and hate, and often death obliterates the distance between the two entirely. They fuse into a paralyzing turmoil of opposing emotions, one that's almost impossible to bear.
'So after she left your house that day, did you see her again?' Jacek asked gently.
Deanna shook her head. 'No,' she said. 'I never saw her again, but I told my parents where to find her. I felt like they needed to know she was okay-that their daughter wasn't lying dead in a ditch somewhere.'
Detective Jacek nodded. 'That's how we found you and your mother both,' he explained. 'Through a letter your mother had written to Denise at the Camano Island house.'
As soon as he mentioned the word mother Deanna glanced down at her watch. 'Oh, my God,' she wailed. 'It's late. I've got to go get dressed and put on some makeup.'
'Just a couple more questions, if you don't mind,' Detective Jacek said. 'When Denise was here, did she say anything more that you can remember about her boyfriend?'
'No, not really. Just that he had plenty of money and that he was willing to spend it on her.'
'Would your sister have been involved in something illegal?' Jacek asked.
'Of course,' Deanna answered at once. 'Prostitution is illegal, isn't it? At least most places.'
'I mean besides that. It looks as though her house may have been searched before it was burned, as though someone was looking for something.'
'You mean like drugs?' Deanna asked.
'Possibly,' Jacek answered.
Deanna drew a sharp breath. 'The guy on the TV news said something about a ‘torture killing.'' Deanna's tear-reddened eyes focused directly on Jacek's. 'What exactly does that mean?'
Detective Jacek sighed. 'I'm sorry that turned up on the news. It wasn't supposed to.'
'Are you saying someone tortured her because they wanted her to tell them where something was hidden, like cocaine or something?'
'That's one possibility,' Jacek said. 'Whatever the killer was looking for, either your sister knew where it was or she didn't. Either she told them or she didn't. We can't tell which.'
'But even if she did know where and what it was, even if she told them where to find it, whoever it was still went ahead and killed her anyway.'
'Yes,' Detective Jacek agreed. 'That's also possible.'
'You said ‘they.' Do you think there was more than one?'
'No. Not necessarily. That's just a manner of speaking. He. She. They.'
Deanna Meadows leaned forward in her chair, her eyes searching Detective Jacek's face. 'Tell me,' she said. 'Exactly how bad is it? I need to know so I can tell my parents so they can be prepared.'
Detective Jacek put down his coffee cup and stood up. 'It's pretty bad, Mrs. Meadows,' he answered. 'If I were you, I'd tell your folks to plan on a closed-casket service.'
The statement was simple, brief, and to the point, but it answered the question. It told Deanna Meadows what she needed to know.
I had to give Stan Jacek plenty of credit for the diplomatic way he pulled that one off. I don't think I could have handled it better myself.
12
Before Stan and I finally left Deanna Meadows' driveway in Fairwood, Detective Jacek made arrangements to come back later in the afternoon to talk to her parents, John and Ellen Whitney, and to pick up Denise Whitney's dental records.
After putting in an all-nighter, both Stan and I were running out of steam. We didn't talk much as we drove back down off the plateau. When he suggested a lunch stop in Renton, it sounded like a good idea to me.
The place he chose was one of those cutesy-pie named-but-faceless joints that nowadays seem to litter freeway off-ramps everywhere. They're part of what I call the continuing Dennyfication of America.
Going from one of those standardized chains to another, it's impossible to tell them apart. Only the overhead signs outside are different. Inside they're all laid out in exactly the same manner. All the interiors look as though they were designed by the same silk-flower-crazed, California-based interior designer. The restaurants come complete with identical wood-grain Formica booths, colorful see-and-eat picture menus, and limp, half-cooked hash-brown potatoes.
One bite of my leathery hamburger threw me into a fit of nostalgia for the Doghouse. Chewing on that tough, overdone, and tasteless chunk of mystery meat made me long for one of my old eat-at-all-hours standbys-a chili dog or a grilled tuna with potato chips and pickles on the side. And remembering that reminded me of something else from the Doghouse-a guy by the name of Dirty Dick.
He was one of the old band of Doghouse regulars. To the outside world, that group constituted an oddball collection from all walks of life, but inside the darkened bar and gathered around the organ, they formed an informal, tightly knit choral society.
Dirty Dick was one of the sing-along songfest directors. Each person had his or her own signature song; his own particular number. Dirty Dick's perennial favorite was a bawdy, fun tune called 'Aunt Clara.'
It had been months since I last heard it, but with a little mental prodding, the words gradually surfaced. 'Aunt Clara' is the story of one of those old-time 'fallen women.' When caught in the act, Aunt Clara is driven out of town in disgrace. While everyone back home predicts a sorrowful, shameful end, Clara heads off for France, where she lives happily ever after and marries far above her station, not once but several times. Four dukes and a baron and maybe even an earl. I'm not absolutely sure about the earl part because I'm not all that good on lyrics. Near as I recall, the chorus goes something like this:
We never mention Aunt Clara, her picture is turned to the wall.
She lives on the French Riviera.
Mother says she is dead to us all.
It wasn't much of a stretch for me to make the mental leap from good old Aunt Clara to Denise Whitney. I wondered if a grieving John and Ellen Whitney had turned their younger daughter's picture to the wall. More likely, they still thought of her the same way Deanna did-as a beautiful, bright child who had nonetheless turned out badly and for no discernible reason.
A silent Stan Jacek was also lost in thought as he systematically forked his way through a slab of particle- board ground beef. He had ordered meat loaf, but the food on his plate bore little resemblance to that displayed on the colorfully illustrated menu.
'Denise Whitney reminds me of ‘Aunt Clara,'' I said between bites. Not privy to my meandering stream of consciousness, Stan Jacek assumed I was talking about a real person.
'Too bad,' he said. 'I guess everybody has a kook or two hiding in the family closet. My first cousin Jim is undergoing sex-change therapy. As far as my aunt and uncle are concerned, he could just as well be dead.'
'Dead's permanent,' I said.
'According to Jimmy-that's what he/she wants us to call him now-so's the operation. But don't tell me, tell my uncle. What's this about your aunt?'
Stan Jacek was talking real stuff. I felt foolish admitting to him that I didn't have an Aunt Clara at all, and that I was really referring to the heroine of a barroom ditty. When I finished telling him the whole story, though, Stan Jacek agreed with me.
'I can see why you thought of it,' he said. 'Clara and Denise do seem to have a lot in common. Except it sounds as though the song has a much happier ending.'
'That's right,' I said. 'I doubt Denise Whitney ever made it as far as the French Riviera.'
'Not even close.'
Jacek didn't need me hanging around while he picked up the dental records. Truth be known, I wasn't eager to talk to or meet Denise Whitney's bereaved parents. Talking to relatives of murder victims is one of the parts of this job that never gets any easier no matter how many times you do it. Parents are especially tough, no matter how old or screwed-up the children are.
Besides, I had the legitimate excuse of needing to go back to the office and put together a paper trail. I
