Over the Edge

30

ARROGANCE CAN be comforting, the belief that one is a blossom of cleverness springing from a dung heap of stupidity a snug bit of emotional insulation. But it's a risky delusion, leading to ill-preparedness, a sudden lack of balance, when reality comes crashing down and clever is no longer good enough.

It was that kind of vertigo that caused Souza to sway at the sight of the police, his lawyerly self-assurance crumbling like old cheese. But his recovery was quick, and within moments his features had reconstituted themselves into a dignified mask, as cold and immobile as one of the marble busts that dominated the corners of the room.

"What's this about, Sergeant?" he asked Milo.

"Loose ends," said the detective. He was carrying a large briefcase, and he stepped in, reached for the rheostat inside the doorway, and spun it. As the wattage climbed, the room was stripped naked, transformed from a hushed, private world into four walls filled with expensive clichés, every nick, glitch, and faded spot confessing its existence under the heartless flood of incandescence.

Cash entered and closed the door, leaving the uniformed men outside. He took off his shades, folded them away, straightened his tie, and looked around the room appreciatively, settling his gaze on a print above the mantel.

"Currier and Ives," he said. "Nice." Milo had positioned himself behind Souza, and the Beverly Hills detective walked over and stood behind the Cadmuses, taking a tactile tour along the way, inquisitive fingers caressing the polished contours of marble, porcelain, hardwood, and gilt before coming to rest at the lower hem of his suit jacket. The Cadmuses had reacted characteristically to the intrusion. Dwight darkening with bewilderment and annoyance, Heather straight-backed and still, as outwardly self-possessed as a prom queen. I saw her hazard a quick look at Souza, then return her attention immediately to her husband's quivering profile. As she watched his jaws work, one delicate hand took flight and rested on his sleeve. He didn't seem to notice.

"Horace," he said. "What is this?"

Souza quieted him with the lift of an eyebrow, looked back at Milo, and indicated the decanters.

"I'd offer you gentlemen drinks, but I know it's against regulations."

"If you have plain soda water, I'll take some," said Milo. "How about you, Dick?"

"Soda's fine," said Cash. "On the rocks, with a twist."

"Yes, of course," said Souza, smiling to conceal his pique and pouring the drinks.

The detectives took them and found seats. Milo slumped down between Souza and me, putting his briefcase on the floor next to my legs. Cash sidled next to Heather. He took in her jewellery with hungry eyes, shifted his scrutiny to the swell of her breasts. She pretended not to notice but, as he kept staring, fell captive to a tiny, reflexive squirm. Dwight noticed the movement and swung his head around. Cash met his eyes defiantly, then buried his smirk in bubbles. Dwight looked away furious, checked his watch, and glared at me.

"You called them in, didn't you, Delaware? Played hero without letting us know because of some half-assed theory." He put his glasses on and barked at Souza: "Horace, first thing tomorrow I want you to file a malpractice suit against this—"

"Dwight," said Souza quietly, "one thing at a time."

"Fine. Just as long as you know where I stand." He looked down his nose at Milo. "We need to be out of here soon, Officer. There's a major fund-raiser at the Biltmore, and I'm on the dais."

"Kiss off tonight," said Milo.

Dwight stared at him, incredulous.

"Now wait one sec—"

"In fact," added Cash, "kiss off a whole bunch of tonights."

Dwight's nails dug into his placemat. He started to rise.

"Sit, sir," said Cash.

"Darling," said Heather, exerting subtle pressure on her husband's sleeve. "Please."

Dwight sank down. The icy contours that anger had etched upon his face began to melt around the edges, softened to slush by a cloudburst of fear.

"Horace," he said, "what the hell are they talking about?"

Souza tried to placate him with an avuncular smile.

"Sergeant," he said to Milo, "I represent Mr. and Mrs. Cadmus's legal interests. Surely, if there's some issue that needs to be discussed, you can take it up with me and allow them to fulfill their social obligations."

Milo hadn't touched his soda. He held it up, squinted as if inspecting for taint, and put it down.

"Sorry," he said. "That would be against regulations."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," said the attorney coldly.

In lieu of a reply, Milo got up, opened the doors, and stood aside as a young uniformed officer wheeled in a video monitor on a stand. Atop the monitor was a Betamax recorder. Both monitor and recorder fed into a battery rack.

"Set it up there," said Milo, pointing to the far end of the table. The officer complied, working quickly and competently. When he was through, he gave Milo a hand-held remote control unit and asked if there was anything else.

"Nothing for now, Frank. Stay close."

"Yes, sir."

Dwight had followed the installation with a baffled look on his face. Now he filled his tumbler with scotch and emptied it. His wife watched him drink, allowing herself a momentary look of loathing. Erasing it quickly, she pulled a white silk handkerchief out of her evening purse, dabbed at her lips, and held on to it, veiling the lower part of her face. The grey eyes visible above the silk were still, yet dilated with interest. But not in her husband, for when he spoke again, they failed to follow him.

"This is damned outrageous," he said, trying to sound authoritative. But his voice had risen in pitch, leavened by anxiety.

Milo pushed a button and the monitor lit up, pushed again and the tape began to roll. The screen filled with a series of numbers — LAPD file codes — which gave way to a medium shot of a small yellow room, unfurnished except for a metal table and chair.

On the table were an ashtray and a pile of Polaroid pictures. On the chair sat Tully Antrim, dressed in a blue jump suit, eyes furtive, a cigarette smouldering between the fingers of one hand. The other lay flat on the table, big-boned, scarred, terminating in blunt fingertips capped by dirty nails. At the upper right edge of the picture was a dark fuzzy shadow of vaguely human proportions: the back of someone's head.

Antrim picked up the cigarette and inhaled. Blew smoke through his nostrils, looked up at the ceiling. Picked something out of the corner of his eye. Coughed and stretched.

"Okay, Tully," said the shadow, speaking in Milo's voice. "Let's go through that again. Who was the first?"

Antrim picked up a photograph and flexed it.

"This one."

"You've just identified Darrel Gonzales."

"Whatever."

"You never knew his name?"

"Nope."

"Did you know him by any other name?"

"Nope."

"Little D. Tinkerbell?"

Antrim dragged on his smoke and shook his head. "Never heard any of that."

"Where did you meet him?"

"Boystown."

"Where in Boystown?"

Antrim bared his teeth, amused.

"I think it was near Larabee. Just off Santa Monica. That what I said the first time?"

"Tell me about the pickup," said Milo

Antrim yawned.

"Again?"

"Again."

"Yo. We cruised Boystown looking for someone to off. A scuzzy one, zoned-out, so there wouldn't be any problem getting him in the van, you know? Found this one, agreed on a price, and he climbed on in."

"Then what?"

"Then we drove around, got him blasted on downers, played with him, and offed him in the van."

"You and Skull?"

Something savage came into Antrim's eyes. He pulled the cigarette from his mouth, ground it out on the tabletop, and leaned forward, hands warped into claws, lower jaw extended prognathically.

"I told you before," he said between clenched teeth, "I did it all, man. All she did was drive. Got it?"

Milo said, "Uh-huh," and looked at his fingernails. He waited until Antrim had relaxed before asking his next question

"How'd you kill him?"

Antrim nodded his approval of the question.

"First I cut him a little," he said blithely. "Then I used the silk to choke him out; then I cut him up some more — that was my orders, to make it look like a psycho. Afterward I dumped him."

"Where?"

"Some alley off Santa Monica. Near Citrus, I think."

"Why there?"

"That was the orders — between this street and this street."

"Which streets?"

"La Brea and Highland."

"That was your dumping zone?"

"Yup…"

"Was it the same way for each of the killings?"

"Yup. Except the streets changed for each one."

Milo pulled out a map, unfolded it in front of Antrim, and pointed.

"These dots are where we found the bodies, Tully. The numbers refer to the sequence of the murders, one for the first, two for the second, et cetera. You dumped them from east to west."

Antrim nodded.

"How come?"

"That was the orders."

"Any idea why?"

A shake of the head.

"Never asked," he said, lighting up another cigarette.

"Ever wonder why?"

"Nope."

Milo put the map away and said:

"What about the blood?"

"What about it?"

"The blood in the van. How'd you handle that?"

"We had tarps. What wouldn't wash out we burned later. The metal we hosed down. It wasn't no big deal."

"Who was the second one?"

Antrim examined the photos, picked up a pair.

"One of these, they look kind of the same."

"Keep looking. See if you can remember."

Antrim lowered his face, chewed his moustache, and stuck out his tongue concentrating. A mop of hair fell across his forehead.

"Yo," he said, letting one photo fall to the table and waving the other. "This one. The bigger one "

Milo examined the snapshot. "You've just identified Andrew Terrence Boyle."

"If you say so, Chief."

"You didn't know his name either?"

"Nope. Didn't know any of their names, except the nigger."

"Rayford Bunker."

"Not that name. Quarterflash."

"How come you know that?"

Antrim smiled.

"He was an uppity type, you know? Kept bragging, batting his lashes and singing, 'I'm Quarterflash, I'm a hot flash. I'll suck your trash for cash.' Some shit like that." Antrim gave a disapproving look, took a drag on his cigarette. "Pushy little nigger faggot. I cut him more than the others before I choked him out. To teach him a lesson, know what I mean?"

There was the sound of scratching, an arm moving. Milo finished writing and asked:

"Who was number three?"

Antrim sifted through the pile of photos.

"This one. I remember the freckles. He looked like a kid."

"Rolf Piper," said Milo. "He was sixteen."

Antrim shrugged.

"Whatever."

It went on that way for a while, Milo questioning, Antrim expounding casually on the mechanics of murder. Then the interrogation began delving into greater detail: dates; times; weapons; the victims' clothing.

"Did any of them struggle Tully?"

"Nope."

"None of them resisted at all?"

"Too zoned."

"Zoned on what?"

"Downers, hash, wine. Whatever."

"Which of them drank wine?"

"Don't remember."

"Think for a while."

A minute passed. Antrim wiped his nose with his sleeve.

"Come up with anything?"

"Nope."

"What did you do afterwards, Tully?"

"Afterwards?"

"After you dumped them."

"Cleaned up. Like I said."

"Where?"

"At the cabin."

"Which one?"

"You been there."

"Tell me anyway."

"In Tujunga. Up past La Tuna."

"Who owns the cabin?"

"Souza."

The attorney stirred at the mention of his name but remained detached, knitting his hands in front of him. Dwight turned and stared at him wildly, but Souza ignored him.

"Horace Souza?" asked Milo. "The attorney?"

"That's right."

"Did Horace Souza rent it to you?"

"No. We lived there free."

"Why is that?"

"It was part of the deal. Remember?" Antrim licked his lips and looked around the room. Bored.

"Thirsty, Tully?"

"Dry mouth. All this talking."

"How about a cup of coffee?"

"You got soup?"

"I think there's soup in one of the vending machines."

"What kind?"

"I think it's chicken soup. Want some?"

Antrim thought about it.

"No vegetable?" he asked.

"I can check. What if there's only chicken."

Antrim contemplated his choices.

"Then I'll take a regular glass of water."

Milo moved off camera. Antrim dealt with the solitude by closing his eyes and dozing in his chair. Several minutes later Milo came back and handed him a paper cup.

"No soup, Tully. Here's the water."

"That's cool," said Antrim, gulping noisily. He put the empty cup down with a satisfied exhalation.

"Want more?" asked Milo.

"Nope."

"Okay, let's get back on track. You said after you dumped the bodies, you and Skull cleaned up. How?"

"Hosed the van, burned whatever needed burning."

"Where'd you do the burning?"

"That old barbecue pit near the cabin. The one I showed you."

"What about after cleanup? What'd you do then?" Antrim looked perplexed. "Something confusing you, Tully?"

"Nope. Hard to remember."

"Why's that?"

"We didn't do any one thing afterward. Sometimes we ate; sometimes we partied. Depending, you know?"

"You ate and partied after you dumped them."

"Yup. One time — after the nigger — we drove downtown and saw a movie."

"Where was the theatre?"

"Off Spring. Near Fifth, I think."

"Did you take the van?"

"Nope. The Hog."

"Your Harley?"

"Right."

"What movie did you see?"

"Some fuck flick — The Dirty Talkers, Dirty Talk. Something like that."

"Okay," said Milo. "Anything else you want to tell me about the killings?"

Antrim grew thoughtful.

"Just that it wasn't personal," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"We didn't know those faggots. We were doing a job, that's all."

"Following orders?"

"Yeah."

The screen turned dark, and another set of numbers came on. When the room came into view, Cash and Whitehead were in it, standing to the side, taking notes.

"The date is Thursday, December tenth, 1987. This is the fourth in a series of interviews with suspect William Tull Bonney, also known as William Antrim, concerning his participation in a series of homicides, details of which have been enumerated in a previous tape. The present interview is being conducted at Parker Centre. Mr. Bonney has been informed of his rights and has acknowledged his comprehension of such. He has repeatedly been offered the right to consult an attorney and has refused each time. He has been examined psychiatrically and found mentally competent to participate in decisions concerning his defence. He has consented, in writing, to these interviews and to their video and audiotaping. Any comments, Mr. Bonney?"

"You said it all, chief."

"And you still don't want a lawyer?"

"No way. A lawyer got me into this, right?"

"Mr. Antrim, if you change your mind, inform us immediately, and an attorney will be supplied."

"I won't. Let's get it over with."

Milo continued reciting:

"Present at the interview are Los Angeles County Sheriff's Deputy Calvin W. Whitehead and Detective Sergeant Richard A. Cash of the Beverly Hills Police Department." At the mention of his name Cash touched his forehead with his index finger and gave a small salute. "I'm Detective Sergeant Milo B. Sturgis of the Los Angeles Police Department, West Los Angeles Division."

Antrim seemed more animated than in the previous tape, shifting his position. Posing. He lit a cigarette, ran his fingers through his hair, and smiled. Mugging for the camera.

"Okay, Tully," said Milo, "in previous interviews you told us how and when you killed Darrel Gonzales, Matthew Alan Higbie, Rolf Piper, John Henry Spinola. Andrew Terrance Boyle, and Rayford Antoine Bunker."

"Those are them."

"Now let's talk about two other murders. Richard Emmet Ford and Ivar Digby Chancellor."

"Sure," said Antrim. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything," growled Whitehead.

Antrim looked at him, then back at Milo, as if to say, "What's his problem?" He pulled out a cigarette and put it in his mouth.

Milo lit it for him and said:

"Why don't you start from the beginning."

"There was a bunch of beginnings."

"Such as?"

"The beginning of the job was when we took the kid out of the hospital, the beginning of the cuttings—"

"Which kid are you referring to?"

"The Cadmus kid. The one who was locked up."

"James Cadmus."

"Right."

"Let's start with him," said Milo.

"Yo. I drove out to the hospital—"

"When?" asked Whitehead.

"I don't know, when was it — about four, five weeks ago?"

"What day of the week was it?" asked Cash.

"Thursday."

"How do you know that?" demanded Whitehead.

"All of them happened on Thursdays."

"Why's that?"

"That was the orders. Go out on a Thursday and off a faggot."

"You didn't ask why?" asked Whitehead sceptically.

Antrim shook his head.

"Why not?" pressed the sheriffs investigator.

Antrim narrowed his eyes and grinned.

"Just doing my job, chief."

Whitehead looked as if he'd just swallowed sour milk. Folding his arms across his chest, he stared down at Antrim and snorted derisively.

"What's the matter?" said Antrim, looking injured. "I been giving you what you want, and you still keep getting on my case."

Whitehead leaned over him.

"You're shit, Tully. I may have to hang around you, but I don't have to like the smell."

Antrim's lower jaw shot out. One hand balled into a fist. He clamped the other over it, as if subduing a rabid animal. His face went rigid, eyes flashing poisonously.

"C'mon," urged Whitehead, bobbing his head. "Make my day."

Cash and Milo stared at him.

"Scum," said Whitehead.

Antrim spat on the ground and turned his back on all three detectives.

"Take me back," he said.

No one answered.

"Come on, Tully," said Milo after a while.

"Take me the fuck back, man. I don't wanna talk no more."

"Was it something I said?" mocked Whitehead.

The screen went black for a second. When it came back on again, Milo was alone with Antrim, who sat hunched over the table, spooning something out of a bowl. He slurped, wiped his mouth, and put the spoon down. The ashtray overflowed with butts. Next to it stood a can of Pepsi.

Milo reiterated his speech, had Antrim repeat his refusal to consult an attorney, then asked: .

"Ready, Tully?"

"Yo. Just keep that stupid fuck out of here, man. He comes in, I dummy up."

"Okay, Tully. It'll just be you and me, okay?"

"Stupid fuck's got an attitude. Someone's gonna clean his fucking clock one day."

"More soup?" asked Milo.

"No, thanks. Go ahead."

"We were talking about the murders of Richard Emmet Ford and Ivar Digby Chancellor. You were telling me how you drove to the hospital to get James Cadmus out of the hospital. Which hospital was that?"

"The nut farm where he was. Out in Agoura."

"Remember the name?"

"Canyon Oaks."

"Go on."

"I drove out there around two."

"A.M. or P.M.?"

"A.M. I got there late. The freeway was jammed up, some kind of crash. I got a scanner in the van, so I heard about it, got off in Canoga Park, and took surface streets. Took a while to find a safe place to park, but I found one. Then I waited. The plan was for Skull to dose the kid up with something that would zone out his head but still let him walk. That way she could lead him out and bring him straight to the van. When she went in the room, he looked like he was sleeping, so she took the straps off before giving him the needle. But as soon as she stuck him, he freaked out and yanked it out. Hit her upside the head and knocked her cold. Just for a minute, but by the time she woke up he was gone. She went looking for him and found him, in one of the conference rooms, talking on the phone to the shrink."

"Which shrink?"

"Delaware."

"How do you know it was Dr. Delaware?"

"She heard him call him by name. Sounded like he was trying to get help. So she got up behind him, got an arm around his neck, and gave him the needle again. Hard, but there must have been too much stuff in it or something 'cause he went out completely, and she had to drag him out of there. I seen her coming, jumped out, and threw him over my back. He was dead weight — skinny but heavy, know what I mean? Took a while to get him in the van and all gagged and tied, but I finally did it. Got the hell out of there."

"You and Skull?"

"No. Just me. She met me later. Near Chancellor's house."

"When was this?"

"When she met me?"

"When you left Canyon Oaks."

"Maybe around three-thirty."

"And when did she meet you?"

"Maybe around four-thirty."

"How did Skull manage to drag him out without someone noticing?"

"No one was around. The bitch in charge had been paid off to make that happen. Ten grand — five and five. I know, 'cause I brought the bread to her place."

"Which bitch is that?"

"Vann. A real cunt. She treated Skull like shit." He closed his eyes for a second, smiled dreamily. "We had plans for her."

"Where'd you go after you left the hospital grounds?"

"Back toward L.A."

"Anywhere in particular?"

"Boystown."

"Do you remember your route?

"Yeah. The freeway was still jammed up, so I took side streets to Reseda, got back on and got off at Laurel. Drove to Santa Monica and turned left."

"East."

"Yeah."

"Go on."

"I trawled Santa Monica and picked up the whore — Ford."

"Where'd you find him?"

"Street corner near Western."

"What you do with him?"

"Same as the others: talked cash, got him in, dosed him up, and choked him."

"To death?"

"Nope. Just unconscious. Then I gagged him and tied him and stashed him next to Cadmus." Antrim laughed.

"What's funny?" asked Milo.

"I used to drive this meat truck, for this sausage company over in Vernon. Hauled pig carcasses. This was kind of the same thing."

"Where'd you go after you'd tied up Ford?"

"Up to Chancellor's place."

"Remember that route?"

"Santa Monica to Sunset, west into Beverly Hills to the hotel, then north and up a ways. Big white place behind walls."

"Where was Skull?"

"Side street off Doheny. I picked her up."

"What'd you do when you got there?"

"Place was locked, electric gate. We had a plan to get in — part of the orders. There was a squawk box. Had to push the botton a bunch of times before Chancellor answered. He sounded out of it, like he'd just woke up. Said, "Who is it?" and Skull answered in a kid's voice—"

"A kid's voice?"

"Yeah. Like a sixteen-year-old. An impression, you know? She's got a talent for that kind of thing," he added proudly, "does Bugs Bunny, Minnie Pearl, Elvis. You should hear her."

"I'll be sure to," said Milo. "What did she say to Chancellor?"

"She told him she was a friend of Jamey's, that they'd had an accident and he was there with her, hurt bad. You could hear Chancellor get all uptight, breathing hard over the squawk box. He said he'd be right down. He pulled Cadmus's body out of the van and laid it in front of the gate. Skull backed down the block, cruised slowly; you can't park overnight in Beverly Hills, and we didn't want to attract no attention. I waited off to the side of the gate. After a few minutes I could hear Chancellor coming. The gates opened, and he came out in this faggy dressing gown. When he saw Cadmus, he gave a yell. I jumped him, hit him hard, and put a choke on him — to put him out, just like Ford. Then Skull cruised by with the van, and I loaded Chancellor and Cadmus in it. Tied up Chancellor and drove through the gate. Closed it and hauled all of them up to the house. He was heavy."

Antrim stretched, pulled out a cigarette, and lit up; contentedly, as if rewarding himself for a job well done. When he showed no intention of saying anything further.

Milo said: "What'd you do once you got up there?"

"Dragged them all into the house."

Antrim blew smoke rings at the ceiling.

"Then what?"

"Dosed up Cadmus, choked Ford and Chancellor with the silk, cut them up, and hung Chancellor from the ceiling."

"Why'd you hang him?"

"That was the orders. Truss him up with the pool rope and hoist him up. Ball-bursting job, man. He was big."

"What about the position of his hands?"

"The what?"

"The way you positioned his hands after you hung him. Was that part of the orders, too?"

"Oh, that. Yeah, it was. Tie him up and wrap his hands around what was left of his cock."

"Any idea why?"

"Nope," said Antrim. "Maybe it was his idea of a joke."

"Whose idea?"

"Souza's. Though I never did see him joke much."

Milo shut the monitor off and looked around the table. Dwight had gone bed sheet white. Heather continued to use the handkerchief as a veil. Souza sat as impassively as a cigar store Indian.

"Any comments?" Milo asked him.

"None whatsoever."

"Horace," said Dwight in a shaky voice. "What he said—"

"Is utter nonsense," spat Souza. "Tully's always been unstable, prone to wild fantasies. I knew that when I hired him, but I felt sorry for him and I was able to keep him in line. Until now."

Dwight looked at Milo.

"He's highly credible," said the detective calmly. "He knows details that only a perpetrator or an observer could have known. The physical evidence backs him up one hundred percent. Marthe Surtees verifies it all independently."

"Dwight," said Souza reassuringly, "this is absurd. A travesty that will be set right. In the meantime, I strongly advise you, as your attorney — and friend — not to say another word."

"He can't function as an attorney in this case," said Milo. "He's a suspect."

"He ain't much of a friend either," drawled Cash.

Heather dropped her veil and touched her husband's cheek with her fingertips.

"Darling," she said, "listen to Horace."

"Darling," mimicked Cash. "That's a good one."

"Don't talk to my wife that way," said Dwight.

Cash looked at him scornfully, turned to Milo, and smiled. "Rich folk," he said. "Put 'em in shit up to their chins, and they think it's a beauty bath."

"Horace," said Dwight, "what the hell is going on?"

"I'm going to tell you what's going on," said Milo. And he got up, picked up his briefcase, and walked with it to the far end of the table.

"On the surface it's complicated," he said, "but when you get down to it, what we have here is just another dirty little family squabble. Soap opera stuff. Dr. Delaware could probably give you the psychological reasons for it, but I'm going to stick to the facts."

He opened the briefcase, drew out some papers, and spread them on the table.

"I never knew your dad," he said to Dwight, "but from what I've learned, he sounds like a guy who liked things simple." He lifted a sheaf of papers. "Take this will, for example. Estate of this size and you'd figure it might get all complicated. But no, he has two sons; he divided everything right down the middle — almost. Fifty-one percent to your brother, forty-nine to you." He paused. "Must have seemed unfair, huh? Especially when you were such an obedient kid and Peter was such a flake."

"Father would have changed the will eventually," said Dwight reflexively. As if it were a well-rehearsed line "If he'd lived long enough."

"Hush," said Souza.

Milo smiled. "I guess you can keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better."

Heather let her veil drop. The face behind the silk was tight with anger. Gripping her husband's sleeve, she said:

"Don't respond to him, darling. Don't let yourself be demeaned."

"He's already been demeaned plenty," said Milo. "And not by me."

She let go of the sleeve and didn't answer. Her silence made Dwight dip his head and look at her.

"I need to know what's going on," he said weakly.

She avoided his stare and turned away. The evening purse was in front of her, and she plunged her fingers into its sequined folds and began kneading, furiously.

"Anyway," said Milo to Dwight, "no use speculating what might have happened. Point is, your dad didn't live long enough to change anything, and Peter ended up with the lion's share. Which could have been a real disaster, even with all your hard work and the help of Faithful Friend Horace, here. Because at some point, if he wanted to, Peter could have taken over the company, sold it to an outsider, run it into the ground, whatever. Lucky for you, he had the courtesy to die prematurely."

Dwight lifted a finger and pointed it at Milo. "If you're suggesting that I viewed my brother's death as good luck, you're damned—"

"Take it easy," said the detective. "I'm not suggesting anything — only you know how you felt about it. Let's stick with the evidence." He put down the papers he was holding and retrieved some others. "Like Peter's will. As straightforward as Daddy's — everything passes on to Peter's sole heir, James. One funny thing about it, though. Every other Cadmus family document I could find was drawn up by Souza and Associates. But this was handled by a San Francisco lawyer named Seymour Chereskin."

"One of Peter's hippie pals," said Dwight. "Long hair and beard, dressed in buckskins and beads."

"He's a professor of law now," said Milo. "At UC Berkeley. And he has clear memories of drawing up the will. Especially all the pressure he got from Souza not to do it. Even to the point of being offered five thousand dollars as an incentive."

Dwight looked at Souza.

"It made sense for our firm to handle it," said the attorney. "Peter's holdings were enmeshed with those of the corporation and yours, Dwight. I wanted to keep things consistent. To avoid a disaster. Chereskin looked like Charles Manson. Who knew what he'd do?"

"He's a Harvard grad," said Milo.

"That didn't mean much in those days, Sergeant. I was concerned he'd pull some hippie stunt."

"He tells it differently. That he was clear about what he was going to do and laid it out for you. Even sent you a copy. But you kept the pressure up. Flew up in person to lean on him. He got the distinct feeling you were heavily into control."

"That's ridiculous. Peter had a history of being duped by unsavoury types, and I was simply attempting to protect him from himself."

"Noble of you," said Milo, examining the document again. "My legal adviser tells me Chereskin did a bang-up job, very straightforward and sensible."

"It was a competent effort," said Souza.

"Straightforward," repeated Milo. "The inheritance was set up as an irrevocable trust fund for Jamey, with his uncle as the guardian. Payouts were to start at the age of eighteen and continue through thirty-five. At thirty-five, full transfer of ownership. Standard spendthrift and ill health clauses. Chereskin even recommended that you be the trustee because of the linkage with corporate affairs. So I guess your fears were unfounded, huh? Unless, of course, you had something else in mind."

"Such as?"

"You tell me."

"Sergeant," said Souza, "you burst in here and ruined our evening under the guise of revealing hard facts. But all we've heard so far are tedious rehashes and rude implications."

"Gee," said Milo. "Sorry about that."

"We're both sorry," said Cash.

Souza sat back, fought to appear casual, and succeeded. He reclined further, and the light cast shiny white tiger stripes across the pink surface of his head.

"Onward," said Milo. "After Peter died, his will was probated, making a small child the majority owner of Cadmus Construction. How'd you feel about that, Mr. Cadmus?"

"Damned fine!" said Dwight stuffily. "It's a family business. It should support the family."

"I understand that," said Milo. "But didn't it bother you that after all your work, here you were again in the number two position? That one day Jamey would be able to waltz in and take it over from you?"

Dwight shrugged.

"I thought about it when he was young, figured we'd cross that bridge when we came to it."

"Nice of him to go crazy and cross it for you."

"What are you saying?"

"The ill health clause," said Milo. "In the event of mental incompetence, control reverts back to the guardian — you. A month ago you had Souza put it into effect. Gave yourself one hundred percent control over the family fortune."

"I did nothing of the damned sort!"

"Sure about that?"

"Of course, I'm sure."

Milo went back to the briefcase and took out another piece of paper.

"Here. Take a look at this."

He passed it to Dwight, who read it, mouth agape.

"I've never seen this before," he said.

"It's got your signature on it. Notarisation and all."

" I tell you I never signed this."

Now it was Milo's turn to sit back.

Dwight kept staring at the document, as if hoping it would explain itself. Finally he put it down, shaking his head, looking around the room.

"I signed your name," said Heather softly

"What!"

"To save you the trouble, darling. It was just a matter of time before it had to be done."

"You did it without asking me?"

"I knew it would be hard for you. I was trying to spare you the pain."

Dwight shook his head in disbelief.

"How'd you get it notarised?"

She bit her lip.

"Faithful Friend Horace leaned on one of his associates to do it," said Milo. "For your own good, of course."

Dwight glared at Souza, then looked at his wife as if seeing her for the first time.

"What's going on, Heather?"

"Nothing, darling," she replied tensely. "Please stop responding to him. Can't you see what he's trying to do?"

"Nothing like a surprise, huh?" said Milo. "Don't go away. I've got more."

"Then spit it the hell out," said Dwight.

"Hey," said Milo, "I don't blame you for being angry. If I were in your situation, I'd be angry, too. You bust your butt to keep the company going and fifty-one percent of the profits go to a playboy brother who never lifted a finger to earn his keep. Then he dies, and all of that money passes to his kid — who you get stuck raising."

"I wasn't stuck with anything," said Dwight. "He was family."

"Sounds good," said Milo. "How did your wife feel about it?"

Heather glared hatefully at Milo.

"After all," continued the detective, "raising this kid couldn't have been a picnic — too smart for his own good, a nasty mouth, antisocial. And to top it all, gay. When he started hanging around with Chancellor, it must have been where-did-I-go-wrong time, huh?"

"You'd know about that kind of thing, Sergeant," said Souza dryly.

"Still." continued Milo, "all that could have been tolerated. But not his threatening to blow you out of the water financially."

Comprehension spread across Dwight's face like a malignant rash.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said shakily.

"Sure you do. The same old story — playing it straight and getting tripped up by bad luck. You went into the Bitter Canyon project thinking it was the deal of a lifetime. Daddy'd left a giant parcel of land ripe for development. A sweetheart situation if mere ever was one. You could sell the land to the state cheaply enough to put in a winning bid on the construction and still make a massive profit. Like playing blackjack with yourself — you couldn't lose. Digby Chancellor thought it was sweet, too. Bought a major chunk of the bonds at par and got ready to rake in the profits. Imagine how he felt when he found out he'd invested in poison gas."

"According to the reports I had, that land was clean," said Dwight. "There was no way to know."

"Stop chattering," said Souza furiously. "There's no need to defend yourself."

"No, there wasn't any way to know," commiserated Milo. "Like I said, bad luck. And if Jamey hadn't found an old diary of your dad's, no one would have known. But he did, and he told Chancellor. Who put the squeeze on."

Dwight gave an embittered laugh.

"So that's what it was," he said. "A diary. I never knew Father kept one."

"Where did Chancellor say he got the information?"

"He—"

"Oh, for God's sake," said Souza disgustedly.

Dwight regarded the attorney with a jaundiced eye. Played with his glasses and said:

"He said he'd got hold of some old business records. Wouldn't say how, but I suspected Jamey, because he was a rag picker — always poking around where he shouldn't have. When I asked Dig for proof, he handed me a Xerox of Father's description of the gas storage. Then he demanded I buy back his bonds at a premium. I told him he was crazy. He threatened to go public if I refused, promised me he'd bring down the company. I tried to bluff him, said he'd never do that because it would break him, too, but he said he'd sue for fraud and win. That he'd enlist Jamey as a co-complainant and the court would dissolve the corporation and award them the assets. Them, as if they were married. He was a ruthless, perverted bastard."

"Who else knew about the squeeze?" asked Milo.

Dwight looked sharply at Souza.

"Horace did. I went to him for advice on how to handle it. Told him we hadn't started digging yet and there was time to pull out."

"What did he advise you?"

"That pulling out would damage the company permanently. He said to go ahead as if nothing had happened. That he'd find a way out, but I should start paying in the meantime."

"Did you?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"About a year."

"How frequent were the payoffs?"

"Nothing regular. Dig called and we traded."

"Cash for bonds?"

"That's right."

"How'd the transactions take place?"

"I kept several accounts at his bank. We met in his office, I signed a withdrawal slip, and he took it from there."

"What about the bonds?"

"They found their way into my safe-deposit box."

"Must have hurt," said Milo.

Dwight winced.

"Toward the end it got worse," he said. "He kept demanding I buy more and more."

"Who knew about it besides Souza?"

"No one."

"Nobody in the corporation?"

"No. It was a personal account."

"How about your wife?"

"No."

"Big thing like that and you didn't discuss it with her?"

"I handle the finances in the family. We never talk about business."

"When did you decide to get rid of Chancellor?"

Dwight shot out of his chair. "I don't know a damned thing about that!"

He backed away from the table, knocking his tumbler over in the process. Standing pressed against the panelled wall, he turned his head from side to side, as if searching for an escape route. Cash looked meaningfully at Milo, who gave his head a brief shake. The Beverly Hills detective stayed in his place, but his eyes were vigilant.

"Why don't you sit down?" suggested Milo.

"All I did was give in to blackmail," said Dwight. "I was exploited. I had nothing to do with anything else."

"Two people threaten to ruin your life. All of a sudden one's dead and the other's locked away in the booby hatch. Pretty convenient."

Dwight was silent for a moment. Then he gave an odd smile and said:

"I figured I was entitled to a stroke of good luck."

Milo looked at him, then shrugged.

"Hell," he said, "if you can live with it, I can." Pulling a tape recorder out of the briefcase, he set it on the table. The flick of a switch evoked a hiss of white noise and over it the sound of a phone ringing. On the third ring the phone was answered.

"Hello," said a familiar voice.

"It's Tully, Mr. Souza."

"Hello, Tully."

"Just called to tell you everything went perfect."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"Yeah, two birds with one stone. The broad — Vann — was shacking up with Mainwaring. We took care of both of them—"

"No need to go into detail, Tully."

"Okay, Mr. Souza. Just wanted you to know it was clean — bare hands, no weapo—"

"That's enough," snapped Souza.

Silence.

"Thank you for calling, Tully. You did well."

"Anything else you want me to do, Mr. Souza?"

"Not at the moment. Why don't you take a couple of days off? Relax, rest up."

"I could use some rest, Mr. Souza. My knuckles are real sore." Phlegmy laughter.

"I'm sure they are, my boy. I'm sure they are."

"Bye, Mr. Souza."

"Good-bye."

Milo turned off the recorder.

"You goddamned bastard," said Dwight, and he began moving toward Souza. Cash sprang up, took him by the arms, and held him back.

"Settle down," he said, and steered Dwight to the far side of the table, near the video screen. With a firm hand on a heaving shoulder, he pressed him into a chair. Staying on his feet, he took a watchful position behind the enraged man.

Dwight brandished a fist at Souza and said, "Bastard."

Souza gazed at him, bemused.

"Any comments now?" Milo asked the attorney.

Souza shook his head.

"Would you like a lawyer before we go any further?"

"Not at all. However, I could use a martini. May I fix one?"

"Suit yourself," said Milo.

"Would anyone else care for a drink?" asked Souza.

No one answered, so he smiled and leaned toward die portable bar, mixing gin and vermouth, slowly. Picking an olive out of a silver dish, he dropped it into the drink, watched it bobble, and sat back down. Taking a small sip, he ran his tongue over his lips, the picture of contentment.

"Damn you, Horace," croaked Dwight. "Why the hell—"

"Oh, shut up," said Souza. "You're being tiresome."

"The why is fairly mundane," said Milo. "Money, power, the usual stuff. It's the how that tripped us up. Until we found out about Mrs. Cadmus's special talents with drugs."

A fresh wave of horror swept over Dwight's face. He stared across the table at his wife, begging for denial. Instead, she lowered the veil and shot him a defiant look of cold disdain.

"When did you first get the idea?" Milo asked her. She ignored him, and he continued:

"The way I see it is you've hated Jamey for a long time. Been fantasising about getting rid of him. When Souza told you about Chancellor's little squeeze, the two of you decided the time had come to go ahead with it."

Heather's mouth began to tremble, and she seemed about to say something. Then Souza cleared his throat, and she turned toward him. The look that passed between them renewed her resistance, and her eyes narrowed and hardened, darkening to the colour of storm clouds. Sitting taller, she met Milo's gaze unflinchingly, looking through him as if he didn't exist. The entire exchange had taken a second, but Dwight hadn't missed it. He made a low, choking sound and sagged in his chair.

"Talk about your two birds," said Milo. "You probably considered killing both of them outright but decided it might look too cute, maybe cause us to snoop around the family fortune. Not to mention probate court and inheritance tax. But murdering Chancellor and setting up Jamey as a psycho killer would have given Hubby access to the money without any of those hassles. A year later Jamey could die in jail or on the back ward of some hospital; at that point it wouldn't really make a difference. Couple of years later Hubby could meet with an unfortunate accident — maybe even go crazy and kill himself, 'cause that kind of thing runs in the family, doesn't it? Leaving you with all of it."

Heather laughed scornfully. Souza said, "Ridiculous."

Milo nodded at me.

"If anyone knew how to drive someone crazy, you did," I told her, and gave a summary of her thesis research. She seemed unaffected by the recitation. But from the numb, sick look on Dwight's face, it was clear that he'd never taken the time to learn about his wife's scholarly efforts, had never seen her as other than the dutiful helpmate.

"You did it subtly," I said. "Poisoned him slowly over a one-year period with belladonna clones, slipping the drugs into his food, his milk, his mouthwash, his toothpaste. Gradually elevating the dosages. Your knowledge of organic anticholinergics enabled you to pick drugs and mix them to evoke exactly the type of symptom you wanted — agitation one day, depression the next. Paranoia, auditory hallucinations, visual scrambling, stupor — you'd learned how to create all of them from the Indians in the jungle. And if you wanted something different, there was always the occasional chaser of a synthetic agent — LSD, PCP, amphetamine. Volunteering at the drug rehab centre gave you access to street drugs. The police have found two kids — so far — who've admitted selling to you."

She blinked rapidly. Said nothing.

"Oh, God," said Dwight. Cash watched him carefully.

"Jamey's psychological history made things easy for you," I continued. "He'd never been well adjusted, so no one would be surprised when he went off the deep end. You took him to the point of severe psychosis and had him committed. Canyon Oaks was chosen because Souza knew Mainwaring could be manipulated with money. And you lost no time taking advantage of that. Marthe Surtees was brought in as a private-duty nurse, and she took over the poisoning — at your discretion. Meanwhile, Mainwaring was treating what he thought was schizophrenia with phenothiazines, which, when combined with the anticholinergics, toxified Jamey's nervous system further. Surtees says she gave you a daily report on his status. When things got too severe, you had her back off. When he started looking better, he got another jolt. Even his arrest and incarceration in the High Power block didn't put an end to it. Surtees had to bow out, but someone else took over. Someone who had a valid reason to visit him frequently. Someone who could sit with him for extended periods of time without attracting undue attention. Put a fatherly arm around his shoulder, give-him sips of juice. Someone who was supposed to be his advocate."

I glared at Souza.

"Absurd," he said. "Wild speculation." Heather nodded in agreement but distractedly, as if performing by rote.

"The two of you are quite a pair," I said, focusing on Souza. "While she worked on Jamey, you had Antrim commit the Lavender Slashings. Those seven boys were human sacrifices, picked at random, dumped like garbage. They died so that you could set up Chancellor and Jamey as sex killers, make Chancellor's death look like a party gone bad. Every detail was planned and premeditated. The bodies were dumped in a westerly pattern that reversed itself when Chancellor was killed — to make it appear as if the chain had been broken. The slashings took place on Thursday because Chancellor had to be murdered on Thursday — the night his bodyguard was off. You even provided a garrote which would incriminate Jamey: strips cut from Heather's lavender gown, which she took pains to tell me he'd stolen. Everything was going as planned until Jamey managed to knock out Surtees and call me.

"Dr. Delaware" — Souza sneered — "you flatter yourself with too much self-importance."

"Not really," I said. "I know I was nothing but another pawn. You knew I'd been Jamey's therapist, had been told he spoke highly of me, and you weren't sure if he'd blurted out anything important that night. So you decided to co-opt me. You even used those very words — 'I want to co-opt you, Doctor' — playing with me. Because that's your view of life, a game. One big tournament with expandable players. Once I'd agreed to join your team, you made a point of emphasising that anything I learned would be confidential, ostensibly to protect Jamey but really to protect yourself."

"I simply reminded you of well-established ethical principles," said Souza. "Principles that you've violated egregiously."

"You strung me along," I continued, "until you were sure I knew nothing incriminating. Then you fired me. Funny thing is, by hiring me, you bought yourself some new trouble — Erno Radovic."

Mention of the bodyguard's name caused Dwight's eyes to widen. Cash peered down at him watchfully.

"We'll never know why Radovic decided to poke around," I said. "Maybe it was loyalty to his boss. More likely he'd overheard Jamey and Chancellor talking about Bitter Canyon, suspected it might have something to do with Chancellor's murder, and decided to learn enough to put on a squeeze of his own. He might even have known about the diary, looked for it, but couldn't find it. When you hired me, he did a background check, found out I'd been Jamey's psychotherapist, and suspected the same thing you had: that I'd been privy to secret information. So he started following me, and I led him — unwittingly — to the diary. When he read it, he realised he was on to something big and called Dwight, demanding cash and letting him know he meant business by having the payoff take place on the road to Bitter Canyon. Dwight called you, and you dispatched Antrim and Surtees to take care of business."

"That's conspiracy to commit murder," Milo told Dwight, who avoided scrutiny by covering his face with his hands. "What'd you think when you found out Radovic had been gutted, Dwight? Another bit of good luck?"

No answer.

The silence stretched like taffy. Souza snapped it.

"Sergeant," he said, putting down his martini, "it's been intriguing. Are we free to go now?"

"Go?"

"Exit. Leave. Fulfill our social obligations."

Milo concealed his incredulity behind an angry laugh.

"That's all you have to say?"

"Surely," said the attorney, "you don't expect me to take any of this seriously?"

"Not impressed, huh?"

"Hardly. You march in here with your paraphernalia and your battalion and present a loosely connected pastiche of ramblings, hypotheses, and wild speculation, the kind of case for which I could obtain a dismissal during prelims."

"I see," said Milo, and he read him his rights.

Souza listened, nodding approvingly, like a schoolmaster conducting an oral exam, remaining unruffled even after Milo had drawn his arms behind him and cuffed him. It was then that the full extent of his disturbance hit me.

I shouldn't have been surprised, because it had been simmering inside him for forty years; the pain and humiliation of living under the shadow of another man. Of losing a woman to him only to see her atrophy and die, of running like a mutt to her sister, only to be rejected again. Of yearning for full partnership and having to settle for token rewards. The constant relegation to second fiddle.

Black Jack Cadmus had understood what that kind of thing could do, and it had worried him.

"So I figure down deep he's got to hate my guts," he'd written, "and I'm wondering how to diffuse it." His solution had been cynical and self-serving: "A little charity camouflaged as gratitude could go a long way. Got to keep H. in his place but also make him feel important."

But in the end it had been Souza who'd diffused it himself, defending against his feelings by prostituting himself emotionally, deifying the man he unconsciously despised and worshipping him dutifully, maintaining the adoration even after death: Faithful Retainer Horace, with no family of his own, always available for the crises that seemed to afflict the Cadmuses like some morbid allergy to life. On twenty-four-hour call, ever ready to serve.

Reaction formation Freud had termed it: the embrace of noble deeds in order to mask festering impulses. It was a tough defence to maintain, like walking a tightrope backward. And it had become the modus operandi of Souza's adult life.

But his anger when I'd asked him about his involvement with the Cadmus family was evidence that the grout around the edges of his defences had begun to come loose. Softened by the heat of pent-up rage. Eroded by time, opportunity, and the availability of another Cadmus woman. The release of his passions had turned him into a murderer, a life taker of monstrous proportions, but like all grotesques, he'd shunned his reflection.

Now the mirror was being held before his eyes, and he'd withdrawn behind a wall of denial. A belle indifference that Marie Antoinette would have been proud of.

Milo finished reading and looked from Heather to Dwight.

"Eeny meeny miny," said Cash, reading his mind.

Before he made his choice, the door opened, and Cal Whitehead walked in, dressed in a bottle green suit with white-piped lapels and carrying a gleaming lizardskin case, its handle wrapped in clear plastic and tagged. Managing to chew gum and grin at the same time. Swinging the case onto the table, he said: "How come all the long faces?"

"Just wrapping up," said Milo. "Mr. Souza's not impressed with our case."

"Tsk-tsk," said Whitehead. "Maybe this'll help."

He donned plastic surgical gloves, pulled a tagged key out of his pocket, and inserted it into the lock of the case. "You're a very confident lady," he said to Heather, "leaving this right in your bureau drawer, tucked underneath all those nice silk undies. Right next to your diaphragm."

A turn of his wrist opened the case. The interior was thick lavender velvet. Twenty hexagonal depressions had been formed in the velvet. Occupying each one was a small crystal jar held in place by a velvet strap, containing greyish and brownish powders and coarser substances that appeared to be dried leaves and twigs. Strapped to the lid of the case were a small porcelain mortar and pestle, a porcelain dish, three metal hypodermic syringes, and a platinum cigarette lighter.

"Best-looking works I've ever seen," said Whitehead. "Very ladylike."

Heather pulled up her veil again. Stared at the evening purse. Souza looked up at the ceiling, seemingly oblivious. A log crackled in the fireplace.

"Still not impressed?" asked Whitehead with feigned hurt that turned suddenly to genuine annoyance. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a stack of photographs.

"Detective Whitehead," said Milo, but before he could complete his sentence, the sheriffs investigator had fanned the photos like a deck of cards and begun dealing. First to Souza, who ignored them, then to Heather, who took one look and let out an agonised moan, a gargling, raw noise from deep in her belly, so primal and pain-racked it verged on the unbearable.

Tearing at the pictures with palsied hands, she succeeded only in bending them. Moaning again, she lowered her head so that her brow was level with the table leg and began to dry-retch.

"What are those?" said Dwight sharply.

"You wanna see them, too?" said Whitehead.

"Cal," said Milo meaningfully.

Whitehead dismissed him with the wave of a hand. "Sure, why not?" And he tossed a handful in front of Dwight, who scooped them up, inspected them, and began to tremble violently.

I understood the reactions because I'd seen the pictures: grainy black-and-white photographs, taken surreptitiously through door cracks and behind lace-curtained windows but clear enough to do damage — Heather and Souza making love. In his office, she lying belly down on his carved desk, skirt hiked over her narrow hips, placid and bored, as he pumped, squinting, grinning, from behind. In his bedroom, on a four-poster bed, she taking him in her mouth, wide-eyed, one spidery hand compressing a meaty buttock. In the back seat of the Rolls, a two-backed beast contorting amid a disarray of hastily unfastened clothing. And so on. A graphic chronicle of adultery, repugnant yet possessing the smarmy allure of crude pornography.

His insurance policy Antrim had called the photos. A nasty collection assembled over a two-year period. Rendered feasible because he was a servant and servants were psychologically invisible. Just as his presence had been overlooked during the false notarisation of the trust fund, so had his hungry, jailyard eyes been disregarded in the heat of the rut.

Heather dry-heaved again.

Dwight stood and shook a finger at her.

"You goddamn slut!" he shouted across the table. "Goddamn lying whore!"

The epithets jerked her upright. She pulled herself shakily to her feet. Eyeswild, cheeks spotted with colour, hair coming loose on one side, fingers groping at the clutch purse. Sobbing. Breathing hard, on the verge of hyperventilation.

"Two-faced bitch," spat Dwight, shaking his fist at her.

"Easy," said Cash, with one hand on his shoulder.

"You," said Heather, sobbing, gulping air. "You… have… the nerve… to preach… to me…"

"Two-faced whore!" he roared. "This is the thanks I get. Fucking bitch."

"Who are… you to… judge?" she screamed, raising her hands, the fingers curling into talons.

He held up a snapshot. "I kill myself for you, and this is my thanks!"

"I don't… owe you… anything."

He reached across the table, picked up the decanter, and threw whiskey in her face.

She stood there drenched, shuddering, mouth working soundlessly.

"Enough," said Milo.

"Come on," said Cash, holding Dwight back. "Settle down."

"Fucking frigid whore!" screamed Dwight, flailing at her.

She wailed and pulled something out of the purse. A shiny little revolver, not much bigger than a derringer. Silver-plated, engraved. Almost toylike. Two-handing it, she aimed it at her husband.

Three .38 police specials were out in a flash, trained on her.

"Put the gun down," said Milo. "Put it down."

"You worm," she said to Dwight, still fighting for control.

"Wait a second," he said feebly, and retreated a step.

"The nerve of you… to preach to me. You worm." To no one in particular: "He's a worm. A sick worm."

The gun wavered.

"Put it down. Now," said Milo.

"Come on, Heather," said Dwight, sweating, holding one hand against his chest in a futile effort at self-protection. "Stop it. There's no need to—"

"Oh." She laughed. "Now he's scared. Now he wants to stop it. Gutless, castrated worm." To no one in particular: "He's a eunuch. And a murderer, too."

"Please," said Dwight.

"What else would you call someone who found his brother… his own brother… strangling to death playing a hanging game and strangling to death… strangling? Who saw that and didn't cut his own brother down? Who let him die like that? Strangling… what would you call that?"

"I'd call that pretty low," said Whitehead, and he put his .38 down on the table and sauntered nonchalantly between her and Dwight. Smiling, chewing.

Milo cursed under his breath. Cash kept his gun arm rigid, put his other on top of Dwight's head, and prepared to push him to the ground.

"Don't try to save him," said Heather. "I'll kill you, too."

Cash froze.

"Put down your gun," she said.

Cash shook his head. "Can't do that."

The refusal didn't seem to bother her.

"Worm," she snarled. "Gets drunk and confesses to me. 'I killed my brother, I killed my brother.' Blubbering like a baby. 'Have to make it right by taking in his son. Have to do right by Jamey.'" She raised her voice to a high-pitched scream. "Who raised the little bastard, you? Who put up with his abuse, his evil mouth? He was your penance, but I got crucified."

She steadied the gun.

"Come on, little lady." Whitehead smiled. "Guns aren't for pretty little ladies—"

"Shut up," she said, trying to peer around his bulky body. "I want the worm."

Whitehead laughed heartily.

"Now, now," he said.

"Shut up," she said, louder. Whitehead creased his forehead irritably. Forced a smile.

"Now come on, honey. All that tough talk's fine for TV, but we don't want any trouble now, do we?"

"Shut up, you idiot!"

Whitehead's face puckered with anger. He stepped forward.

"Now cut the crap, lady—"

She looked at him quizzically and shot him in the mouth. Aimed the gun at Dwight but was cut down by thunder. Bullet after bullet hit her slender body, tearing it, buffeting it. Smoky holes perforated her gown, the blue chiffon reddening wetly, then blackening as she sank.

The doors to the dining room burst open. A surge of blue. Uniforms, armed with shotguns. Horrified looks, falling faces. Milo explaining to them as he rushed over to examine Whitehead's prone form. Calling for an ambulance. The bark of static. The hum of procedure. Cash, silent, ashen, relinquishing Dwight to a pair of officers. Holstering his gun. Loosening his tie. Dwight, staring at his wife's corpse. At scarlet spatters on waxed pine panelling. A pool of blood gleaming obscenely on the table. Collapsing in a dead faint. Dragged away.

Souza had sat through it all, silent, removed. Two pairs of hands took him by the armpits and hoisted him up. He surveyed the carnage, clucked his tongue.

"Come on," said one of the cops.

"One second, young man." The imperiousness in his voice made the policeman stop.

"What?"

"Where are you taking me?"

"To jail."

"I know that." Irritably. " Which jail?"

"County."

"Excellent. Before we leave, I want you to make a phone call for me. To Mr. Christopher Hauser. Of Hauser, Simpson, and Bain. The number is on a card in my wallet. Inform him that the location of our breakfast has been changed. From the California Club to the County Jail. And tell him to bring a pad and paper. It will be a working meeting. Have you got all that?"

"Oh sure," said the cop, rolling his eyes.

"Then repeat it back to me. Just to be sure."