I sat in the chair Bobby had vacated. The down-filled cushion was still warm, contoured to the shape of his body. Glen was watching me, formulating, I gathered, an opinion of me. By lamplight, I could see that her hair color was the handiwork of an expert who'd matched it almost exactly to the mild brown of her eyes. Everything about her was beautifully coordinated: makeup, clothing, accessories. She was apparently a person who paid attention to detail and her taste was impeccable.
"I'm sorry you had to see us like this."
"I'm not sure I ever see people at their best," I said. "It gives me a rather skewed impression of humankind. Will he be paying my bills or will you?"
The question caused her to focus on me with interest and I guessed that she brought a considerable intelligence to any matter involving money. She raised an eyebrow ever so slightly.
"He will. He came into his trust when he was twenty-one. Why do you ask?"
"I like to know who I'm reporting to," I said. "What's your feeling about his claim that someone's trying to kill him?"
She took a moment to respond, shrugging delicately. "It's possible. The police seem convinced that someone forced him off that bridge. Whether it was premeditated, I have no idea." Her voice was distinct, low, and intense.
"From what Bobby says, it's been a long nine months."
She ran a thumbnail along her pantleg, directing her comments to the crease. "I don't know how we survived it. He's my only child, the light of my life."
She paused, smiling slightly to herself, and then looked up at me with an unexpected shyness. "I know ail mothers must talk like this, but he was special. He really was. Even from infancy. Smart, alert, sociable, quick. And gorgeous. Such a beautiful little boy, easygoing and affectionate, funny. He was magical.
"The night of the accident, the police came to the house. They weren't able to notify us until four in the morning because the car wasn't discovered for a while and then it took hours to get the two boys up the side of the mountain. Rick died instantly, of course."
She broke off and I thought at first she'd lost her train of thought. "Anyway. The doorbell rang. Derek went down, and when he didn't come back, I grabbed a robe and went down myself I saw two policemen in the foyer. I thought they'd come to tell us there was a burglary in the neighborhood or an accident on the road out front. Derek turned around and he had this awful look on his face. He said, 'Glen, it's Bobby.' I thought my heart had stopped."
She looked up at me and her eyes were luminous with tears. She laced her fingers together, making a steeple of her two index fingers, which she rested against her lips. "I thought he was dead. I thought they'd come to tell me he'd died. I felt a spurt of ice, like I'd been stabbed. It started in my heart and spread through my body 'til my teeth chattered. He was at St. Terry's by then. All we knew at that point was he was still alive, but barely. When we got to the hospital, the doctor didn't give us any hope at all. None. They told us there were extensive injuries. Brain damage and so many broken bones. They said he'd never recover, that he'd be a vegetable if he survived. I was dying. I died because Bobby was dying and it went on for days. I never left his side. I was crazy, screaming at everyone, nurses, doctors…"
Her gaze flattened and she lifted an index finger, like a teacher who wants to make a point very clear. "I'll tell you what I learned," she said carefully. "I understood I couldn't buy Bobby's life. Money can't buy life, but it can buy anything else you want. I'd never used money that way, which seems odd to me now. My parents had money. My parents' parents had money. I've always understood the power of money, but I'd never wielded it with quite such effect. He had the best of everything. The best! Nothing was spared.
And he pulled out of it. Having endured so much, I'd hate to think someone did it deliberately. To all intents and purposes, Bobby's life is ruined. He'll be all right and we'll find a way for him to live productively, but only because we're in a position to make that happen. The losses are incalculable. It's miraculous he's come this far."
"You have any theories about why someone might try to kill him?" i She shook her head.
"You said Bobby has his own money. Who benefits if he dies?"
"You'd have to ask him that. He has a will, I'm sure, and we've discussed his leaving his money to various charities… unless of course, he marries and has legitimate heirs of his own. You think money might be the motive?"
I shrugged. "I tend to look at that first, especially in a situation like this when it sounds like there's a lot."
"What else could it be? What could anyone have against him?"
"People murder for absurd reasons. Someone gets into a rage over something and retaliates. People get jealous or want to defend themselves from a real or imagined attack. Or they've done something wrong and they kill to cover it up. Sometimes it doesn't even make that much sense. Maybe Bobby cut someone off in a lane change that night and the driver followed him all the way up the pass. People go nuts in cars. I take it he wasn't in the middle of a hassle with anyone?"
"Not that I was aware of"
"Nobody mad at him? A girl friend maybe?"
"I doubt it. He was going with someone at the time, but it was a fairly casual relationship from what I could tell. Once this happened, we didn't see much of her. Of course, Bobby changed. You don't come that close to death without paying a penalty. Violent death is like a monster. The closer you get to it, the more damage you sustain… if you survive at all. Bobby's had to pull himself out of the grave, step by step. He's different now. He's looked into the monsters face. You can see the claw marks on his body everywhere."
I glanced away from her. It was true. Bobby looked like he had been attacked: torn and broken and mauled. Violent death leaves an aura, like an energy field that repels the observer. I've never looked at a homicide victim yet without a quick recoil. Even photographs of the dead chill and repulse me.
I shifted back to the matter at hand. "Bobby said he was working for Dr. Fraker at the time."
"That's right. Jim F rakers been a friend of mine for years. That s why Bobby was hired at St. Terry's, as a matter of fact. As a favor to me."
"How long had he worked there?"
"At the hospital itself, maybe four months. He'd been working for Jim in Pathology for two months, I think."
"And what did he actually do?"
"Cleaned equipment, ran errands, answered the phone. It was all routine. They'd taught him to do a few lab tests and sometimes he monitored machinery, but I can't imagine his job entailed anything that would endanger his life."
"He had his degree from UCST by then, I gather," I said, repeating what Bobby'd told me.
"That's right. He was working temporarily, hoping to get accepted to med school. His first applications had been turned down."
"How come?"
"Oh, he got cocky and only applied to about five schools. He'd always been an excellent student and he'd never failed at anything in his life. He miscalculated. Med schools are ferociously competitive and he simply didn't get accepted to the ones he tried for. It set him back on his heels for a time, but he'd rallied, I think. I know he felt the job with Dr. Fraker was valuable, because it gave him some exposure to disciplines he wouldn't otherwise have known about until much later in the game."
"What else was going on in his life at that point?"
"Not a lot. He went to work. He dated. He did some weight lifting, surfed now and then. He went to movies, went out to dinner with us. It all seemed very ordinary at the time and it seems very ordinary looking back."
There was another avenue I needed to explore and I wondered how she would react. "Were he and Kitty involved with one another sexually?"
"Ah. Well, I can't really answer that. I have no idea.".
"But it's possible."
"I suppose so, though I don't think it's likely. Derek and I have been together since she was thirteen. Bobby was eighteen, nineteen, something like that. Out of the house at any rate. I do think Kitty was smitten with him. I don't know how he felt about her, but I can't believe a thirteen-year-old would interest him in the least."
"She's grown up pretty fast from what I've seen."
She crossed her legs restlessly, wrapping one around the other. "I don't understand why you're pursuing this point."
"I need to know what was going on. He was anxious about her tonight and more than relieved when he found out she was all right. I wondered how deep the connections ran."
"Oh. I see. A lot of his emotionalism is the aftermath of the accident. From what I'm told, it's not uncommon for people who've suffered head injury. He's moody now. Impatient. And he overreacts. He weeps easily and he gets very frustrated with himself."
"Is part of that the memory loss?"
"Yes," she said. "What makes it hard is he can never predict where the losses will occur. Sometimes he can remember the most inconsequential things, then he'll tnrn around and forget his own birthdate. Or he'll blank out on someone altogether, maybe someone he's known all his life. That's one of the reasons he's seeing Leo Kleinert. To help him cope with the personality changes."
"He told me Kitty was seeing Dr. Kleinert, too. Was that for the anorexia?"
"Kitty's been impossible from the first."
"Well, I gathered that much. What was it about?"
"Ask Derek. I'm the wrong person to consult about her. I did try, but I don't give a damn anymore. Even this business tonight. I know it sounds cruel, but I can't take it seriously. She does it to herself. It's her life. Let her do anything she wants as long as it doesn't affect the rest of us. She can drop dead for all I care."
"It looks like her behavior affects you whether you like it or not," I ventured carefully. This was clearly touchy stuff and I didn't want to antagonize her.
"I'm afraid that's true, but I've had it. Something's got to change. I'm tired of playing games and I'm sick of watching her manipulate Derek."
I shifted the subject slightly, probing a question I'd been curious about. "You think the drugs were actually hers?"
"Of course. She's been stoned since she walked in my front door. It's been such a bone of contention between Derek and me I can hardly speak of it. She's ruining our relationship." She closed her mouth and composed herself, then said, "What makes you put it that way?"
"About the drugs? It seems odd to me, that's all," I said. "I can't believe she'd leave them in her bed-table drawer in a Ziploc bag for starters and I can't believe she'd have pills in that quantity. Do you know what that stuff is worth?"
"She has an allowance of two hundred dollars a month," Glen said crisply. "I've argued and cajoled until I'm blue in the face, but what's the point? Derek insists. The money comes out of his own account."
"Even so, it's pretty high-level stuff. She'd have to have an incredible connection somewhere."
"I'm sure Kitty has her little ways."
I let the subject pass and made a mental note for myself I'd recently made the acquaintance of one of Santa Teresa High School's more enterprising drug dealers and he might be able to identify her source. He might even be her source, for all I knew. He'd promised me he'd shut down his operation, but that was like a wino promising to buy a sandwich with the dollar you'd donated in good faith. Who were we trying to kid here?
"Maybe we should let it go for now," I said. "I'm sure this day has seemed long enough. I'd like to have the name and telephone number of Bobby's old girl friend if you have it, and I'll probably want to talk to Rick's parents, too. Can you tell me how to get in touch with them?"
"I'll give you both numbers," she said. She got up and crossed to a little antique rosewood desk with pigeonholes and tiny drawers along the top. She opened one of the large drawers below and took out a monogrammed leather address book.
"Beautiful desk," I murmured. This was like telling the Queen of England she has nice jewels.
"Thank you," Glen said idly, while she leafed through the address book. "I bought it at an auction in London last year. I'd hesitate to tell you how much I paid for it."
"Oh, give it a whirl," I said, fascinated. I was getting giddy hanging out with these people,
"Twenty-six thousand dollars," she murmured, running a finger down the page.
I could feel myself shrug philosophically. Hey, big deal. Twenty-six grand was as nothing to her. I wondered what she paid for underwear. I wondered what she paid for cars.
"Here it is." She scribbled the information on a scratch pad and tore off a leaf, which she passed to me.
"You'll find Rick's parents rather difficult, I suspect," she said.
"How so?"
"Because they blame Bobby for his death."
"How does he handle that?"
"Not well. Sometimes I think he believes it himself, which is all the more reason to get to the bottom of this."
"Can I ask you one more thing?"
"Of course."
"Is it 'Glen' as in 'West Glen'?"
"The other way around," she said. "I wasn't named for the road. The road was named for me."
By the time I got back in my car, I had a lot of information to digest. It was 9:30, fully dark, and too chilly for a black gauze tunic that ended six inches above my knees. I took a few minutes to wiggle out of my pantyhose and hunch into my long pants. I dropped the high heels into the backseat and pulled on my sandals again, then started the car and put it in reverse. I backed around in a semicircle, looking for a way out. I spotted the second arm of the drive and followed it, catching a glimpse of the rear of the house. There were four illuminated terraces, each with a reflecting "pool, shimmering black by night, probably giving back sequential images of the mountains by day, like a series of overlapping photographs.
I reached West Glen and turned left, heading toward town. There'd been no indication that Derek had gotten home and I thought I'd try to catch him at St. Terry's before he left. Idly, I wondered what it'd be like to have a city street named after me. Kinsey Avenue. Kinsey Road. Not bad. I figured I could learn to live with the tribute if it came my way.