Facing bereaved family members was one of the most uncomfortable tasks of homicide detectives, and the meeting with Mindy’s parents was predictably draining. The worst part was that Lee and Butts couldn’t give Mindy’s parents any concrete information about her killer, other than to say they were working very hard to find him.
When Lee got home that night he was bone tired. Not for the first time, he felt the heavy relief in closing the front door behind him and slipping on the three locks, the tumblers clicking into place with a satisfying sound, locking out the demands of the world. He stood looking out of the window at the lone mimosa tree in front of his building before heading for the piano, hungry for the soothing purity of Bach.
When he was halfway across the living room, the phone rang. Without looking the caller ID, he answered it.
“Hello? Is this Lee Campbell?”
The voice was light, breathy, with a pronounced French accent. Lee knew immediately who it was. His first impulse was to hang up, but with the receiver halfway down, he stopped his hand.
“Yes,” he said. “This is Dr. Campbell.” He’d inserted his title out of panic, a feeble impulse to cloak his identity, but he heard how arrogant it sounded.
“Sorry, yes-Dr. Campbell.” She was being humble, polite, and it made him cringe. He would have preferred it if she were a slattern, a bitch, a French whore, but her voice was educated and refined.
“What can I do for you?” he said, trying to sound harsh but failing.
“My name is Chloe Soigne.”
“Yes?” He was going to make her say it, spell it out.
“I was wondering-did you get my letter?”
He wanted to make her grovel, but he wasn’t going to lie to her. “Yes, I did.”
“Then you know who I am.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for not hanging up on me.” Her voice was tremulous, on the edge of tears. She was making it very hard to dislike her. He took a deep breath.
“Ms. Soigne, I appreciate your effort, and I don’t blame you for-for what happened. But I have no wish to see my father.”
“And your sister? How does she feel?”
“My sister is dead.”
Her heard her gasp, then cough-a harsh, hacking sound, the cough of a very sick woman.
“I am so sorry,” she said when she regained her breath. “When did she-how long ago?”
“Six years ago. She was murdered.”
“Mon Dieu,” she said softly. “That’s horrible.”
“So my father knew nothing about it? It was in the papers here.”
“Alas, your father rarely reads the American newspapers. I am so very sorry. Have they caught the person who did it?”
“No.”
There was a long, lonely pause, and then she said, “I am very sorry to bother you.”
“Does my father know you’ve contacted me?”
“He has no idea. He doesn’t even know how sick I am.”
“I’m sorry to hear you’re not well.”
“I’m dying, Dr. Campbell-I have stage-four lung cancer. And I am very worried what will happen to your father when I am gone. That is why I was hoping you might… take pity on him.”
“Look, Ms. Soigne, I-”
“Call me Chloe, please.”
“I’ve lived this long without my father. I don’t need to forgive him, and I don’t want to see him.”
“I see.” Again she gave a little gasp and a cough, but mastered herself. “Perhaps in time your heart will soften and you will forgive him, or at least be willing to speak with him.”
“What makes you think he wants to talk to me?’
“I know he does. He is a proud man, and a foolish one in many ways, but I know he has thought about you and your sister constantly over the years.”
“Actions speak louder than words, Ms.-Chloe.”
“Will you at least think about it, Dr. Campbell? It’s the wish of a dying woman.”
“All right,” he said, irritated at being manipulated so boldly. He thought he heard someone talking in the background, and she lowered her voice.
“I must go now-may God bless you.”
The line went dead. He stood with the phone in his hand, a link to broken promises and shattered dreams. He stared numbly out the window at the mimosa tree, its branches bare and cold in the bitter February wind.