Blood Bond (16 page)

“Not very clearly. I mean I knew they were really worried about Gail and I sort of thought it was Gail who was in the ambulance. You know? Like maybe something had happened to her? I wasn't even thinking, you know, alcohol poisoning. I thought she fell or something, I don't know. And Aidan was all, you want to help her, don't you? And I mean shit, I was still a
pledge,
I had just spent a whole week of my life being programmed to do anything they wanted us to do, what was I going to say? It almost seemed like this was one more test. Aidan said I had to sober up and listen to him and he explained that it was Jess who was hurt and that I should say that I had been with her all evening and that all I had done was give her alcohol.”

The anger had crept back into her voice as she related the last part. “He was so damn smart,” she said softly, her voice edged with fury. “ ‘Tell them you didn't let her go anywhere without you.' He was really clear about that; he told me to make them understand that we were together all night. Almost like he was protecting me, you know? The way he said it—like if I didn't follow the script they would think I'd let her wander off and hurt herself. When what he was really setting me up for—”

“He had you convince them that you were the one making Jess drink.”

“Yes.” Deanne nodded her head slowly. “Yes.”

“And when the real story came out—”

“There
was
no real story,” Deanne said sharply. “Not in any way that mattered. By the time I sobered up the university lawyers were all there. They got there so fast—and they separated all of us, of course, and I didn't even know why they kept asking me the same things over and over again, and I never knew that Jess was dead. I had no idea . . . no idea at all. And next thing I knew my parents were there and I was sick as a dog and they were having these meetings and my dad came out looking as white as a ghost, honest, as bad as the day he died, and Mom and Dad thought—they thought—”

For the first time Jess's composure cracked and a sob escaped her throat. Joe knew: her parents thought she had done the things she'd confessed to.

“Mom was the one who told me Jess was dead,” Deanne said, wiping tears away from her eyes.

Joe reached for a Kleenex box on an end table and offered it to Deanne. She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose delicately, going through several tissues and balling them up.

“Mom worked part-time at an interior design studio back then. She was taking some classes, she wanted to get certified. Well, she quit all that, and stayed around the house with me. Trying to make sure I was okay, I guess. I—it didn't really help. I had a problem with . . . I got an eating disorder. I got down to ninety pounds.”

“Did you have any contact with Gail?”

Deanne laughed, a harsh, percussive sound. “Her sister wrote me a letter. I didn't keep it—I think I tore it into about a thousand pieces. Wanted to know if she could call me, if I wanted to talk. I mean, can you believe it?”

Actually, Joe could. He could imagine Marva's need to change the terrible balance of the outcome, even as Gail went blithely on with her life.

“Did you respond?”

“No. I thought about telling her to burn in hell, but I knew it wasn't really her fault. I don't know, maybe I'd do the same thing if one of my sisters . . . but my sisters were never like Gail.”

That was not hard to believe. “Did you ever make contact in any way . . . mark the anniversary of the incident, for instance?” Joe wasn't sure what exactly he was asking. Conrad Bartelak had confessed on his mother's behalf, so Deanne wasn't the one who sent the packages.

“Want to know what I do every September first, Detective?” An edge, flashing like a sharpened blade, sluiced into Deanne's voice. “I get drunk. That took me a while, to start that little tradition, maybe five years after the accident. It was after I got married. I'm not proud of it, but it sure beats being sober enough to think about it all day, you know, replay it in my head over and over.”

“I'm sure . . . it must be very difficult.”

“Yeah? Well, Keith never understood the way I got at that time of year. I'd try to tell him and he just— Sometimes I think men don't have it in them, you know, to take on whatever you're going through. Like they only have enough energy for their own problems and no more. I mean no offense, but I've never known a man who really meant it when he said he wanted to be there for you.”

This struck Joe with surprising force; made him think of Amaris, her hidden wistfulness. Amaris, carrying around her family's judgment, her naïve desire to please, mixed with the shame of her own perceptions of her failure. Had he been callous, like Deanne was implying? Had he offered to share and then stepped away from the burden?

But what could he do, other than listen? Other than try to be a place for Amaris to bring her pain, to let her try to smash it to pieces on the rocks of their fevered coupling?

“It's hard,” he said, fumbling for the right words. “To be what another person needs.” Knew when he said it that the words were not the right ones.

A flash of disappointment and then Deanne's features relaxed into a wistful smile. “I guess I know about that. I've been divorced for almost two years now.”

“So. You were saying, on the anniversary—”

“I make sure Keith has Monica for a few days and I get drunk in front of the television. And then two days later, the day Jess actually died, I do it again. Afterward, I feel like shit, but I guess that's just part of my little tradition.”

“This year. You were here?”

“Yes, my neighbor took Monica this time because Keith had a convention in Atlanta. Just for a few days.”

“And you stayed home.”

“Yes. Just did what I needed to do and made sure I was myself again when I picked her up. You know what?” She gave Joe a smile so bitter it actually felt like a blow. “I used to wish it had been me instead. That I had been the one who died. Because the whole thing with Jess, it messed with me. I don't know if I'll ever be the same, not really. But now I have Monica. And so I do whatever it takes to make sure the past doesn't win. I mean it—I won't let the past beat me.”

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

JOE WOKE EARLY SATURDAY
morning in his room on the second floor of a Roadway Inn, and couldn't get back to sleep. He had an appointment with a Lieutenant Glazer out at the Lodi police headquarters at eight, but it was only minutes from his motel. He lay in the uncomfortable bed listening to the rain on the roof. Not an unpleasant sound, really.

He'd left Deanne Oberlin's house around nine o'clock, so exhausted he barely managed to get through a beer and a burger at the restaurant across the street from the motel before dragging himself back to his room. His clothes were draped over the desk chair, the cotton
shalwar
s he favored for sleeping were still folded in his overnight bag, and he'd slept in his boxers. Idly Joe wondered if he was starting to slide into the sort of midlife indifference that would lead to not just sartorial sloppiness but a paunch, sloped shoulders, poor skin tone—all the symptoms of a man who'd stopped caring.

Except that wasn't exactly Joe's problem. He cared a great deal.

In the six days since he'd first gone to the Englers' home, he hadn't managed to work out once, not even the circuit of
jing
drills that maintained his short power, the repetition of stances and thrusts that were like second nature after all these years. He'd paid almost no attention to what he ate, and was running out of pressed shirts.

And he'd forgotten to call Amaris. Not good. He snapped on the light beside the bed and reached for his phone, which he'd turned off when he got to Deanne's. Turned it back on—four messages, two from his parents' number and two from Amaris.

Too early to call now. His mother would be up in an hour, making the first tea of the day and watching the gossipy Pakistani talk show that she'd recorded the night before. Maybe he'd try her a little later. Omar might be awake; Madiha and Taj were usually up early with their chattering and bright energy, and on the weekends his brother tried to give Sakeena a break and watch the kids so she could sleep in. But just in case his niece and nephew were still in bed, he didn't want to take a chance.

Amaris generally slept until at least ten no matter what day of the week it was. She more than made up for her late starts with the hours in front of the computer at night, but there was no point in trying to reach her now.

Joe felt the accumulation of the travel, the sitting on planes and in cars, the weariness radiating out from his gut through his limbs. It would feel good to do the
chan si jing,
concentrating his energy on the short punching power thrusts while moving through the stances, but the
duo bu
—the stomping—would wake whoever was sleeping in the room below. Instead, Joe showered, taking extra time under the hot water, letting it pummel the back of his neck, then turning and raising his face to it. He shaved carefully and put his clothes on again; he'd brought only a change of underwear and a fresh shirt.

By seven thirty he was ready, his laundry packed into the overnight bag. At least he'd be able to get some decent coffee on the way over.

AS JOE
talked to the receptionist, Lieutenant Glazer himself came striding down the hall, hand extended in front of him. In his fifties, with a military-style buzz cut, Glazer had a crushing handshake. He was clearly a man who spent a good deal of time in the weight room. His biceps strained against his shirt and his neck muscles stood out in relief.

“Thanks for seeing me,” Joe said, following Glazer down the hall to his office, a small, windowless affair faintly scented with some fruity chemical air freshener.

“No problem, chief. Had a slow afternoon yesterday around here—gave me plenty of time to check around for you. I think you'll be interested in what I found out about your young lady.”

Joe took the chair across the desk from Glazer, who spun his monitor so Joe could see. With a few keystrokes he brought up Deanne Mentis's record.

“We've looked at her several times for assault,” Glazer said. “Once a little over two years ago, right before she separated from her husband. Twice in the year before that. Just one arrest, though. And the charges were dropped.”

Joe whistled through her teeth.

“All involving her ex?”

“Three of them were. One was a woman who she claimed he was seeing while they were still married.”

Joe let that sit for a moment. Thought about the woman he'd interviewed last night, the way Deanne Mentis chased her daughter, shrieking with laughter. The way she had hugged her arms tightly around herself when she described the ordeal at the sorority.

Then he remembered the subtle changes when she talked about what Aidan and Gail and Marva had done, the way her soft, uncertain words gave way to anger, how she pushed the pillow away from herself, her hands making shaking fists. Her expression had hardened, her jaw set and her eyes steely.

“Can you give me some details?” Joe asked.

Glazer clicked a few times. “The first time we went out, a neighbor called it in, heard screaming. They were living in a house over in an older part of town and the daughter was still just a baby. At first the husband denied anything was wrong but it says here he had an injury that required stitches. To the face. He finally admitted that Deanne hit him with a wrench. Shit, that's go to hurt. Also it says that Deanne claimed it was self-defense.”

He looked up and met Joe's gaze. “Situation like that, we don't tend to question. Neither one wants to press charges, guy busted up, we usually assume it's a one-time thing; most batterers aren't going to pick a woman who gives it back to him. He'll generally either leave or find another way to fight.”

“But that wasn't the case here?”

“Well, put it this way, she showed up at his job a few weeks later. Left the baby with her mother. He was working late, he managed an H&R Block office and it was getting into tax season. She apparently came in the door screaming and when he grabbed her arm and tried to pull her into his office she picked up a tape dispenser and nailed him with it. Mild concussion.”

“Under the influence?”

“Yes, almost three times the legal limit but she walked from their house—it was less than a mile—and so there weren't any alcohol charges.”

“Assault?”

“Again, by the time we arrived on the scene they'd both calmed down some. Oberlin didn't want to bring charges.”

Joe sighed.
So much for the one-time-thing theory,
he thought. “The third time?” he asked with trepidation.

“That was the girlfriend. Madison Kearny. Deanne showed up at her apartment and started pounding on the door and yelling. Some pretty foul language, apparently. But the girl called the police before Deanne had a chance to do anything. Who knows what would have happened—maybe she would have taken her out with a blow dryer or a saucepan.”

Joe managed a smile at Glazer's attempt at humor. “All those deadly objects sitting around the house,” he said. “People should be more careful.”

“Yeah, no kidding. Well, the last time, Oberlin claimed he was afraid for the daughter's safety and asked for a restraining order.”

“What did Deanne do?”

“Says here she threatened him with a knife. Kitchen knife of some sort. She denied it, but with the prior complaints they took the kid out for a little while, a few nights with DSS and then with Oberlin's parents for a couple of weeks.”

“But she has custody now?”

“Split, but she gets sixty percent. It happens that way more than you think; a guy figures out how difficult it is to swing custody and a job, and ends up settling for a lot less than he asked for.”

“Guess he wasn't that afraid for his daughter after all.”

Glazer shrugged. “Who knows. Maybe he never believed the girl was in any actual danger, was just trying to get back at his wife. Hell, what would you do, your wife makes a regular thing out of whaling on you?”

“I'm not married,” Joe said, aware that he hadn't answered the lieutenant's question.

Glazer snorted. “Good man,” he said. “Trust me, the way to go is wait until a woman's got her starter marriage under her belt. It makes them a lot more grateful.”

Joe raised an eyebrow, flicked a gaze across the desk, found the picture he was looking for—Glazer and a heavily made-up woman in her forties wearing a tight sweater suited to a woman half her age.

Glazer caught him looking; laughed. “Yeah, that's Barb. She got all her frustrations out on her ex. I learned a few things the first time around, too. Now it's good. Not that either of us wants to get hitched again. It's just too much work, you know?”

“She's never attacked you, I take it.”

“Nah. I'm a lover, not a fighter.”

Joe let that pass without comment. “Any chance we can find out where Deanne was last weekend?”

“Already on it, buddy,” Glazer said. “I'll check with the neighbors and so on. Should have something to you end of Monday.”

“I appreciate it,” Joe said, standing. Anticipating Glazer's grip this time, he threw a little extra muscle into his own handshake. The result was a gesture that made him think of arm wrestling in the third grade, but Glazer gave him a big smile.

“I'd like to get out to San Fran one of these days,” he said. “Two hours away, go figure, we never make the trip. Barb, she likes L.A. La-la land.”

Joe could imagine—no doubt took the two-day tour, homes of the stars, Hollywood walk, drive up Mulholland.

“Well, I can't promise much excitement out in the suburbs,” Joe said, feigning regret. “But I hope you'll look us up.”

“That be great.” Glazer walked him down the hall. As they parted in the lobby, he called after Joe, “Don't be a stranger, now!”

MARVA MADE
the drive back from her sister's house on autopilot. Her mother had arrived an hour before, wrapped in layers of expensive wool, pale to the point of translucence. She'd barely acknowledged Bryce or Marva, instead heading straight for the children, dismissing Isabel with an impatient wave and pulling Lainey and Marshall to her. They squirmed in her tight embrace.

Marva spent a few minutes trying to reason with her mother—what does a four-year-old understand of death, much less a two-year-old?—but Sharon ignored her and followed the children to the playroom, picking up and discarding toys in her efforts to get their attention. Eventually Marva left her to the pursuit; maybe it would keep Sharon's mind occupied, away from the grief that waited for her to let her guard down.

Now at least Marva had time to get home and shower. She needed to decide whether to spend another night at her sister's house, but she couldn't make that decision until she'd had a chance to stand in her own living room, draw the shades on her own windows, drink a glass of water from her own tap. Only then could she could gauge whether she could stand to be alone yet.

One of the faux-stone urns on her porch had been knocked over, and dirt and broken geraniums spilled out. Next to it was a package, small enough to hold books, but as Marva drew closer she saw that the label was handmade, printed on ordinary paper and cut into a rectangle and applied with packing tape. No return address.

Dread hit her blindside and took her breath. Marva picked up the package—lighter than books—and immediately dropped it. She stared at it on the concrete porch, feeling her pulse accelerate, her fingers shaking, and she picked it up again, brushing off specks of potting soil. She slipped a nail under the crease of the brown paper wrapper and ripped, tearing off the paper, pulling out a box made of thin cardboard, the sort used by second-rate department stores. Yanked off the lid and saw red fabric and black lace and picked it up, let the tissue fall, shook out the thing and it was panties, shiny red panties with lace around the edge and “San Diego State” in block letters across the back, in a size Marva had never been small enough to wear.

She held the thing for a moment, and she thought:
the things they put words on these days
and
where could you even buy something like this
and
Gail would have loved this
—

Yes, even that final thought: she pictured Gail trying on the panties with that mischievous grin, wearing them to the gym under her yoga pants, a San Diego State girl until the end.

Marva dropped the scrap of fabric to the ground where it lay among the discarded wrapping. She put her key in the lock and went inside and stood in the small foyer, looking around her condo. Nothing was different; the long table under the living room window held her sewing machine and stacks of fabric patches cut for the new quilt; a few blocks were arranged exactly as she had left them on the felt stretched across the wall to make a design area. The clean dishes from two days ago were stacked neatly in the stainless steel rack. A pair of houseplants sat in the sink where she'd left them to drain after a good watering.

Marva set her purse down carefully on the coffee table and sat on the couch. Didn't slouch. Didn't sink back among the pillows. Sat erect and trembling, and after a while, she didn't know how long, she carefully slipped off her shoes and rubbed her feet. They were cold, so cold.

When the phone rang she jerked back, stunned, her pulse hitching again, and she answered before the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Marva, it's Aidan.”

“Oh—” The sound that came from her throat was raw.

“I just got home. I was out walking. I walked for hours, and—but there was a package here when I got back. It was, it was—”

“Panties,” Marva said. “Now they've sent panties.”