see how I would receive the shocking news.
'I know,' I replied.
'Somebody already told you?'
I nodded.
'Daddy had to come get me from school,' she continued. 'He's talking with a detective right now. He says for me to wait here until Mother comes to get me.'
'Your daddy's right,' I said. 'It's much better for you to wait out here.'
I was grateful James Rothman had shown at least that much sensitivity. Seven-year-old children should never be subjected to the gruesome details of homicide investigations, particularly an investigation into the death of someone they love.
A long, uncomfortable silence followed. Every once in a while she would sniffle or mop away at the determined tears that continued to course down her reddened cheeks.
'Dead means he won't ever come back, doesn't it?' she asked eventually.
I nodded. 'That's right. Not ever.'
'How come?'
How come people don't come back after they're dead? Where the hell do kids come up with questions like that, and how the hell do you answer them? I'm a cop, not a goddamned philosopher.
I searched my memory banks for some lingering scrap of Sunday school wisdom that might not answer her question outright but would at least offer a smidgen of comfort. I came up totally empty-handed.
'Daddy told me Joey's in heaven now,' Jennifer continued when I said nothing. 'Is that true?'
'Yes.' I answered quickly, not daring to hesitate. 'I'm sure he is.'
I tried to sound as convincing as possible although I personally had grave doubts as to her brother's eternal destination. The Joey Rothman I knew seemed a most unlikely prospect for halo and wings.
There was another long silence while Jennifer waggled the toe of her scuffed baby tennis shoes. Reeboks, naturally.
'What's Mother going to do now?' she asked, breaking the silence with another totally unexpected question. I wasn't at all sure I understood what she was asking.
'What do you mean?'
More tears spilled out of Jennifer's eyes, but she maintained a surprising level of composure. 'Mother always liked Joey best.' She spoke the words slowly and guardedly, but with unwavering conviction. She paused and swallowed hard before she continued. 'If Joey's dead, will she still love me?'
Jennifer Rothman had dragged me entirely out of my depth in the child psychology department. The Smothers Brothers may have elevated the old 'Mom always liked you best' shtick to a money-making art form. The same routine coming from a mourning, grief-stricken seven-year-old child was anything but funny. Her look of utter abandonment sliced through my heart like a hot knife.
Before I could tell her I was sure she was mistaken, before I could offer the reassurance that I was sure her mother loved her just as much as she had loved Joey, the dining room door crashed open once more. Marsha Rothman, Mother herself, hurried inside.
'Mother, Mother,' Jennifer wailed, letting loose a cloudburst of noisy sobs. She clambered off the couch and raced toward her mother, catching Marsha Rothman in a desperate tackle as the woman started across the room.
'Joey's dead,' Jennifer whimpered, burying her face in her mother's woolen skirt. 'Joey's dead.'
'I know.'
Marsha Rothman's usually unemotional face was distorted by her own grief. Distractedly she placed both hands on Jennifer's heaving shoulders. 'Where's Daddy?' she asked.
Jennifer sobbed all the harder and didn't answer.
Feeling like an eavesdropper, I followed Jennifer across the room and stood waiting for the two of them to notice me. Melting mascara had left muddy tracks on Marsha's pallid cheeks. Her skin had the leathery look of someone who has spent years in search of the perfect tan, but now there was no trace of color in her skin. She looked pale, gaunt almost, but not a lock of her perfectly sculpted haircut was out of place.
I was only a few feet away, but she didn't see me. I didn't necessarily like the woman, but at a time like that, personal preferences don't mean much. Marsha Rothman's stepson was dead, and I would do whatever I could to help.
'I'm sorry about Joey,' I said quietly, wanting to let her know I was there without startling her.
Despite my cautious tone, Marsha Rothman jumped when I spoke but regained her composure. My words of condolence seemed to strengthen her somehow. She swallowed and stiffened.
'Thank you,' she answered formally. 'Thank you very much. Do you have any idea where I could find my husband?'
'He went down the hall,' I told her. 'Probably into Louise Crenshaw's office. The detectives have been using that for a base of operations.'
She nodded and then looked down at the weeping Jennifer, who still clung to her mother's waist. 'I've got to go, Jennifer,' Marsha said, trying to disengage herself. 'Can you stay here with Mr. Beaumont?'
Jennifer shook her head and held on even more desperately. 'Don't leave me, Mother. Please don't leave me. Can't I come too? Please?'
Marsha's answer was firm. 'No, Jen. I have to go be with Daddy. You have to wait here.'
One clutching finger at a time, Marsha pried loose Jennifer's grasping hands. There was no anger in the gesture, but nothing very motherly either, no caring, warmth, or comfort, just a practiced indifference. I caught myself wondering if maybe Jennifer was right. For whatever reason, maybe Marsha really had liked Joey Rothman best.
Sobbing and bereft, Jennifer allowed herself to be handed over to me while Marsha paused only long enough to straighten her skirt and give her hair a superficial and unnecessary pat before walking away. As she left, Marsha Rothman didn't favor Jennifer with so much as a backward glance.
I picked up the weeping child and held her, letting her bury her head against my shoulder while I rocked back and forth. I held her for some time, listening to her cry, watching the pelting rain falling outside the windows, and wondering how the hell to ease the hurt she was feeling. Suddenly, I caught sight of Shorty Rojas. Slouched under a huge yellow slicker, he rode past the ranch house on an ancient plodding gray horse. Behind him he led a wet string of bridled but unsaddled horses. It was a heaven-sent but guaranteed diversion.
'Look at all the horses,' I said, pointing out the window with one hand while boosting Jennifer off my shoulder with the other. 'Would you like to go outside and see them?'
It worked like a charm. Little girls and horses are like that. Jennifer's sobbing stopped instantly. 'Could we? Really? Maybe I could even ride one.' Then, just as suddenly, her face fell again. She ducked her chin to hide the disappointment. 'It's raining outside. These are my school clothes. Mother doesn't like for me to get them wet.'
Screw Mother, I thought savagely. For a moment I was stymied, but then I remembered seeing Dolores Rojas leave the ranch's kitchen to walk back to her mobile home, a stately mountain of a woman moving slowly under the shelter of an immense black umbrella.
'Hold on,' I said. 'I have an idea.'
Carrying the child into the kitchen, I found Dolores Rojas elbow-deep in sudsy dishwater. 'Could we borrow your umbrella for a little while, Dolores? This is Joey Rothman's sister. She'd like to go outside with Shorty to see the horses.'
A quick look of sympathy and understanding flashed across Dolores' broad, brown face. 'Sure,' she answered. 'It's right over there by the door.'
I retrieved her umbrella from the metal milk can that served as an umbrella stand. We were about to step outside into the rain when Dolores stopped us.
'Wait,' she said, drying her hands on a towel. 'I may have a few old carrots around here somewhere.'
Of course there was nothing wrong with the handful of carrots she pressed into Jennifer's eager hands. Dolores Rojas was another soft touch. It takes one to know one.
We caught up with Shorty just as he closed a barbed wire gate behind the last of the unsaddled horses and was remounting the gray. When I told him who Jennifer was, Shorty clicked his tongue sympathetically and then
