Naked Came The Phoenix

Chapter Five

"BRAVO!" THE PHONE CLATTERED to the floor. Caroline whirled around and saw King David in the doorway clapping, his head seeming to scrape the top of the door frame. "Couldn't have said it better myself," he added and came toward her.

She took a step backward toward the bathroom.

He stopped and held his hands up as if she had a gun on him. But he was smiling. "Did I scare you?" he said. "I just wanted to have a minute to talk to you. It's not easy, with your mother… anyway, can I sit down?"

Caroline shook her head. He was too big for the room. It wasn't just his extraordinary height, the long ropy arms, the snakelike hair coiling around his shoulders. Power bristled around him like microwaves. It came from decades of people pouring love into him in huge stadiums, writing him letters, waiting for him outside stage doors; from the critics arguing about him in Rolling Stone and Spin; from the judges letting him off one more time; and from the gossip columnists and girlfriends and agents.

He put his hands in his pockets and sighed, lounging comfortably in place.

"For all I know, you killed Claudia," Caroline said.

"Maybe I did," he said and laughed. "In one of my famous drug-induced frenzies. Don't think I was having one last night, but then, the frenzied one is always the last to know. Look, let's go outside. We can stay in full view of the police the whole time, if you're really worried about me. I really have to talk to you."

She hesitated, searching herself internally for the flood of emotion that ought to be paralyzing her. Shouldn't she be wailing and weeping and taking to her bed about now?

Why did she feel so… so liberated instead, as if she'd been living in a cage, well fed, well housed, for the past year? Her mouth opened a little and she looked down at herself. Her hands were on her hips, her chest sticking out so the top button of her shirt had unceremoniously popped out of the buttonhole, her bare feet standing apart on the rug. She felt galvanized, not stricken. The giant only a few feet away raised his eyebrows and she saw the tattoos in the corners.

"That must have hurt quite a bit," she said, tapping her temples with her fingers.

"Anything for art," he said. "So?"

"So let's go outside."

As she passed through the doorway after him, the phone began to ring. She closed the door on the ringing, no slam, no acknowledgment of it at all. King did the eyebrow thing again, then turned and walked over to the path by the lake. Following him down the path toward the water, she felt grateful for his ironic smile and cheerful cynicism, because she had responded to it with some unknown part of herself that was saving her now. That conventional part of herself hadn't taken over, the part that would have been hoping she was wrong. If King hadn't come along she would have answered that phone and listened to whatever story Douglas told her.

Listening with one ear, she heard the phone finally fall silent. What could Douglas have said? She would have to be a moron not to comprehend the tones of the girl's voice, the lazy assurance in it, the estrogen-soaked attraction of that breathless soprano.

Now, trotting behind the tight jeans and wide leather belt that strode ahead, she let the waves of angry realization wash over her one by one. Douglas hadn't been home for dinner more than twice a week for the past three months. He'd been on the road or at meetings or in legislative sessions. Someone important needed his advice, or a crucial campaign donor needed a pep talk.

And she, she had been proud that he was so important. She'd closed her eyes and ears and especially her mouth, because Douglas was everything she wanted, her mother said so, everybody said so. Somehow, she must have felt that way, too.

She bit her lip. She'd left her hard-won position in the symphony, left her home in Tennessee, without a second's regret, gladly even.

"Shit!" she muttered. She had known Douglas since high school, but the gawky kid in the glasses had metamorphosed into a sophisticated, charming man who wore Italian suits and knew how to talk to a woman. He had always said he supported her music, even envied her talent, and he went to her performances, but somehow his work had become the primary work. She had allowed it, had actively collaborated in it. She was a fool!

Caroline and King had reached the lake. Mallards rode the calm water, gossiping in low quacks. Haze veiled the trees in the distance. No one seemed to be around, though the parking lot on the other side of the property was full of cars, including the police cars that had been there since dawn. Detective Toscana must still be hard at work in his conference room.

"You know, now that I don't get loaded anymore I find that running works well to take the edge off the bad stuff," King said. "We could go around the lake."

"No." Actually she was so furious at her stupid naivete right now that she felt like going into the lake, not around it, but she wasn't going to tell that to this complete stranger with his Medusa hair and wicked grin. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"About Claudia. Sit down." He sat on the grass and indicated the place beside him with a long hand, but she stood in front of him, her hands plunged in her pockets, still locked in anger at Douglas and herself. She felt like somebody else, somebody who didn't care about her manners and who wasn't about to be impressed by this stale old rocker with his muscles and big lips.

"Let's get it over with," she said.

"All right." Sprawled out on the grass he wasn't quite as formidable. "I'm going to tell you something I didn't tell the police. And then I want you to tell me something."

"We'll see."

"Hmm. All right. I told you that I was here for a reason, a reason that had nothing to do with massages and mud baths."

"Yes. You said you were here to get something that belonged to you." Slowly, her mind began pulling away from Douglas as she returned to the indelible, shattering fact of Claudia's death.

"Claudia has it-had it. The thing I was looking for. She died before I could get it. I had been looking for it for a long time, and when she called me I was… I took the first plane."

"You knew her before?"

"Quite well. Pre-Raoul. She knew how to reach me and how to get me here on short notice is what I'm saying. When I arrived, Claudia put me off. I had to stick around, and I started talking to people. Actually, people talked to me. I'm used to it. They do that."

"I'll bet they do." She couldn't keep the scorn out of her voice. "What exactly is this mysterious thing you came here to find?"

"Not important to anyone but me," he said, sitting up and folding his legs. His jaw set and the cheekbones popped into prominence. Under all the hype he was an awfully good-looking man, the sort of man who in the past might have even been said to possess beauty. She now saw a certain purity and cleanness of feature, as though the dissolute lifestyle hadn't even touched him. Sitting like that on the grass, talking calmly, his long hair stirring briefly in the morning breeze, he didn't look dissolute; he looked like a Tibetan lama.

"Women like you always hate me," he said. "I guess I seem unpredictable. The funny thing is, you scare me as bad as I scare you. You seem so sure of yourself. Makes me feel fraudulent somehow."

"Women like me," Caroline repeated. "What is a woman like me?"

He looked surprised. "Well, mainstream women. Who go to good women's colleges like Wellesley. Who marry well and do good works, not for pay of course, and have one point six beautiful-"

"Stop!" she interrupted. "You don't know anything about me!" She felt ashamed to hear her life described like that, ashamed that anyone could reduce her to just that. And yet an hour before she had been proud of her marriage, looking forward to beautiful children. What's wrong with what I am? she thought. Who have I ever harmed? Did Douglas ever love me at all?

"Sorry," King said. "Whatever I say seems to make you dislike me more. And from what I heard on the phone, you've just had a hell of a shock."

She breathed out. "It's okay. I suppose I've got you hopelessly stereotyped, too."

"I did do it. Bit the head off a bat. It was performance art. I was young and trying to make it any way I could. I'm forty-four now, and I study classical piano, and I contribute to the Humane Society, and I'm a vegetarian. But people still remember me and the band, the bras flying onto the stage, the screaming, the heroin…" He stopped and folded his arms around his knees.

"I'm a cellist," Caroline said.

"So you said."

"I loved it. Love it."

"Fantastic," King said. "Do you have it with you? Your cello? It'd be a kick to hear you play."

"No."

"Why not?"

She almost didn't answer, but he seemed genuinely interested. He was a musician, too. "I gave it up. When I got married. Isn't that a riot? I sold my cello." Thinking about her cello finally brought out all the emotion that had been roiling inside her. Angry, frustrated tears stung her eyes. She felt King's big hand on her arm, and she shivered.

"You were saying that you knew Claudia," she said, pulling her arm away.

There was a pause, as if they were re-collecting themselves.

Caroline realized that she really wanted to spill her guts about her life, to weep on his shoulder and tell him intimate details about her marriage.

People talk to him, she thought. King was staring down at his shoes, which she was happy to notice were not the lizard-skin pointy-toed boots she might have expected but beat-up Adidas sneakers, size fourteen at least.

"Claudia. Yes. When I first met her, she was a nutritional counselor at a very exclusive facility that catered to a lot of very well-known people," King said. "This was about twelve years ago. She did favors, you know? And then she'd come back to you, sometimes years later, and want a favor in return."

"I see," Caroline said. She was thinking about the word he had used earlier. Heroin. Was that what the "facility" treated? Or was it one of Claudia's "favors"?

"She got me to come here to the spa, and when I arrived yesterday I recognized two of the other guests. They had both been at this other… place. I asked them if Claudia had asked them to come, rather than them just happening to sign up. And they both said Claudia had put the pressure on."

"Who are you talking about?"

"Well, Howie. Howard Fondulac, the producer."

She remembered. The man who seemed to be a drinker.

"And Phyllis Talmadge."

"The writer. The New Age lady."

"Right."

"So what?" Caroline said. "What has that got to do with me? Why tell me this?"

"So I thought this was peculiar. I decided to check with some of the people I didn't know. I just happened to be talking to Ondine's manager, what's his name-"

"Christopher Lund, I think he said-"

"And I asked him what really brought Ondine here. He told me that Claudia had invited them both to come and waived all fees. He thought the idea was that she would find a way to get some publicity from having Ondine around, but he actually hasn't got a clue about why they got this invitation. Then he said when they got here, he could see that Ondine already knew Claudia."

"Okay," Caroline said slowly.

"That covers four of the people who came just before Claudia was killed. So, what about you and your mother, Caroline? Why are you here?"

"My mother wanted to come. She decided."

"And you came along like a good girl," King said. "Did your mother know Claudia too, before she came here?"

"Yes. They were roommates for a while in college. A very long time ago." Careful, she told herself. Don't say any more, don't mention the baby. That was far too private. She had so much thinking to do!

King was watching her struggle to say no more. "And what about you? Did you know her?" he said.

"Not at all. I didn't know who ran this place. I just-" I just blindly followed, she thought.

King said nothing. He rubbed his chin.

"So all of the new guests either knew Claudia before or came with someone who did," Caroline said. "As though Claudia had some purpose in mind in gathering together this particular group."

"She didn't do it as a friendly get-together," King said. "Not her style."

"Tell the police," Caroline said.

"After I find out who killed her."

"You? But why should you?"

"Because her killer took the thing I came here for. I need to get that back. Then the cops can have whoever it is."

"That could be dangerous."

King threw back his head and laughed. A product of who knew how many brawls and riots, he obviously wasn't afraid of much. Then he said, "I'd like that to mean you care about what happens to me."

She got to her feet, and he jumped up and again was standing too close. She had gotten up too quickly-or was it his proximity making her dizzy?-and a fantasy blew into her mind, born of resentment toward Douglas as well as King's slow smile. Any second now he would stretch out his arms to her, pick her up lightly, run off with her into the woods and-

"Caroline?" he said, still smiling, embarrassing her, knowing somehow what she was thinking.

"Yes?"

"What were you doing last night at two a.m.? I saw you go by my cabin."

"I-I-"

He leaned down and put his mouth to her ear, and she could smell the scent of him, woody and slightly pungent.

"I won't tell," he whispered. "Just give me the key you took from her."

"No! It wasn't me!" She stared at him, wide-eyed. His eyes with the lightning bolts gleamed like the lake, and suddenly she thought she caught something cold and terrible in there. He could easily kill Claudia, the way he had lived for so long, lawless and wild. And he was a magician, the way he held you with his eyes and touched you and fascinated you, a master of misdirection.

"You found Claudia, didn't you? You had time to take it. Don't be afraid, I won't tell anyone else. Our secret. But I need the key."

"Maybe you killed her and didn't have time to take this key you're talking about," she said, breathing hard. "But I sure didn't."

He cocked his head, held her eyes, then nodded. "I believe you. Then your mother must have it."

Caroline felt the memory like a knife, saw it all again, her mother touching Claudia's body.

"No!" She shoved him hard, taking advantage of his surprise to get him out of her way, and took off running. The long rays of sun jabbed through the haze here and there, striping the path in dark and gold, confusing her. She ran on in what she hoped was the direction of her cabin, every sense occupied with getting there and avoiding a misstep.

Through her ragged panting she could swear she heard another breath, a panting behind her, rhythmic and determined. King David?

Or someone else?

Vince leaned back in his chair, which he found cloyingly comfortable, put his hands behind his head and his feet up on the granite, and listened to the noise in the corridor outside. The first one to arrive had barged right in, and Vince had kicked him out just as fast.

All the lawyers had arrived by now, in rapid succession, importantly, noisily, tethered to their attaches, raising hell with the patrolman outside for making them wait.

Vince did not budge. He twisted his lower lip and thought. After a while, a skittish police officer finally knocked and edged in, locking the door behind him.

"They all out there yet?" Vince said. "Let's see, we got lawyers for the Hollywood boozer, the husband, the macho employee, the rocker, the Madame Blavatsky lady, and the supermodel."

"There's five Hermes ties and one pair of Manolo Blahnik spike heels out there, sir. The suits are all gray and black. Two of them have been waiting almost an hour. The woman lawyer just got here."

"Fine."

"They're starting to froth, sir. Staring at their watches and barking into their cell phones. The woman has her laptop out, but the men may try to beat the door down if you don't see them soon."

"I hear you, Mike. Did you offer them anything to drink?"

"No, sir, like you said-"

"Good, good."

"Sir?"

Vince was looking out the window again. He had a nice view of the lake, not a hint of the smog up here. Birdies twittered outside and the whole scene was like a postcard. Yeah, staged for the photographer. Ten minutes before, King David and the congressman's wife had been sitting by the lake having a heavy discussion. Then she jumped up and ran around a turn in the path, and he had lost sight of them. "Huh? Yeah?" he said.

"How long before I start bringing them in?"

"Listen, Mike," Vince said, not taking his eyes off the view. "Three hours ago I asked those important people outside to answer a few questions about a murder in their freakin' midst. And you know what they did?"

"No, sir."

"They were disrespectful and uncooperative. They tried to jack me around."

"Not good, sir."

"Right you are. So I gave them time to round up some local mouthpieces, and I applied myself to other freakin' aspects of the case. Because we got a duty, right, Mike? Rich people, that's the problem. Exercisin' rights poor people don't even know they have."

Knock knock knock. "I need to see the detective," an authoritative baritone announced.

Vince motioned with his finger for Mike to come closer. "Fifteen more minutes, Mikey," he said. "Let 'em stew in it, okay?" He turned back to the papers on the table.

"Yes, sir." Mike threw open the door. A balding man in a thousand-dollar suit was standing there, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in fury. "Step back," Mike ordered. "Step back there. Detective Toscana is not ready for you yet."

Fifteen minutes later a slightly less balding man entered, ushered by Mike, clutching a heavy briefcase as if he'd already drafted a bunch of briefs and wrapped the whole thing up. The wait had fired him up and he started talking before he even sat down. Behind him came Howard Fondulac, unshaven, uncombed, and undone. Vince switched on the tape recorder.

"Outrageous," the lawyer was saying. It was a routine lawyer greeting. Sort of like "hello."

"Please," Vince said, feeling better than he had in hours. "Take a seat, gentlemen." They sat down in front of the table and right away the producer, if that was what he really was, Vince was going to check him out, spoke up. "I don't know anything. I've got to go back to LA right away. Important business. Meetings. Commitments."

"I'll do the talking," said the lawyer.

"Well, tell him."

"My name is Eric Derrick." He handed Vince a card engraved so deep it was practically coming apart. He had a slow Southern accent that gave Vince time to grind his teeth between words. "Mr. Fondulac was sound asleep from ten P.M. until eleven a.m. this morning. He is shocked and distressed at this situation, and he fears for his own safety since a killer appears to be running free on the property. He has booked a flight leaving in two hours, and-"

"He's not going anywhere," Vince said.

"But Mr. Fondulac has important business-"

"His current business is right here. Nobody's leaving at the moment."

"But you can't-there's a murderer loose!"

Vince just sat there and looked at him and let the inanity of that statement sink in. Eventually even the lawyer got it, if the merest hint of a blush on the top of the ears was any indication.

"Yeah, you got that right, and we're trying to do something about it," Vince said finally. "Like talk to the witnesses. You mind?"

"But I don't know anything!" Fondulac said.

"What do you do in Hollywood?" Vince said. "I've never been there myself."

"I'm a film producer." Vince let him explain that and came to find out that old Howard was sort of retired right now, hadn't done a movie in the last several years, in fact. He confessed he'd had a few health problems. Vince sympathized and told him about his arthritis, and Fondulac started relaxing and even getting a little garrulous, which made Derrick jump in, and old Howard shushed him this time.

"I guess a week or two at a place like this would be good for me, too," Vince said, patting his belly. "But I couldn't take the chow, I'd miss my pasta."

"Oh, there's pasta. Just no oil, you know. No cheese."

"I'd rather die young," Vince said. "No, give me my food and my liquor, you know? Speaking of which, you got a good one going this morning. Hangover, right? You ever try vitamin C for that?"

"Mr. Fondulac certainly does not have a hangover. He did not come here to be-"

"Give it a rest, counselor. Well, Howard? Big night last night?"

"That's exactly why I don't know anything," Howard said. "I'm afraid I had too much to drink. I missed breakfast. And all the rest of it."

"Do that often, do you, Howard?"

"More than I should. I know I wasn't supposed to bring liquor in at all. I admit it, I've got a problem. I've been admitting it and surrendering and making amends and relying on my higher power for twenty-five years now, and I've still got a problem."

"What's your poison? Let me guess, Chivas?"

"Jack Daniel's."

"Good sippin' bourbon, if I do say so. So where's the bottle from last night? And by the way, how big a bottle are we talkin' about?"

"A pint? I think a pint."

"That's interesting, because we just picked up this pint bottle on the path by the bathhouse where the lady was strangled." Vince held it up in its wrapping. "The security man says he made a round at midnight and there was no bottle. He saw it runnin' in to see the commotion when the body was discovered. So it got laid down last night."

"Now wait just a minute," Eric Derrick said.

"That couldn't be my bottle," his client said in a choked-up voice.

"Great," Vince said. "Then you won't mind us taking your fingerprints just so my superiors don't yell at me. Mike outside has the kit."

"I don't think that would be appropriate at this time," the lawyer drawled.

"Oh, yeah? I'll decide that," Vince said and gave him the patented Toscana glare. "You know, if we get involved in a lot of formalities, legalisms, that sort of thing, Mr. Fondulac could be here for a long, long time."

Fondulac and Derrick hastily convened on the far side of the office. Whispers flew. Vince looked out the window again. Strong sun now, not a soul out there enjoying the path by the lake. Eventually, the lawyer allowed as how Mr. Fondulac would give fingerprints, seeing as how he wanted to cooperate and get home.

And they all knew he didn't have a choice. Vince put on a cheerful look and said, "That's great. So let's get back to the location of that bottle."

"I certainly didn't leave it there. But if my fingerprints are on it, maybe someone took it out of my trash."

"Ah." They figured his prints would be on it and so the next line of obstruction had come up. They were making progress. "So you put it in the trash?"

"Yes."

"And where is the trash located?"

"In my room, of course. The plastic can in the bathroom, actually. It had a swinging lid."

"You specifically remember putting it in the can?"

"Yes."

Vince showed his teeth. "Then we're all set. All we have to do is confirm that. Dust the lid for prints."

"Maybe it didn't get into the trash can. I might have left it on the floor. I was drunk!"

"So you're saying somebody came in your door late at night while you were crashed and took your empty bottle and left it on the path by the bathhouse?"

"My God," old Howard said in a surprised voice, turning to his lawyer. "Someone's trying to frame me! That's just what must have happened!"

"Now who would do a thing like that?" Vince went on, not missing a beat.

"I-I can't imagine!"

"You had an enemy here, Howard. That must be how it went down."

"Yes! Yes! Raoul! That sneaky bastard. I'll fix him. He hates me. Because I-because of a money thing. Years ago. We had a dispute. He said I owed him two hundred thousand dollars. We lost that money fair and square. It was a joint venture, a tax thing, and Claudia told me Raoul had forgotten all about it. But now I see he's just been biding his time. Eric, you have to do something!"

"How long ago was this? The money thing?" Vince asked.

"Ten, twelve years ago."

"You and Claudia and Raoul were tight, huh?"

And out it came. "Tight? We were business partners, that's all. Claudia worked at this health place I went to and we got to talking, and she told Raoul about this film I was producing. I had Kevin Costner practically attached, this was before the water flick and the futuristic Pony Express one. Raoul and Claudia had some money from somewhere and they were looking for an investment."

Vince nodded sagely. "Hollywood," he said.

"The project tanked, they tank sometimes, but they took it personally. And about the same time the deal soured, Raoul got this idea that Claudia was sleeping with me. He was madly in love with her. He was insecure and jealous. So anyway I was damn surprised when she called and invited me to come, but I really needed to get away, and when she told me Lauren Sullivan was here and looking for a project, it was perfect, and Claudia said-God, she said-" He stopped and a horrified expression came over his face.

"Well, what'd she say?"

"She said I deserved the full treatment."

"And had she started giving it to you by last night?" Vince asked.

"He thinks I'm lying," Howard said to his lawyer. "You check it out, Detective. It was her husband. He killed her. I don't know why he killed her, but he got me here to frame me."

"But she was the one who said you deserved the full treatment," Vince said.

"He got her to invite me," Howard said, less assurance in his voice. "He's a subtle one, he is."

Vince said, nodding again, "I hate subtle people. All those hidden agendas."

"So are you going to do something about him? Arrest him?"

"We'll check for his prints on the bottle."

"He'll have wiped them off," Eric Derrick said.

"You sure you didn't take a midnight stroll last night?" Vince asked. "I get lit, I do funny things sometimes. Decide I need some air."

"I'm quite sure I never left my room," Howard said.

"Is there anything else?" said the lawyer, leaning forward.

"Well, I have to ask, you understand. Whether you did sleep with her way back when in the Kevin Costner days. Since it might have inflamed the husband."

"I never laid a hand on her."

"Oh, come on, how could you resist? You were all going to get rich together, you were at this relaxing place together, hot tubbing and all that, she was a fine-lookin' lady. And it would explain a lot better why the husband would go after you."

Howard said, "Well just the one time."

"One time only. Sure."

"Once or twice. She really wanted me. I was damn attractive in those days." He smoothed back his neat, thinning hair, as if remembering thicker, more unruly days.

"I bet."

"Come on, Howard," Eric Derrick said. "Are we finished?"

"For now," Vince said.

"Who's next?" Mike said, sticking his head in. Behind him was a talking head, irate.

"The husband."

Raoul de Vries came bounding in like he was aching to beat some butt on the tennis court. His tan and good health made Vince feel vaguely pissed off. He must be the stiff-upper-lip type, or else he didn't give a flyin' fart that his wife was dead, whatever he might have felt about her before, because there was no sign of red eyes or sadness. The second lawyer was just like the first: tall, balding, portly, and young. Vince waved them to seats and took the card. "H. David Derrick," it read.

"Your brother out there, H.?" Vince asked the lawyer.

"Yes. It's a small town. We aren't in the same firm."

"You guys could be twins."

"We are."

"What's the H stand for?"

"Herrick. Can we move on?" He was even more humorless than his brother.

"I bet you're the older one. By ten, fifteen minutes," Vince said. The devil made him do it.

"I am the younger. Is this relevant?"

"I guess not," Vince said. "But I don't know what else we're gonna talk about. Because your client told me this morning that he wouldn't talk to me on advice of counsel."

"I said without advice of counsel," de Vries interposed. "Let me explain. A long time ago a lawyer told me to say that if I ever found myself in a police situation. It's not that I don't want to cooperate. My wife is dead. My heart is broken. I'm at your service."

"I'm happy to hear that. Really. Because it looked bad," Vince said. "So what was this police situation you were in?"

"I didn't say I was in a police situation. I said if I was in a police situation."

"You ever done time, Mr. de Vries?"

De Vries gave him an incredulous look and turned to Derrick Herrick or whatever the Mother Goose hell his name was.

"I fail to see the relevance," the lawyer said.

This parrot talk didn't go over very well with Vince. He ignored the lawyer and picked up the rap sheet in front of him and said, "You went to Soledad Prison fourteen years ago. For attempted murder. You tried to kill your then-girlfriend. Not Claudia." He turned to Derrick. "Relevant enough for you?"

"Go ahead."

He was ordering Vince around, the twerp, but Vince did want to go ahead, so he contented himself with a scowl and went on. "You served only two years, what with good behavior, good lawyering, and good connections. It's cryin' out for reform, our penal system."

"Is there a question pending?" asked Derrick.

"I didn't do it," de Vries said flatly.

"Yeah? You told the California parole board you did it. You gave plenty of details and said you were sorry. You said you were, let's see, in a rage due to her infidelities and didn't know what you were doing. You beat her up pretty bad."

"If I hadn't told them I did it, I'd still be rotting in jail," de Vries said. He had crossed his leg and was bouncing his foot up and down. He was counting the seconds until he could get out of there.

"Did you already know Claudia by then?"

"Yes. We were married two months after my parole. Which has expired, by the way."

"Where's she now? The girlfriend, I mean."

De Vries jumped up. "Why are we crashing around in this ancient history? My wife is dead! You should be finding her killer, finding out how Hilda Finch ends up getting everything we worked for, everything we own. You should ask me where I was last night, when I went to bed, how we got along! Yes, I went to bed with her! No, we had no quarrel at all! Yes, she must have got up in the middle of the night and gone to check something or maybe meet someone, I don't know!" He covered his face with his hands and started to sob.

Bored, Vince sat back and waited for the curtain to fall. He didn't believe de Vries's performance. Vince was getting the idea that de Vries was a jealous, weak man with a definite place in his scheme of things for women as objects of desire and sources of financial security, who had learned a few things in prison.

Derrick put his arm around his client's shoulder and offered him the paisley handkerchief out of the chest pocket of his jacket. Next he'd be saying de Vries was too distraught to continue.

Time for a little consult with Laidlaw, Vince decided. Laidlaw was the accounting expert the department used in white-collar-crime investigations. Raoul and Claudia had a nice business here. He wondered where the money to start it had come from. Were they pulling down a profit? So much money they could lay almost a million bucks on that stick of a girl out there?

And Fondulac's story, was there anything to it? De Vries was all bent over now, bawling like a baby, getting his back patted. It was a good act, but nothing Vince hadn't pulled himself when his ma caught him stealing papers off the stoops in Philly and reselling them on the corner.

And he thought about ancient history. It had a way of rearing up and biting you on the ass. The whole case had a smell of ancient history.