Blood Bond (8 page)

He led the way through the house toward the kitchen.

“Is she . . .”

“Making meatballs. Can I fix you ladies a drink?”

Gail was at the kitchen island rolling meatballs with her bare hands and spacing them in perfect rows on a cookie sheet. She looked up and smiled at Marva, held up her hands, the fingers coated with pinkish smears of the slimy meat mixture. “Ooh, how about a hug?”

Marva blanched, felt her stomach turn over. “No . . . and no drink for me.” She slipped into the bar stool farthest from Gail and breathed through her mouth, afraid the smell would nauseate her further.

“Suit yourself,” Bryce called, busying himself at the bar.

“Underfoot,” Gail stage-whispered, winking. Evidently she was feeling better today. “I hate it when he stays home.”

“But today—”

“Don't get me wrong, I was happy to have the company. I mean, every time I look out front—oh, it's so awful, even though Isabel got it all hosed down. How's the blue one coming?”

Gail referred to all of Marva's quilts by color. It used to bother her; after all, these were pieces that had begun to command prices in the thousands of dollars and been featured in juried exhibitions. Two had been purchased for museums' permanent collections. But all Gail saw when she looked at them—which she freely admitted—was bits of fabric.

“Pretty well,” Marva conceded. “I think I'll get it finished a day early. Considering I doubt I'll be able to sleep tonight.”

“Want an Ambien?”

“No . . .”

Bryce brought the drinks, stirred Gail's with his little finger before handing it to her. Marva smelled the tart bubbly gin in the air. Far better than the sickish sweet smell of meat.

“I'll be in my office,” Bryce said. “Long as you don't need me.”

They waited in silence until he was out of the room and on his way up the stairs. Gail rinsed her hands and wiped them on a dishrag, then sipped her drink and put it down.

“He's going to play on the computer until dinner,” she sighed. “NBA Jam—he just bought the new version.”

“Gail.”
Marva surprised herself with the force of her voice. “Joe came to see me. He wanted to know why you didn't tell him you left the house last night. He wanted to know if you came to see me, so I had to tell him.”

Too late she realized she'd referred to him by his first name. When had that happened? When had she begun thinking of him in the familiar? When he leaned across the counter to set his coffee cup down, and he'd been close enough that she could see the shadow of his beard against his starched white collar? When she watched him walk to his car, and had somehow known he would look back at her before he got in, his hand resting on the car door, the distance between them too much and not enough?

But Gail merely rolled her eyes. “Whatever. I doubt they can arrest me for that.”

Marva stared at her sister, the familiar frustration stirring inside her. So Gail was feeling better . . . this was the familiar cycle. She'd fall apart, then act like nothing was wrong. What was missing was the middle ground, the place where most people spent the bulk of their time. The place where decisions and amends and plans were made, where broken things were fixed.

Well, Gail had Marva for that, didn't she?

“I saw Aidan today,” she said tightly.

“I know. He called a little while ago. I talked to him.”

“We're worried about you.”

Gail's smile, which had floated lazily on her lips, settled firmly into place, as though it had been flash-frozen. “Don't worry about me.”

“Someone has to. This isn't a bunch of old mementos anymore. This is serious. Tom's
dead
.”

Gail put the cookie sheet of meatballs in the refrigerator and came back to sit on a stool across the island from Marva, pushing her drink around on the smooth granite.

“Aidan says it was probably some environmental nut trying to scare Bryce. And your detective was asking me about one of the ones who came to the house. A guy named Dybck.”

Hot anger roiled Marva's gut. That hot July day, while Gail was waiting for the cops and Bryce to show up, she'd called Marva, sobbing about the picketers in the street. Marva had been on the show floor, meeting with a specialty quilting frame manufacturer, and she'd had to spend half an hour trying to get Gail calmed down until the police got there. Now Gail was acting like she'd forgotten how upset she'd been about the protestors.

“That's possible, yes,” she said. “And I definitely think you guys should be taking precautions. I mean, Bryce could stop baiting them, for one.”

“He wants to show them that he won't back down.”

“Which is fine as long as he's prepared for the consequences.” Marva bit her lip in frustration; she'd gone off the course she'd planned.

“Those water people, they act like the whole valley's going to go through a biblical drought or something. They've got lobbyists and everything.”

Marva leaned forward, trying to make Gail focus on her. “Lobbyists don't
kill
people!”

“Oh, Marva.” Gail made a gesture, a rolling of the shoulders and flip of the hair, that was so reminiscent of their mother that Marva recoiled.
Don't be dramatic,
it said, the subtext of her mother's response all the times Marva pleaded for justice, after Gail had lied and said Marva was the one to break the glass or kick the dog or gouge frosting from the party cake before dinner. “It's obvious that Tom's death was an accident. Tragic, but an accident.”

“You didn't think so last night. And besides, you make it sound like he got hit by a car or—or skied into a tree,” Marva protested. “He was
pushed,
Gail. He didn't crack his skull on that wall all by himself.”

“Did
Joe
tell you that?” Gail's eyes glinted in the light from the Italian glass pendants over the island, derision in their cruel moss-green depths. Gail knew, somehow she always knew.

“No,” Marva said quietly. “I mean, we didn't talk about that. But come on, it just makes sense, doesn't it?”

“I wouldn't know. Maybe he slipped in the blood.”

“Gail—” Marva hissed, but it was an empty threat; there was nothing she could do but plead. “Three years ago, you made me open that last package. You made me go through all that tissue paper and unwrap those things—those
things
—”

An antique baby brush and comb, the handles mother-of-pearl, smoothed with use. The teeth of the comb silver tarnished to black, making it look almost like a weapon. The bristles of the brush white and soft, as though it had been made of the fur of a baby polar bear.

“Those never belonged to Jess,” Gail snapped, with a ferocity that yanked Marva out of her memory. “They were a hundred years old. Junk. Jesus, Marva.”

“But someone sent them—”

“I'm not denying that. Someone with nothing better to do. Somebody bought them at a garage sale. And maybe, just maybe, they woke up the next day and realized how ridiculous it was. What a waste of time. And they decided to let it go.”

“You can't know—”

“They
let it go,
Marva,” Gail said, standing and tossing back the rest of her drink in a single swallow. “Like I have. It was thirteen fucking years ago.”

She stalked to the hall stairs and placed her hand on the banister. “Bryce!” she yelled up the stairs. “I need another drink!”

Then she turned, hand on the newel post and one foot pointed daintily in front of the other like she was posing for
Town & Country,
and narrowed her eyes at Marva.

“You know, Marva, maybe it's time for you to let it go, too.”

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

JOE WAITED WITH A
growing sense of impatience as Odell clicked away at Tom Bergman's computer.

Elena Bergman and her sister-in-law sat in the adjoining family room watching television, visible through the open doorway, two silent, skinny women in frumpy cashmere sweaters. They were watching some home improvement show, the hostess describing a kitchen remodel with the breathless voice of a porn star. Elena seemed no more alert than she had the day before, but at least she had signed the permission to search without protest, saving them the trouble of getting a warrant.

“How long is that going to take, anyway?” Joe asked.

“As long as it takes,” Odell muttered. When he was concentrating, Joe had noticed, Odell tended to breathe through his mouth, producing a slight wheezing sound.

“Come on, at least let me watch.”

“No. Makes me nervous having folks watching me. I'll mess up.”

“No, you won't. Come on, you're the computer genius, remember?”

“Only because Fisch is too dang cheap to send anyone else to get trained.”

Joe started to reply but decided to shut up and let Odell work. Besides, commiserating over the chief's budget-cutting was a stale pleasure. He probably didn't have much choice in the matter. Fisch could be an asshole sometimes; everyone was sick of it—and that's about all there was to say.

Joe made his way around the perimeter of the room, reading the spines of books. He knew from experience that if he came too close to Odell while he was running the password-cracking program, he'd endanger the success of the exercise. Odell might not look like he was getting anywhere, leaning in inches from the monitor and hunt-and-pecking with his stubby index fingers, but as long as he was left alone the odds were good for success.

Which would be nice, since it would save sending the hard drive off to the lab for days, even weeks. Meanwhile, if Bergman had screwed Sproul over, it seemed likely he might have been screwing over other people, as well. Colleagues, investors, who knew—but unlike Sproul, other victims might be angry enough to want immediate and violent justice.

A quick study of the Bergmans' house certainly suggested ill-gotten gains. Two doors from the Englers', it featured the same soaring walls of stucco with faux gables and porticos and stretches of wrought-iron railing. But the Engler garage had six stalls, and two of them held toys—a Mercedes SLK convertible and a restored classic Lamborghini. The backyard featured a pool landscaped to look like a jungle oasis, with an outdoor kitchen nestled among a clutch of palms.

Inside, the décor was overblown Italianate. Heavy velvet draperies hung from enormous gold-leafed rods and finials. The upholstery tended toward sculpted brocade, with piles of pillows trimmed with gilded braid.

Only the office was relatively unadorned, suggesting that Sproul had kept the decorator at bay. Top-of-the-line electronics sat on a sleek European desk and cabinets. The titles on the shelves were unspectacular: a handful of the latest business tomes, a few hardback bestsellers, and rows of binders, probably from old jobs.

“Well, fu-uck me,” Odell breathed. Joe came around the desk and turned over a trash can to sit on next to Odell.

“You're in?”

“Damn straight I am, and the dang fool used
password
for his password. Idiot—wonder if he knew how to wipe his own ass.”

“So what are you—”

“Hang on to your britches, Joe,” Odell said, clicking open an email program. “I know how much you like to drive. I believe I'll see if I can get my hands on something to drink while you start sorting through this shit.”

Joe settled into the chair. It was warm from Odell's ample ass, and Joe was grateful—Elena Bergman kept her house frigid.

The novelty of reading Bergman's email quickly wore off. Much of it comprised ongoing conversations with work colleagues about what seemed like dozens of PowerPoint presentations, requesting small changes, approving others. Joe didn't bother trying to figure out the content; none of it seemed worth getting whacked over.

Odell came back holding a couple of
Road & Track
magazines, obviously figuring the man of the house wouldn't be needing them anymore. He leaned against a bookshelf, drinking Pepsi from a can and belching quietly as he turned the pages.

Bergman had helpfully arranged most of his correspondence in mailboxes named for the people who sent the email. There were nearly two dozen surnames, many with addresses identifying them as working for the same firm as Bergman.

Then Joe spotted it: nestled in between “Evers” and “Gratsch” was a folder labeled “ge.”

He opened the folder to discover eight or nine emails from Gail Engler. “Hey, I think I have something here, if you want to see,” Joe said. “You sit on the can. Unlike you, I can think
and
type.”

Odell settled himself gingerly on the can and Joe clicked the first email Gail had written to Bergman. They read together:

Wanted to thank you for taking Lainey yesterday. Sorry about the cold, I didn't realize she was sick until later. Hope Meg didn't catch it. By the way, you should wear that shirt more often. Red looks *great* on you.

“Hmm,” Joe said. “I might be mistaken, but isn't it usually the moms who arrange this playdate stuff? And how often do women compliment your clothes—unless their intentions are questionable?”

“Hell if I know,” Odell said. “Don't believe I've gotten a heck of a lot a compliments on this.” He poked a thumb at his wrinkled polyester dress shirt.

“Maybe the ladies are intimidated into silence.”

Odell snorted. “Shee-it.”

Joe clicked the next message from Gail.

A drink sounds like fun—I won't be around Wednesday though. I have book club. Thursday?

“Aha,” Joe said. He clicked through the next few messages; Bergman and Gail finding a time to meet. Then:

It was *very* nice but let's not get ahead of ourselves. I'm pretty busy this week—I'll give you a call when my calendar gets clear.

“Wish she'd copied the text of his emails to her,” Joe said.

“Yeah. Sounds like they did the nasty.” Odell pointed at the screen. “Try the ‘Sent' folder.”

“Okay, but let me just see this last one.”

Sorry I didn't have time to call you back, things are crazy here! Just a heads up, Bryce and I are having some people over on Sunday, very casual, we *still* owe you from the Fourth of July, I already confirmed with Elena, so I'll see you there.

“Man, I bet he
hated
that,” Odell said. “She won't screw him again but she'll have him in for tea. Ta-ta.”

Joe clicked on the Sent folder and sorted by recipient. There were a similar number of messages from Bergman to Gail. He started at the top:

Gail I am looking forward to seeing you but wish the circumstances are different. You know I think last week was something special. I think there was a real “connection.” I hope we can talk about this. Not Sunday, ha ha, but soon.

“Well, now.” Joe clicked the one before. “Bet this is paydirt.”

“Gentlemen, start your engines,” Odell murmured.

Gail I hope you feel like I do that last night was a very special evening. I think there is something real between us don't you, more than just sex even though that was amazing!!! Also you are incredibly hot and beautiful which I told you already but I don't think I can say it to much! Please call me on my cell phone or email me back. I want to see you again SOON!!!

Odell whistled. “And
that's
your money shot.”

“September fourteenth,” Joe said, noting the date of the email. “It looks like our friend got lucky on the thirteenth. A Thursday. Almost two weeks ago.”

“Lucky thirteen,” Odell said. “Go back and see what else he has to say.”

The rest of the messages were like Gail's, short notes arranging a date for a drink. After reading them, Joe pushed away from the desk and got up.

“Here, you can have the chair,” he said. “Print those, will you? I need to have another conversation with Mrs. Engler.”

“THANKS FOR
canceling your appointment,” Joe said. He could hear voices up the stairs, the kids and their nanny. Gail sat across from him in the same room where he first saw the guests the night of the murder, on the same cream-colored couch.

Gail shrugged. “It's all right. I managed to reschedule for later.”

She was wearing what looked like it was supposed to pass for athletic wear, but her silver-accented black outfit was a little too sleek and expensive-looking for the gym. The jacket was unzipped just far enough to expose a low-cut white tank top, and Joe allowed himself a second to consider the massage appointment she was missing.

Just for a second, though. The more he saw of Gail Engler, the more he was convinced she enjoyed keeping him guessing, offering him only that slightly smirking placidity. He found it chilling.

“Something's come up,” he said, opening a folder and taking out the printouts of the last few email messages. Wordlessly he passed them to Gail, who read them quickly, shuffling through the pages and then squaring up the stack and placing it on her lap.

“So,” she said, her expression unchanged. “I slept with Tom. Now you know.”

“I'm wondering why you didn't mention this before.”

“I was a little distracted that night. People don't die at my house every day.”

Joe let that pass. “When we spoke at the station—that might have been a fine opportunity to share this information.”

Gail shrugged. She had a pretty way of doing it, raising only her right shoulder an inch and dipping her chin. “I don't know why it matters.” She folded her hands on top of the stack of papers and, never taking her eyes off his, uncrossed and recrossed her legs. Warmth crept up the back of Joe's neck. “I've slept with quite a few men. It's not a big thing. My husband is very busy and very inattentive, and I get bored easily. To tell you the truth, Tom wasn't very memorable. I was in the process of forgetting all about our evening together.”

“Who else knew about your affair?”

Joe thought he saw a faint flicker in her gaze, but Gail said quietly, “No one. Unless he was stupid enough to keep these emails where someone could read them.”

“I don't think you need to worry. He used password-protect.”

“Lucky me, then.”

“Though this does raise some questions.”

“I don't see why. Unless you think I killed Tom. But then you'd have to figure out both why I'd do it, and how I would have dumped blood all over him. We don't really keep blood around the house.”

Joe found his irritation growing at her tone, which was almost mocking. “You're right. I don't understand why you'd risk everything you have to spend time with men you don't seem to like very much. For what it's worth, I can't imagine why you'd kill them, either.”

“And why is that? Don't you think I have it in me?”

“I don't know what it takes to get a reaction out of you, Mrs. Engler. But if sex and death don't do it, I'd be curious to know what does.”

Gail regarded him impassively for a moment, and then she flashed him a smile that was pure delight. “You're amusing,” she said. “If circumstances were different . . .”

Joe felt the heat spread to his face, and a stirring of arousal in his gut. Before he could think of anything to say, Gail reached forward and put her hand on his knee.

“You know, I've thought about what you said yesterday, and I think you were on to something. With the ecotage.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ecotage? Eco-sabotage?”

“Ah.”

Gail stood up and walked to a small ebony table. She picked up a sealed manila envelope and turned to him expectantly.

“Just something I printed out,” she said. “I wouldn't dream of doing your job for you, but I thought it might be helpful if you had a copy of
EUI
's client list. I thought you could, you know, maybe cross-reference it with vandalism reports or something. And if you want to speak to my husband again, you might find it useful to know that he spends most of his afternoons between three and five o'clock down at Kane's.”

Joe took the envelope. Gail stood smirking, arms folded under her breasts, as he left.

In the car he tossed the envelope on the passenger seat and started driving. Picked up his phone and dialed.

“Amaris,” he said when she picked up. “I'm coming over.”

Silence for a moment. Then: “I don't know, Joe. I'm really busy.”

Doubtful: SpinTalkGo, the online community she'd been building with a couple of her trust fund friends, had yet to show a dime in profit. Joe suspected that their sense of urgency was manufactured.

“It's lunchtime. Take a break.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“We're not going to eat.”

AMARIS MET
him at the door of her condo wearing one of his oxford button-down shirts—
so that's where that went,
he thought—a stack of silver bangles, and smudges of yesterday's makeup under her eyes.

“I was on a roll,” she accused. “You interrupted the flow.”

Joe took a hank of her hair in his hand and tugged hard, forcing her against him.

“I didn't shower,” she whispered, but he could feel her heartbeat quicken under her shirt.

“Maybe I like you that way,” he said, but he suddenly realized that he wasn't really sure what he was doing here. From the moment Gail Engler had put her hand on his knee, he knew he'd needed
something,
and Amaris had often served as a convenient way to blow off steam. Actually, they'd been that for each other, so Joe never felt as though he was taking advantage of her.

Until now.

“Why do you think I didn't shower,
yutzi
?”