Super Bowl Sunday afternoon was clear and cool as McMichael worked himself into the driver's seat of his take-home Ford. He leaned the crutches against the seat beside him, used both hands to get his left leg and cast into the car. It hurt like a sonofabitch but he wouldn't risk pain pills and driving. Thank God for automatic transmissions, he thought.
Traffic was heavy- a city abuzz with the big game. He listened briefly to the pregame radio. When he climbed onto the Coronado Bridge a lavishly illustrated dread hit him and he remembered every second of that ride, right down to the strange wild smell that had filled the cab as Patricia gunned the SUV toward the roadblock. The smell of terror. But he guided the Crown Vic up the span and down toward Coronado, noting the scraped and bent railing where they'd gone over. There wasn't really much to it. The other drivers didn't even slow down for a better look. Bigger things on their minds- point spreads and kegs and traffic into Qualcomm Stadium. McMichael wondered if short memories were, in the long run, a good thing.
He dropped down onto Silver Strand Boulevard and headed south. The wind was up and he could see little puffs of sand swirling off to his right. The ocean was brightly beveled and even McMichael's good sunglasses couldn't keep him from squinting. He wore a Padres cap very loosely on his head to keep himself and the world from having to look at his bandages.
Sally Rainwater's place looked different, even from a distance. The potted plants on the porch were gone, and a man that McMichael had never seen before was touching up the paint on the front door.
McMichael noted the FOR RENT sign propped against the railing as he labored onto the porch. A radio had the pregame show on.
The man stopped painting and looked at him. "You're the cop," he said.
"I take it she moved."
"Gone by Friday evening."
To McMichael, Friday seemed like two years ago, not two days ago. So, she'd gotten out of jail, packed up and split. Didn't waste a second. He admired her resolve and efficiency.
He looked through the open front door, at the wall where one of Pete Braga's paintings had hung. The sailing scene- a man and his boat against a raw and violent ocean. A sea without blue. He could see the nail hole. "Do you have a number for her?"
"Didn't leave me one," said the landlord. "Paid up cash and that was that."
"Did she say where she was going?"
The landlord shook his head and set down the paint can. "She never did say very much. Kept the place clean, though. I gave her the deposit back. The news vans smashed up some ice plant over by the street, but that's about it."
"Can I go in?"
The landlord stared at McMichael. "Sure."
McMichael stood in the living room, looked at the small, sunblasted kitchen. He walked down the hallway where they'd scared Sally Rainwater half to death, past the closet where they'd found the evidence hidden by Patricia and Garland, then into the bedroom. The louvered windows were open, the two faulty panes replaced by new ones with the stickers still on them. He tried to picture what the room had looked like with the bed there and Sally in it. It was easy.
On his way out the landlord told him the rent was fifteen hundred but he'd knock off a hundred if a cop wanted it. McMichael said he'd ask around.
He found Victor in his room at the Horton Grand, watching cartoons on TV. Victor told him he could come in, took a bag of potato chips off a chair so McMichael could sit.
"Have you seen SpongeBob SquarePants?" Victor asked.
"A couple of times."
"I like the way the bubbles come up. But I think if fish talked, there'd be more bubbles."
"Me, too. How are you, Victor?"
Victor shrugged. "I miss Pat and Gar. Were you the other guy in the car?"
"Yeah, that was me."
"Pat always drove way too fast. Gar would yell at her."
"I remember that about her, too. Do you need anything, Victor?"
Victor looked at him blankly, then back at the screen. "Like what?"
"Help with paperwork, or someone to drive you somewhere, maybe?"
"No, thanks. They found Angel."
"I know."
"I don't get why someone would kill her. She was really nice."
McMichael said nothing to that. He could see no reason to tell Victor who had killed the angel in his life, or why. For a hummingbird made of jewels.
"I guess you'll have a lot of money coming your way soon," said McMichael. "When they get the estate straightened out."
"Yeah," said Victor. "And I still got my job. Charley's a good guy."
"I'm going to leave one of my cards here on the table," said McMichael. "You call me if you need anything."
Victor looked at him. "I called the police to find out when they're going to bury Angel. They wouldn't tell me."
"I'll find out. I'll drive you if you want."
"Cool."
"Later, Victor."
Just after the opening kickoff McMichael's home phone rang. It was a desk officer calling from headquarters saying that Henry Grothke Sr. was in the lobby demanding to show something to McMichael.
"He refuses to leave it, or even tell me what it is. But it appears to be a tub of ice cream, sir. Fudge marble."
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
McMichael hobbled toward the civilian entrance of police headquarters. He saw Old Grothke's van pulled into a no-parking zone, saw Derek smoking a cigarette as he leaned against the vehicle.
Inside, Old Grothke sat in his wheelchair facing the door, hands clasped over an ice cream carton resting on his red blanket. He wore a blue suit with a gray tie and matching handkerchief. The suit was marked with what appeared to be dried ice cream. There's always vultures in the ice cream.
His clear blue eyes locked onto McMichael's face as he approached.
"Detective McMichael," he said.
"Hello, Mr. Grothke."
"Look- proof of my sanity."
McMichael balanced his armpits over the crutches and accepted the ice cream carton. It was wet and warm and left a gooey semicircle on the old man's blanket. It was in fact marble fudge. He pulled off the top and looked inside. It was half full of melted brown sludge. The upper half was packed with letter envelopes locked inside a plastic freezer bag.
"Pete's letters, as promised," said Grothke. "I forgot where I put them."
"Odd place to put business correspondence," said McMichael.
"They searched my whole place and couldn't find them."
"Who searched it?"
"My son. And Pete Braga's granddaughter. Derek even helped them and he's supposed to work for me."
McMichael touched the ice-cream-smeared freezer bag. "I'm going to have to take these somewhere else to open them. You're welcome to come upstairs with me if you want."
Grothke smiled. "I can't explain how happy I was to remember where I'd put these. I didn't just open the freezer and find them. I remembered perfectly where they were."
"Let's go read them, Mr. Grothke."
He put the carton back on old Grothke's lap and they took the elevator up. It took McMichael three phone calls from his desk to get the lab open, this being an American high holy day. Finally he reached Arthur Flagler at home, who gave an okay to the watch commander, who ordered one of the desk officers to open up examination room three.
McMichael got one of the Team One detectives to roll Grothke up to an exam table. McMichael set his crutches aside, snapped a length of white paper towels off the roller to one side, and laid the paper on the tabletop. Set the carton at one end, gloved up and sat down.
"I'll need a pair of those, too," said Grothke. "I wanted to be a detective when I was young."
"Sure."
He helped the old man get the latex on. Grothke held up his ephemeral, gloved hands and stared intently at them.
McMichael checked his tape recorder, then turned it on and placed it out of the way to his right. He unlocked the freezer bag and used tweezers to pull out one of the two envelopes. Pete Braga's name and home address were embossed on the back. The front was hand-addressed to Henry Grothke Sr., personal and confidential, at the firm's downtown address. The text appeared to be typed. McMichael stated the time and date, had Grothke identify himself and confirm them, then read the letter out loud.
December 16
Dear Henry,
Since your crew seems incapable of keeping track of correspondence, I'm writing you again with specific instructions on how to change my will. As I explained in last month's letter (November 8), which you have apparently lost, I wish to eliminate that portion of my estate which will go to my granddaughter, Patricia Hansen, and to her pathetic husband, upon my death.
Her and her husband's attempts to get control of Pete Braga Ford were childish. Her secret meddling with my real estate and stocks has become dangerous. (I assume you still have the documents she forged my signature on. I suspect she has faked more than just my signature on others.) She is duplicitous and untrustworthy. She can scream at me all she wants but that garden hose beating hurt for weeks (I assume you have the earlier pictures I sent). Things are missing from the house but every time I change the locks she comes up with new keys. I believe she has discovered the combination to my floor safe. I believe she has poisoned my fiber drinks but I can't prove that, yet. She's trying to turn Victor against me, telling lies, scaring him, playing tricks on his undeveloped mind. I've had enough. Cut her out of the estate.
I want the rest of Patricia's former share to go to Sally Rainwater, my nurse. She's a wonderful girl, wants to be a doctor someday, and could use some opportunity in her life. Beautiful too.
Tell neither of them anything about this. I don't want to incur any more of the Braga wrath. Living with my own for eighty-four years has been enough. And Sally would fight me on it for sure. She's an old-fashioned girl.
Call me as soon as you have something for me to sign. I'm not in a big hurry, Hank, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't lose this letter too.
Sincerely,
Pete
McMichael set the letter on the paper towels and looked at Old Grothke. "What happened to the November letter?"
"I read it and it disappeared. Now it's in that bag."
"Explain, Mr. Grothke."
"Well, the first letter disappeared out of my drawer at work. I looked all over for it. Then the second letter came and it disappeared, too. I thought I was losing my mind because, in actuality, I am. I spent hours going through my file cabinets and computer files. I spent hours searching my house and my garage and my mountain cabin out in Julian. I finally found them in my son's office safe."
Old Grothke smiled thinly, eyes merry. "I discovered the combination years ago."
"Henry had taken them," said McMichael. "And he told Patricia about them."
Grothke stared at him. "I suspect that to be the case. He was her attorney and wanted to see to her best interests. He had the hots for her, too, if you know what I mean."
"He got Pete killed."
Grothke nodded. He looked long and hard at the tape recorder but said nothing.
"When you found them in your son's safe, you took them back."
"I put them in the bag and put the bag in the ice cream and forgot. I found my favorite trout flies in the freezer once. Years ago. I'd set each one in its own compartment of the ice cube tray, then filled them with water. They were beautiful cubes."
McMichael read the other letter, then sat back and looked out the window to the weakening afternoon light. "You would have made a good detective, Mr. Grothke. You're a tad slow these days, but you get the job done."
"I'm ninety-two."
"You just cracked your first case."
"Do you offer a reserve or volunteer program?"
"Yes, we do," said McMichael. He had a brief vision of Old Grothke riding along on patrol, red blanket folded over his ancient lap. "I'll get you the information."
But first, McMichael thought, I'm going to talk with your son.
Young Grothke denied ever reading the letters. Saw them, yes; read them, no. He said he looked everywhere he could think of, trying to help his confused father out of a professional embarrassment, then reasoned that the old man had misplaced them or even destroyed them in a fit of senile dementia. He told Patricia what had happened, because she was part of the family and he thought she might know why they were important. She said that they probably related to Pete Braga's attempted naming of a church after himself or his wife, because Pete had talked several times about this. Pete was in a huff about the diocese, as he was with most things. Just why Patricia had pretended not to know what the letters said was a matter of her deception, not his.
Grothke sweated profusely during the interview. He would not allow a tape recording. He finally stopped answering questions by citing Fifth Amendment protections and asked McMichael to get out of his house so he could watch what was left of the game.
"You and Patricia have a little thing going?" McMichael asked.
"An attorney-client relationship is all we ever had," said Grothke.
But his face told another story altogether.
"You tell me the whole truth here, Mr. Grothke, and there's a chance I can help you."
"I'm innocent, Detective."
"Then I'd like to clear up some details. How about ten o'clock tomorrow morning? Downtown, unless you'd rather do it here. You have a right to an attorney, if you think you need one. You'll probably spend some time in the jail before you post bond, if one is granted."
Grothke's face went from red to white as McMichael heaved upward and got the crutches in place.
"You don't understand. I was only trying to help her," he said. His voice trembled.
"Mind if I sit back down, Mr. Grothke?"
"No. Please."
"I'll need to record this."
"I have absolutely nothing to hide."
"I'm sure that's true. We'll just get comfortable and talk. Turn on the game if you'd like, but keep the volume off."