Black Water

CHAPTER EIGHT

Rayborn drove her Impala down the on ramp to the Riverside Freeway, looking ahead at four lanes of crawling, belching cars. Like the border at TJ, she thought, everything but the kids selling piggy banks and churros.

What a mess. She barged her way in and finally got over to the car-pool lane, which was doing thirty.

Zamorra sat neatly beside her, suit coat still on, looking out the side window. She'd never seen him with his tie so much as loosened, even when he'd come back from seeing his dying wife in the hospital and his face looked like he was dying too.

In the eight months since then Merci had come to love and respect him. For the first two months after Zamorra's wife had died, Merci had watched him thicken with booze and lassitude. He never complained about what he was going through. He seemed hungover every day, though she didn't think he always was. She suspected he had a string of temporary girlfriends, and some evidence to support this suspicion, but she never asked and he never told. Everything else, they talked about. Tentatively at first, like panelists. But as the early months dragged on, Merci was able to talk to him about the death of Hess, and Zamorra about the death of Janine. It was easy, talking with someone who'd lived through something similar. Like exchanging terrible, valuable gifts. And though Merci blamed herself for what had happened to Hess and Zamorra blamed God for Janine, there was enough loss, rage, sadness and guilt between them to begin a friendship. It never felt to her like the losers' club, though. The Loss Club, maybe. She thought there was something noble in their sufferings, hard as it sometimes was to locate.

After a couple of months Zamorra must have quit the heavy booze She knew he'd gotten himself back to his beloved boxing gym in Westminster. He started to look like himself again, even if he often seemed to be a thousand miles away in his mind. She admired the toughness that allowed him to climb out of the hole that he'd fallen into. And she admired the depth of feeling that had allowed him to fall into that hole to begin with.

A secret love began to grow. Secret because she still loved Hess and because Paul still loved Janine. Secret because only a few short months earlier she had been fooled into betraying Mike McNally whom she knew-even while she was betraying him-loved her. How do you offer an unfaithful, mistaken heart to someone who'd remained so true? And secret because they were partners. Their arrest record was eighty-four percent, highest in the detail. Why risk screwing up a good team and complicating the life of yet another man? Were her uncertain emotions worth that?

But Rayborn couldn't reason away her feelings. As the weeks went by she was struck by all of Zamorra's good qualities-his good manners and good looks, his skill as an investigator, his personal neatness He was gentle, unselfish, considerate. He was sensitive to other people's feelings. He was slow to answer but concise when he did. He was observant, often gathering more than her in shared encounters. He understood subtleties that, in her opinion, would have to be explained to most other men. She was also drawn to the darkness in him-no the grief, but the violence he concealed. The anger. More than once she saw it flare up in him at suspects and informants and convicts and belligerent citizens. He always controlled it, but it was there. She believed it to be considerable. And she respected him for keeping it safe but ready, like a gun.

She liked the way he smelled. She liked the little curves that made double parentheses around his occasional smiles. Even the nasty lump: he got in the gym. And how in profile his eyelashes looked sad. She imagined touching him and being touched. Wondered how his cleanly shaven cheek would feel against her neck. Wondered how his wiry arms would feel around her, what his flat boxer's chest would feel like against hers. Sometimes she'd picture him and herself together and she'd smile inwardly because he was two inches shorter than she was. This amused her and made her think of the famous actors she'd heard about who were shot from heightening angles. In particular Yul Brynner standing on a box in

The King and, according to her mother, who saw the movie something like twenty times. span›

Merci couldn't help imagining what their children might look like. And how terrific it would be for Tim Jr. to have a brother or sister. She liked to picture that pink house on the beach in Mexico, but instead of just her and Hess and Tim Jr. staying in it, now there were also Paul and their child, a girl she'd named Ann, in fact. Ann and Tim Jr. got along beautifully. As did Hess and Zamorra. Merci loved them all equally but in different ways and they were always exceptionally happy.

So she waited to see if Paul was feeling the same way. She doubted it. She pictured him with someone petite, blonde and not associated with law enforcement. She would be elegant and feminine, but not showy about it. She would be devoted to him instead of her career. She would have that little bit of class that Paul had-a genuine appreciation for fine things. She would be eager to please him and would instinctively understand how, or find out. Merci tried not to be prejudiced toward the moronic slut. If she was good for Paul she would support them in every way she could.

But Zamorra showed no signs of interest in Merci. At least any that she could find. She toyed with the idea of telling him, or showing him what she was feeling. But it seemed wrong. Zamorra would love her when he was ready, or he would not. She believed there was nothing she could do about scheduling a man's heart, nothing she had a right to do. Love was an act of nature. Nature would take care of itself, as it had been doing for quite some time.

Then, in June, just a couple of months ago, Zamorra had shocked her.

After lunch they were walking around the old courthouse and Paul had told her that he'd found someone. Her name was Kirsten.

Merci was thankful she'd had her aviators on because she was certain her eyes would betray her disappointment. But she kept everything else under beautiful control-her voice and choice of words, he mild exclamation of joy for him, her gently protective questioning about this, this… person.

She'd never known what a good actor she was. And the longer she walked along on that warm spring morning and played the part of happy friend, the better she got. By the time the walk was over Merci had arranged a three-way lunch when it was convenient for Paul and

Kirsten.

She also revealed to Paul that she was seeing someone, too. He was in real estate, she said, mentioning his name only once: Frank.

Zamorra looked at her oddly, then. The only thing she could read for certain in his eyes was relief.

Zamorra had known.

By the time she got to one of the ladies' rooms back at head quarters her heart was pounding and she was sweating but cold and she had only just lifted the toilet seat when she vomited. After wiping up she'd sat on the seat and wept into a huge wad of toilet paper that shredded and broke away and stuck to her face. She hadn't vomited since the night she'd seduced Mike McNally in order to gather evidence to charge him for murder. This felt worse but she didn't know why. Maybe because back with Mike she'd been disgusted by what she was doing but she had believed it was the right thing to do. Now she was just crying for her own wretched, pathetic little heartbreak.

Before leaving the ladies' room she'd looked at the mirror and seeing what she always saw: a tall, big-boned woman with unruly dark hair and a face that was not quite pretty. She had nice skin, correct? Looking back into her own dark eyes she saw anger and disappointment and humiliation. Zamorra had known.

She took a deep breath and thought, screw it: I've got Tim Jr. to think about anyway, and the last thing my sorry ass needs is a romance with another cop whose wife has just died of cancer.

And that was that.

"What did you get on her family, Paul?"

"I got their names and address off one of the Wildcraft loan forms. Earla is the mother, Lee's the dad. Last name is Kuerner. Earla said they'd be there at five. They had funeral arrangements to make."

Merci remembered the GK in the bottom right corner of some of the paintings in Gwen Wildcraft's music room.

"How did she sound?"

"Numb."

The Kuerners lived in Norco, a small city not far from the county line. Zamorra used a map to navigate. Merci got off on Lincoln in Corona, picked up River Road, made a right on Second Street.

"I've never been out here," she said, looking out at a dairy farm, rows and rows of black cows lined up at the feed bars.

"It's interesting."

The houses along Second were mostly beat-up, the grass mostly dead. Chain-link fences, cars on blocks, corrugated metal tool sheds with brown rain stains on their flanks. One place still had the Christmas lights sagging from the roofline and faded, oncered bows sagging from the stucco. A spray-painted sheet of plywood advertised pygmy goats for sale. Merci looked at the stubby, big-bellied little goats, wondering what they were good for and what they cost. One yard was nothing but junk-automobile doors stacked like pancakes, dozens of rusted-out lawnmowers, piles of old steel fence posts, a collection of decrepit cement mixers. An ostrich stood in a child's wading pool and looked at Merci like a cop. The smell of the dairy farm came through the air-conditioned car, dark and mammalian and foul.

"Scenic," she said.

"Norco's a contraction for North Corona," said Zamorra.

"It looks like a contraction."

"They're poor on this end of town."

"Lazy, too, by the looks of it."

"There you go again, Merci."

He had a point. She'd enlisted Zamorra to help purge herself of glib opinion and rapid judgment. She'd gotten so exhausted with endless opinions of others about herself- she busted Sheriff Brighton, for her career, she did it because she hated him and he didn't promote her, she busted her father because she hated him, too, no, it was cause she loved him, she got suckered about McNally and had to blame it on somebody else, she did it because she's amoral, because she's too moral, blah fucking blah, blah, blah — that Merci had even grown exhausted by her own.

It was just so hard sometimes, to keep from making up her mind before she had all the facts. You saw what you saw, thought what you thought, smelled what you smelled. She thought of Archie Wildcraft, and what he had either done or not done to his wife and himself. There she was again, making up her mind before all the facts were in.

"Yeah," she said. "Yeah. I'm sure a lot of them work hard for A they have."

"I wore the same shirt for my second and third-grade school pictures. My big brother had worn it for his second-grade shot."

"How many wrecked cars in your front yard?"

She smiled slightly and Zamorra did, too.

"I know," she said. "I just have to remind myself to, when in doubt, shut my trap."

The Kuerner house off of Cherokee was a pale blue bungalow white porch columns. There was a white picket fence around the small front yard, stepping stones leading to the porch. Two big pine trees stood on either side of the stones and held the house in shadow, place was neat and clean.

The driveway gate was open so she pulled in and parked in front of the garage. When she got out the smell of cattle hit her hard so did the heat. Ninety-five at least, she thought.

Earla Kuerner answered the knock and let them in. A little jingled when she shut the door behind them. She looked to be in early fifties, average height and weight. Wavy, gray-black hair and a good face.

The living room was cool and the windows were draped to keep out the afternoon heat. An air conditioner hummed. There was a small TV with the sound turned down and two recliners set up in front of it, with a round occasional table between them. Green carpet. A brown plaid print sofa with heavy oak arms, a bookcase neatly stocked with paperbacks, family pictures on one wall, a china cabinet against another. Two framed paintings by Gwen hung beside the cabinet. One was of the front of the house and the two big pine trees, the other a kitten sitting in front of a barn. Merci noted that the stereo system still had a turntable.

Lee Kuerner rose from the left chair, offered his hand to each detective and introduced himself.

"Have a seat," he said.

"I've got lemonade," said Earla.

"I'd like some of that," said Paul.

"Yes, that would be great."

"I'll get it, honey," said Lee. Merci watched him walk toward the kitchen, a tall, slender man with a slowness about him that she instantly liked. Glasses, plaid shirt, jeans. Reminded her of her father, though Lee Kuerner was probably almost ten years younger. His hair was graying brown and full, long enough to touch his shirt collar.

Zamorra carried the burden of small talk while they waited. Merci looked at the pictures on the wall. It looked like the Kuerners had four children, all girls. Gwen was either the youngest or second youngest, Merci saw, but she couldn't say for sure. The girls were all bony and toothy, pretty faces.

Lee Kuerner came back with two glasses of lemonade balanced in one hand, and a TV tray under the same arm, which he snapped open with the other. To Merci it looked like the tray practically opened itself and locked its own legs into place. Well used. Lee set the tray between them, put the glasses on the tray, went back and got two more.

"We got a tree in the back," he said. "Earla makes good lemonade off it."

Merci sipped hers and agreed. Then, after a long pause: "I'm sorry."

Lee looked away and nodded. Earla looked down into her lemonade glass. A tear ran off her cheek. A tissue appeared in her hand and she dabbed her face.

Merci led, as usual. "Mrs. Kuerner, tell us about Gwen. Tell us who would want to kill her."

"Oh, oh my. I'm just hoping and praying it wasn't Archie. Was it?"

"We don't think so, but we don't know," said Paul. "There is some evidence pointing to him, and some evidence pointing away."

"No," said Lee. "It wasn't Archie. The papers made it sound like he was a suspect."

"The papers don't make that judgment," said Merci. "We do, and as of right now, he isn't."

"But a neighbor said he'd heard them fighting earlier that day. Her birthday, the twentieth," said Zamorra.

"People do fight sometimes, don't they?" asked Earla.

"Gwen hadn't made any domestic violence complaints," said Zsmorra. "Did they fight a lot?"

"We don't know of anything like that," said Earla.

Neither Zamorra nor Merci spoke for a long moment. Merci picked it up again, which was how they usually worked-Rayborn leading and exploring, Zamorra clarifying, following up, shaping.

"Tell us about your girl, Mr. and Mrs. Kuerner," she said. "And tell us about Archie." She slipped her blue notebook from the pock of her sport coat, got a good pen ready. Gwen was easy. Gwen was happy. She was beautiful from the hour she was born. She was a good student, a good girl. Beautiful voice and liked to sing. Good at drawing. When early adolescence came she was still a good girl. Had a lot of friends and earned them. Still had friends from back then when she… Never any drinking or drug problems, though she probably tried things. Worked Pizza Hut, Sirloin Stockade, then a music store. Liked horses, clothes and music. Especially the music. Bought a guitar with her own money and taught herself to play it. Had the knack, and nobody knew where she got it from. Didn't have steady guys, seemed to use good judgment that way. Fell in love with Archie Wildcraft when she was sixteen, sophomore in high school. Archie was playing scholarship college ball for UC Riverside, a sophomore also. Met him at a theater in the mall, Gwen was there with two of her girlfriends. Archie with two buddies. They went out for ice cream after the show, traded phone numbers. Lee and Earla weren't happy at all about this older guy. Name like Wildcraft spelled trouble, said Lee. Archie was twenty. They allowed him to come over and meet them and had a "pointed" discussion that night about whether to let him in the house again. Agreed that he was clean-cut, well mannered, handsome and head-over-cleats for Gwen.

Lee voted no; Earla voted yes.

So Archie started coming over for an hour, sometimes two, every evening he wasn't traveling for ball. He lived on campus, maybe half an hour away. Earla and Lee never let them be really alone, which wasn't hard with two of their other girls still in the house. Though after a while they gave the young people the privacy of the living room to watch TV, or the family room to study together. Archie never brought her home late from a date, and the curfew was always early. He brought Earla flowers and Lee some choice bass plugs Archie's father had carved, helped him overhaul the outboard on his little fishing boat. Helped them paint the house three weekends running. They never smelled alcohol on either of them, never saw any affection between them except for hugs and reasonable kisses hello and goodbye. All the Kuerner girls liked him, thought Gwen had a catch. Gwen actually colored when he was there or when his name was spoken around the house. Named a kitten Archie so she could say it a lot. She was seventeen when she said she wanted to marry Archie after she graduated.

Lee voted no; Earla voted yes.

Two months after her graduation Lee walked her down the aisle of a little Methodist church in Riverside. One of the happiest and saddest times of his life. Down to his last two girls. But he liked Archie and thought he'd be good to his daughter. Trusted him. Liked him. Archie's ERA was 2.18 and the bass plugs worked.

Earla got up and gave him a tissue and Lee turned his head away and pulled off his glasses in one motion. Merci quietly cleared her throat. Zamorra looked at Earla, then away

"How'd the marriage go?" asked Merci.

"It went fine," said Earla. "Gwen called every day, then every week, right up until… Archie missed baseball at first, but he got on quick as a deputy and really took to it."

"Why did he quit ball?" Zamorra asked.

"He thought he'd get drafted but he didn't. Never had good control of the fastball and the forkie wasn't working his senior year. Tendonitis, too. Tried out as a walk-on but knew it wasn't for him. No offers."

"That's too bad," said Paul.

"He took it good, though. He was ready to try something else."

"Was Gwen working then?" Merci asked.

"Gwen had a band and made a little money, too," said Earla. "She wrote a beautiful song that got accepted for a TV movie. They paid her good money for it, but got somebody else to sing it."

"Then they were doing okay, financially?"

"Gwen didn't grow up with a lot," Earla said carefully. "And neither did Archie. So, compared to what they came from they were doing fine. They had enough. She was happy and Archie was too, unless he was fooling us. All of a sudden, then, middle of last yes they hit it big with this stock and made a lot of profit. Bought a nice house in the hills, new cars. Took trips. Heck, they offered us a hundred thousand to remodel this place, or just sell it and find a better neighborhood. We didn't feel right about it. They weren't greedy people. Not in the least. But both of them liked nice things. And they worked hard to get them. And when they got them they enjoyed them."

"Stock in what?" asked Merci.

"OrganiVen," said Earla. "Then it got bought up by B. B. Sistel and everybody made a lot of money. You probably read about it."

Merci hadn't, though of course she knew B. B. Sistel Laboratories. They made everything from the stuff she took for headaches to the birth control pills she'd taken during her months with Mike McNally.

"Some doctors started it, down in La Jolla. They made this tumor treatment using rattlesnake venom. The idea was old but they found a way to make it work. Gwen and Archie told us that they'd seen slides and videos, and this stuff made from poison could kill those tumors in just minutes. Said it was like watching a miracle. The company called it MiraVen. Anyway, Gwen and Archie invested twenty thousand dollars early last year. Really scraped to come up with it. Then the company went public. Then Sistel bought it. There were splits and options and dividends and all sorts of stuff. And they made two million dollars, practically overnight."

Merci made a note of that. "Invested twenty thousand, got back two million in less than a year?"

"Half a year. All these young geniuses put the OrganiVen company together, based on the cancer treatment. Doctors, business geniuses, marketing geniuses-they were all friends from college."

She exchanged glances with Zamorra. Slowly, almost absently, she wrote CK OrganiVen. Somebody turned twenty grand and snake poison into two million in less than one year, she figured fraud. But something like that could happen legally on Wall Street, or the Nikkei, or the Pacific Stock Exchange right here in Southern California.

Merci wasn't sure what to ask next, so she went with the obvious. "Did the big money make them happy?"

"Very."

"Because sometimes, people are fine until they hit it rich. Then problems start."

Lee nodded quickly, as if he'd thought of that a long time ago.

"I saw no signs of that," he said. "They both seemed kind of… relieved. That twenty thousand was hard to get. They used their retirement money, borrowed eight hundred from us. Borrowed from friends. Got a second on their little house in Santa Ana. So when it all happened just like they wanted it to, they seemed almost to not believe it. It was like they'd hit a slot in Vegas, rather than making a sound financial investment."

Merci wrote couldn't believe it.

The Kuerners looked at each other. Lee broke the gaze and turned to Merci. "Do you think it was something to do with all that?"

"Do you?"

"It worried me that they made so much," he said. "It was all legal know that. But it worried me."

"We're modest people," said Earla.

"Were Archie and Gwen keeping different company last year, when the money started coming in?"

"Not that we know," said Lee.

"Did they ever mention taxes, or getting out of taxes, or hiding the money from the government-even just joke about it?"

Lee frowned and looked at Merci. "No. Once Archie told me that if they made the two million, he'd still have to figure on the government taking almost half. But he didn't say it like he had to hide the money. Or bitterly. Just matter-of-factly."

"So far as you know, did they declare all that income to the IRS

"Yes, so far as I know."

Merci let a silence punctuate her change of thought. "Mr. and M Kuerner, did Gwen ever talk to you about having affairs with other men?"

"No," said Earla.

Lee was looking at the dead TV, his hands folded on his lap. "No,'' he said quietly.

"What was the maddest she ever got at Archie?"

Earla sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "Once, she told me he was awfully darned nice to some of the women he worked around. Said he always had a smile and a nice word for the pretty ones. Said half the women Archie ran across wanted to take him away from her. She was feeling insecure right then, I think. I don't think she was talking about any girl in particular. And she wasn't accusing Archie of being unfaithful. She was just down at the time."

"Do you know why?"

"After that one song she sold to TV, she didn't sell any more. Her band was getting fewer bookings. This popular nightclub down by the beach-the Nut House-they wouldn't book Gwen's band anymore. After three years, they just stopped booking them. She felt like she wasn't any good at writing and singing. Those things were important to her."

Merci looked to Zamorra again. "When was the last time you saw Gwen alive?" he asked.

"Her birthday," said Earla. "She drove all the way out here to take us out to lunch. It was a tradition."

"How was she?"

"Oh, she was in good spirits. A little thoughtful maybe, like you can get on a birthday, looking back at the years. But Archie had gotten a reservation for dinner that night at a nice restaurant in Newport Beach. She was looking forward to that. It was actually a party but she didn't know it. Our youngest, Priscilla, was at the party, if you want to talk to her about it."

Rayborn made a note. "What time did Gwen get here?"

"Noon, almost exactly."

"And what time did she leave?"

"A few minutes after three."

Merci looked at Zamorra. He held her eye and she knew he was wondering the same thing she was: if Gwen was here at three on that day, how could she be at home, arguing with Archie in the backyard?

"We came back here after the restaurant and talked," said Lee. "She wanted to see some old family pictures. Like Earla said, Gwen was thoughtful that day. Had something on her mind. I don't know what. I didn't ask. I wish I had."

There was a moment of silence. Zamorra gave Merci his all-finished nod.

She rose and went to the wall of family pictures. "Tell me about your family. Four girls. And Gwen was what… second youngest?"

Earla nodded, rose and walked over to the picture wall. "Next to youngest, that's right. Priscilla is our youngest, then Diana and Lizzy. More lemonade?"

"Sure."

Half an hour later Earla was finished with her quickie family history. Merci followed along via the wall pictures, then looked at the photographs that Earla Kuerner had shown Gwen on her birthday, less than eighteen hours before she was murdered in her own bathroom.

Zamorra and Lee stayed in the living room and Merci caught stray snippets of their conversation: the aggressiveness of large-mouth bass versus smallies; Martinez's phenomenal August so far; speculation on Archie Wildcraft's capacity for spousal violence.

No, I don't think so Detective. Good man.

Merci had just handed Earla her empty lemonade glass when the little bell jingled and a young woman in a business suit came through the front door. She looked so much like Gwen that Merci blinked; same smart eyes, same wavy dark hair, same good figure. She look quickly at Merci, then Zamorra.

"These are the police," said Earla.

"How do you do," said the woman. "I'm Priscilla Brock. Soon be Kuerner again."

She looked at her mother. "Did you tell them I was at the party

"They know."

Priscilla nodded. "I was one of the last people to see them before it happened. Arch threw a nice party at the Rex. There were twenty of us."

Arch.

Merci made a note of that, too.

Priscilla seemed to evaluate her, then Zamorra. Her chin quiver then set hard. "Now there are what, eighteen and a half of us?"

"Can you take a few minutes and tell us about the party?"

"Give me five."

She walked over to her father and hugged him, then disappear down the hall.

Priscilla came out a few minutes later in the same clothes, but no nylons or shoes. She'd pinned up her hair and taken off her makeup. They sat with her in the little dining room while Lee and Earla watch the news. Priscilla got more lemonade for them and tap water over ice for herself.

She told them about the party at the Rex, how Archie told Gwen it was a birthday dinner date for the two of them, but when she walked into the private room they were all there and she just about fainted. Everybody toasted her and brought presents, some really nice ones, then ate a lot and drank some. It was ten couples-everybody from musician friends of Gwen's to cop friends of Archie's. Priscilla was the only sister to make it-one was out of state, the other was working nights and couldn't switch shifts.

"How did they seem that night?" asked Zamorra.

Priscilla took a moment. "Archie was a little worried, a little controlling, as he tends to be. I think he got a little upset at some of his friends, for hugging and kissing Gwen. Nothing big-it passed. Gwen was happy. A little embarrassed at the expense of it all, but happy. Her friends were important to her. She looked exceptionally beautiful."

Priscilla looked down at the table. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Zamorra again: "Do you know what Archie was worried about?"

"That's his personality. I don't think he was worrying about anything big. You know, if the prime rib was right or the drinks were coming fast enough. If Gwen was really having a good time."

Merci mostly listened and made notes. She saw quickly that Priscilla responded better to Paul, so it was best for him to lead. Priscilla twice mentioned the decorations in the private room. Beautiful, lots of work, a couple of the women had helped her and Archie set them up that afternoon while Gwen was here with her folks.

Norco to Newport Beach, she thought. Idea.

"Did you pick up Archie at home, on your way to set up the room?" Merci asked.

"Yes."

"A lot of work getting all those decorations out there and put up. So what time did you get to Archie and Gwen's place?"

"Two, two-thirty."

Merci waited and let the silence work on Priscilla. Zamorra did the same.

"So what did you and Archie argue about in the backyard?"

Merci saw the anger flash into Priscilla's eyes, but not back out.

"We didn't argue about anything."

"Oh," said Merci. "One of the neighbors said he heard loud voices-a man and a woman-about three that afternoon."

"Well, those would have been Archie's and mine. But it sure wasn't an argument. What it was, was me going off on my stupid sonofabitch soon-to-be-ex-husband. And Archie trying to calm me down. I've got a temper. I lost it then."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why?"

"Why then, with your sister's husband?"

Priscilla colored and Merci made a quick scribble then looked up hoping to aggravate the woman.

"Because we're friends?" she asked with a quiet acidity. "Because I trust him and respect him? Because he's been like an older brother to me since I was fourteen?"

"Those are good reasons, Priscilla. I was just asking, trying to get the feel of the conversation."

"I apologize. I feel like I could bite somebody's head off. May as well be yours."

"Accepted," said Merci. "And I apologize for being blatantly suspicious about everything and everybody. It's my job, and I'm good it."

"Yes," said Priscilla. "You are."

"Who threw the rock?"

"Again?"

"Who threw the rock through the living room window?"

Priscilla eyed Merci with fresh suspicion and held the look for long beat. Merci expected her to color if she knew about the rock, she didn't, Merci wasn't sure: maybe a big surrendering sigh.

With no change in color, Priscilla smiled a thrifty little smile, "What rock?"

"The rock on the living room floor. It was thrown through the window and the blinds."

"No. There was no rock. I think I'd have noticed. I will say, however, that I'm capable of missing things. But no rock, Detective, that I saw."

An uncomfortable moment then, while the two of them cooled down and Zamorra said nothing.

"Tell me about the future ex," said Merci.

"Charles Brock of the Riverside office of Ritter-Dunne-Davis Financial. That's all you need to know. That's all I wish knew. Believe me. span›

Merci waited. Then, "Sure. Thanks for everything. Really."

Priscilla walked them to the door. Lee and Earla rose and came forward and shook their hands and thanked them.

Merci had a parting idea. "You know, Priscilla, just a long shot, but did Charles Brock sell Archie and Gwen the OrganiVen stock?"

Priscilla sighed. "Yeah. Charlie can sell anything to anybody. In fact, he sold some of it to himself."

They stopped at UCI Medical Center and found the neuro ward. They waited for almost twenty minutes to speak with Dr. John Stebbins. Stebbins was short, young and tight-mouthed, looking at the detectives as if they were surgical complications.

"We can't do it," he said. "We can't determine the caliber of bullet in Mr. Wildcraft's head."

"We can, Doctor," said Merci. "If you just show us the pictures."

"You don't understand. The spiral CT will give us a very close measurement of the object, down to one millimeter. But the bullet has fragmented. And if you figure in the one millimeter margin times four fragments, a caliber measurement becomes meaningless. See?"

"When are you going to take it out?"

He laughed curtly and sighed. He looked up and over her head as he spoke, as if it was easier for him to believe she didn't really exist. "The edema has been reduced somewhat. There is no infection at this time. Surgery now would be inadvisable. It's possible that we'll never remove the bullet from Mr. Wildcraft's brain."

"And it's possible he'll die tomorrow," said Merci.

"His condition is extremely critical."

"I want to see him."

"Absolutely not."

"I'll push you aside and go in anyway." He still wasn't looking at her. "I will allow you exactly thirty seconds. Only one of you. Just one."

"How about both of us, for fifteen?"

"This way."

"You just did the right thing, Stebbins."