'Yes.' She pointed to one photo of a man with short sideburns and a pin-striped suit. 'This is Les Paterna,' she said. 'He worked with my father for a while, about ten years ago.'
'Can you tell me anything about him? Was he close to the family?'
'He was at the house occasionally.'
Paine put the photographs away. 'Do you know where I might be able to reach him?'
'He's in the Westchester phone book. His company is called Bravura Enterprises.'
They had reached the end of the path. It opened onto a vast glide of lawn. To the right, at the bottom of a hill, a flat tennis court was bounded by green fencing; behind that were a swimming pool and a skeet shooting range. To the left the lawn kept going, rising and falling steadily downward, till the Hudson River, a sparkling blue hedge of water, cut the world in two.
They moved gradually down to the right, stopping by the green chain link surrounding the tennis court. There was a bench, the kind you order from a store in Vermont, with strong pine planking laid across a green wrought-iron frame. Rebecca Meyer sat down. On the tennis court someone had left a towel and a pair of sunglasses. A racket had been tossed carelessly aside to land on the white foul line.
'I didn't tell the police about you or the note,' Rebecca Meyer said.
'That will help.'
'It's not any of their business.'
Paine found himself drawn to look into her eyes, which were studying him again. There was something about her that he couldn't put his finger on. Something that disturbed and attracted him.
'I find it easy to talk to you,' Rebecca Meyer said. The slightest of smiles touched her lips as she put her hand on his. 'Would you mind telling me why?'
Paine drew his hand politely away from hers and put it on his lap.
After a moment, he asked her, 'How close were you to your sister?'
'I loved Dolores very much. But I can't say we were very close. She was moody and cynical. When she was in school she spent most of her time by herself. She read a lot. My mother doted on her as much as on any of us, but all I can remember Dolores asking Mother for were books. My sister Gloria and I watched television and played tennis, Dolores read books.'
They looked at the chain link fence.
'Is your sister Gloria here?' Paine asked.
'She was down from Boston for my father's funeral yesterday and then went home to her family. She'll be back tonight.'
'Was she very close to Dolores?'
'Gloria is close to no one.'
'Not even to your mother?'
Rebecca nearly laughed. 'Gloria is exactly like my mother.'
Paine waited for her to say more.
'My sister Gloria,' she went on, 'is gracious, smooth, cold, and everyone loves her.' She stopped, took a long breath. 'I'm sorry if that sounds bitter, but it's true. My mother and she always got what they wanted, which was everything.'
'Your mother-'
'She died a year ago,' Rebecca Meyer said. Then she added abruptly, 'I think we should be getting back.'
She got up and Paine went with her back toward the house. As they reached the grove of trees, Paine saw the man he had seen the day before. He was out of his tennis outfit today, leaning in a polo shirt and chinos against a tree bordering the path.
'The police have been looking for you,' he said to Rebecca.
She brushed past him. 'I told them all there was. This is Mr. Paine, a detective. This is Gerald.'
'I know,' Gerald said. 'I told Inspector Dannon that Paine was here.'
Rebecca turned on him. 'I told you we were going to keep him out of this,' she said between her teeth.
He spread his hands innocently. 'What could I do? They asked where you were.'
'Idiot,' she said, continuing on to the house with Paine.
'I'd better go,' Paine said.
She took his arm, squeezing. 'Please,' she said. 'Not yet.'
Dannon was waiting for them in the front driveway by the open door to his car. The TV crews had vanished, looking for other carrion.
'Mrs. Meyer,' Dannon said politely, 'there was just one other thing I wanted to ask you. Your husband mentioned something about a note your sister left.' He didn't look at Paine.
Paine took the note from his pocket and handed it to Dannon. 'It was a business matter between her and me. Not a suicide note, if that makes you feel better.'
Dannon ignored Paine and took the note. He read it over quickly, then brought his eyes level with Paine's. 'Mrs. Meyer's husband said something about some other papers, too.' He pointed at the note. 'What's this about something for you at the Mallard Hotel?'
Paine handed Dannon the agency contracts and the check. 'The Mallard Hotel thing didn't exist,' he said evenly. 'They had nothing for me there. Look into it if you want.'
'Are you fucking with me?' Dannon spat. Immediately he turned to Rebecca Meyer to apologize.
'No,' Paine said. 'Check it if you want. Ask the afternoon clerk if there was anything for a shithead named Paine.'
'Don't fuck with me.'
'Farthest thing from my mind.”
Dannon’s ears turned red, and he put out his balled fists, but Rebecca Meyer intervened.
'Please, Inspector,' she said, 'Mr. Paine told you the truth.' She glanced toward the open door of the car. 'Is there anything else you wanted?'
'I guess not.'
Paine said, “Let me have that note back.”
'No way.' Dannon got quickly into his car and closed the door.
He gunned the accelerator and slipped the car into gear. Suddenly he reached out through the open window and grabbed Paine by the arm.
'Don’t fuck with me,' he whispered. His eyes were tight and hard, and he released the brake, making Paine stumble a few steps along with the car before giving his arm back to him. The car slammed ahead, squealing around the circular driveway, and then was gone through the gates.
Paine stood rubbing his arm as Rebecca Meyer came up to him.
'I had some trouble with that guy once,' he explained, his eyes on the gates, the place where the car no longer was.
FIVE
Paine was in one of the bad places.
It wasn’t bad to begin with, but it would get bad very soon. He was back with his father, after the long dark space that he didn’t want to think about, and his brother, Tom, was there, too. They were all in the house together, just like they had always been, and thought it didn’t feel the same, though that dark place was just behind him, he knew that this was as close to good as it would ever get again. His father was smiling. They sat around the nicked-up kitchen table and his father made them waffles like he always had on Saturdays. This wasn’t Saturday, it was Friday, but that didn’t matter because only the waffles mattered. He had slept in his own bed the night before, and he had slept well though there were times during the night when he had come awake clutching the mattress right through the covers, and breathing hard. He had rubbed his wrists, feeling not manacles but only their receding, sore marks. That had happened three or four times, but by late into the night, when it was almost morning, his body had finally realized where it was and he had slept. He must have gotten the good sleep because when he woke he felt as if he had been out for two days. And then he had smelled waffles, and coffee and bacon.
