The Murderer's Daughter

Chapter 48

The morning after catching her first glimpse of Venom Boy as an adult, Grace set out for the Claremont district.

By seven a.m., she was sitting under a giant umbrella-shaped tree and studying the scant traffic traveling to and from Avalina Street. The tree, a species she couldn’t identify, was the largest of an old-growth copse that rimmed a patch of lawn claiming to be Monkey Island Park.

No simians in sight, no water, no island. Nothing at all but a third of an acre of grass surrounded by stout trunks and overarching branches heavy with chlorophyll.

Arriving here would be a giant letdown for a kid with visions of chimps in his head. Maybe that’s why the place was empty.

Making it perfect for Grace.

No contact lenses today; her eyes were concealed by sunglasses. She’d hazarded the blond wig, but combed it straight and free of creative waves and flips and gathered a foot of ponytail through the slip-hole of her unmarked black baseball cap. Warm morning so no jacket, just jeans and a tan cotton crewneck, athletic socks and lightweight sneakers. Everything else she needed was in her oversized bag.

She’d picked up a Daily Californian near her hotel, opened it, and pretended to care about campus life. A few people walked near the park but no one entered.

At eight forty-five a.m., Walter Sporn emerged from Avalina in a black Prius and headed north.

At nine thirty-two, Dion Larue did the same. Larue drove too fast for Grace to catch many details but in the daylight, his hair and beard flashed golden, with an almost metallic glint.

As if he’d gilded himself, a self-styled graven image.

Grace remembered a technique she’d learned about when consigning Malcolm and Sophie’s decorative objects: ormolu, a process where gold paint or leaf was applied to a baser metal like iron or bronze.

Basically, trying to make something more than what it was.

She closed her eyes and processed what she’d just seen. As Walter Sporn zipped by, he’d been frowning. Dion Larue’s handsome face had the same upward tilt of nose and jaw that she’d observed last night as he left his wife out in the dark.

Overweening arrogance and why not? No one had told him no for a very long time.

Grace readied herself for another look at the big brick house.

But give it more time, just to be sure. No reason to rush.

Twenty-two minutes later, two female pedestrians rounded the corner of Avalina and headed straight for her.

Both blond, the taller one pushing a baby stroller. As they got closer, the baby’s round, white disk of face came into view. Also fair-haired.

Grace’s wig made it an Aryan morning at Monkey Island Park.

The newcomers didn’t alter their trajectory but did stop well short of Grace, settling near the center of the lawn. The taller woman faced the stroller and began unstrapping the baby, as Grace watched, yards away, shielded by her sunglasses and her newspaper. She’d already registered a guess as to the stroller pusher’s identity and a turn of face confirmed it.

Subservient Azha, her hair a bit limp, center-parted, and held in place by a leather band that was pure hippie redux. She had on a black cotton shift cut slightly higher than the dress Grace had seen last night, this one just meeting her knees. On her feet were flat sandals. No jewelry, no watch.

In the daylight, her face was handsome, just short of pretty. But those cheekbones.

Grace visualized Dion Larue out to reshape his world, wielding one of those gauges favored by sculptors and carving away at his wife. Azha sitting immobile and mute throughout the process, wracked by exquisite agony, as the psychopath who dominated her scooped and contoured and bloodied her down to the bone.

Nice metaphor and all that but Grace stopped indulging herself, no time for fanciful bullshit.

For all she knew, the woman was one of those jellyfish who enjoyed having doors shut in their faces.

She raised her paper an inch higher, watched Azha remove a blanket from the back of the stroller and spread it on the grass. When satisfied with its smoothness, she removed the baby from the stroller, held it up to the sun and beamed.

Tiny little thing, well shy of a year, chubby legs kicking in glee. Dressed in a white onesie, thank God for no black. Lowering the baby and pressing it to her bosom, Azha folded herself carefully and settled on the blanket, crossing her legs in some sort of yoga pose.

Hugging the baby for a moment, she plopped it down next to her. The tyke bobbled and swayed and fought to remain upright, finally succumbed to gravity and began falling backward only to be saved by the flat of Azha’s hand on its back.

That level of balance suggested five, maybe six months old.

Smiling, Azha kept her hand in place, allowing the child to pretend it was sitting of its own accord. That lesson in false confidence worked: The baby laughed. Azha laughed back, said something and kissed the baby’s nose.

All this was happening too far out of earshot to make out content but the melodious quality of Azha’s voice floated across Monkey Island Park.

The baby reached for her and she allowed it to grip her finger, began rocking it gently in a new game of balance.

All the while, the shorter woman had stood by in silence.

As if realizing it, Azha turned and looked up at her and pointed to the grass.

Moving woodenly, the shorter woman sat.

She was about the same age as Azha, thicker-built and plain-faced. Her hair was tied in dual pigtails far too childish for her and her black dress appeared to be of the same light cotton as Azha’s but cut fuller, almost haphazardly, as if the tailor’s attention span had wandered by the time he’d gotten around to her.

At this distance, her features came across small and flat in a doughy face, her eyes squinty. She was positioned on the other side of the baby but paid no attention to it. Instead, she stared off into the distance. Vacantly, it seemed to Grace. Mike Leiber’s soulmate?

Second by second, her body sagged lower until she was hunched, limbs settling flaccidly. Grace continued spying as the woman’s mouth dropped open and remained that way. Azha played with the baby but her companion seemed cut off from the fun. Indeed, from all of her surroundings. Grace began to wonder if she was subnormal intellectually.

Or perhaps, like so many others attracted to cults, she was damaged goods — brain damage due to dope, some other psychoneurological insult.

Whatever the reason, she continued sitting like a lump and it went on that way for a while, neither Azha Larue nor the baby paying her any mind. Then Azha turned and took hold of the other woman’s chin delicately and guided her face so that they faced each other.

Manipulating her, the way you would a toy. The shorter woman complied as if made of soft plastic, maintaining eye contact but not responding after Azha said something to her. But when Azha handed her the baby, she accepted it and Azha lay down flat on her back and placed her left arm over her eyes.

Naptime for Mommy.

Whatever the other woman’s deficits, Azha trusted her with her child. And she did know how to hold it properly, nestling it close to her, supporting the supple neck.

The baby was at ease with her, as well. Relaxed, smiling, laughing again when the short woman chucked it under its chin.

A gesture not unlike Azha’s toward her.

Azha was dozing now, chest rising and falling rhythmically as her companion did a fine job of babysitting. The infant never wavered from good cheer; lucky kid, blessed with a good temperament.

How long would that last?

Suddenly, the shorter woman placed the baby belly-up on the grass. Again, no fuss from Model Tot, as it gazed upward. Now the woman had altered her own position and was hovering above the baby. Looking directly down at it.

Azha Larue’s chest rose and fell at a slower pace. Her companion watched her for a few seconds then returned her attention to the baby.

Waving her hands at the infant — some sort of pantomime show, or just weird movement by a weird woman — no, there was purpose to this, the baby knew it, was rapt as fingers flew.

Rapid movements taking shape. Communicating.

The baby continued to pay attention as the hands above it shaped air, pointed, circled.

Comprehending. As pre-verbal babies often did when trained in American Sign Language.