,” he said, rubbing his face, seeming still half-asleep. “How can you be so sure they knew where we were?”
That led to an explanation about my afternoon, and the photos.
“The photos are in that envelope?”
“Yes.”
“You said he took photos of my mother?”
“Yes.”
“May I seem them?” He said it with a touch of impatience.
Reluctantly, I handed them to him. I stepped outside to take the awning down.
He was silent as he looked through them, but despite visible efforts to control himself, he couldn’t hide his grief when he came to one of them. He hadn’t looked through all of them, but he set them down, then covered his eyes with his left hand. I stepped inside, finished with the awning, but leaving the door open. On the table, at the top of the stack, was one of the photos of his mother at Arthur’s funeral.
He broke down, but this storm was over almost as quickly as it started, as if he only needed its release for it to pass.
I found a box of tissues, and he took it, saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just-God! I should have been there! I should have taken care of her, protected her!”
“Do you think you could have prevented Richmond from spying on her?”
After a moment he shook his head. “I couldn’t even prevent him from spying on you and me.”
He stepped outside, looked around. “Can we stay here overnight?”
“No. But we should keep moving, anyway.”
He glanced back at the envelope.
“Do you think Robert DeMont killed my mother?”
“If he did, McCain will find out from the car.”
He was quiet for a moment, then said, “But you don’t think he did it.” I m not sure.
“Why not?”
“These photos were most likely taken because someone believes your father murdered his first wife.”
“Harold Richmond and Robert DeMont both believe that,” he said.
“Well, Richmond does anyway.” I told him about DeMont’s history with knives. “But the more I think about it, the more I wonder why Robert would have killed Gwen. He might have tried to get her to divorce your dad, so that he could go back to raiding her money. But if she was dead and he couldn’t pin the murder on your dad, he was out of luck.”
“Maybe he found out about us-my mom and me,” Travis said. “Maybe he
“Hmm. But that was all settled a long time ago, whether they like it or not. Why hire someone to take photos of you and your mother now? Why attack you, your mother, Ulkins? They won’t get anything from the estate by killing you.”
“Who would?”
