“You have someone good?” Daniel asked.
“Yeah, I do. Buzz Quigley, and he’s here in the building. I’ll bring him back with his machine, set him up in the interview room. I’ll need a few minutes, though, to write out some questions he needs to ask.”
Cam called after him. “We’ll get Doc the coffee, talk to him a bit.”
“Have at it,” Arturo called back. “The recording equipment’s still running.”
Cam and Daniel walked in together, said hello to Doc as if nothing unusual was happening. Cam placed a cardboard cup of black coffee in front of Doc. “You like it black, right?”
“Yes, sure.” He looked exhausted. He took a wary sip, nodded to himself, and drank more. He paused, seemed to collect himself, and drank again.
Daniel said, “Here at the Santa Monica Police Department, you get to drink Peet’s, not the usual bitter burned stuff so popular in cop shops. Enjoy.”
“Thank you.” Doc looked back and forth between them. “I’m going to take a lie detector test. Of course you already know that. You were standing on the other side of that mirror, watching and listening, right? That’s the way you do things.”
“Right,” Cam said, and pulled out a chair and sat down. “Doc, I know this is a really tough time for you, and I’m sorry we have to ask you these questions. But there’s still a killer out there, and you did withhold information from us, so now we have to follow up. You understand?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Tell me, Doc, how well do you know Gloria Swanson?”
A small smile bloomed, briefly, then fell off his face. “Deborah knew her, thought she was a kick, and smart, too, as focused as Deborah is—was. I mean, she kept that name of hers. She was actually going to try to trade on it.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Daniel said.
Doc drank more coffee. “Sure, I guess. Anyway, she’s a nice girl. I’m sure she competed with Deborah on lots of parts. I myself don’t know her that well at all.”
“Have you seen the news that she barely escaped being the seventh murder victim?”
He gaped at them. “Gloria? When? Is she all right?”
“Last night,” Cam said. “And yes, she is.”
“So she escaped? Good for her.”
“You didn’t know?” Daniel asked.
“No, I haven’t been watching much news lately. Since Deborah died, I’ve been on leave from the hospital, at home in my old place, mostly. I haven’t paid much attention. I spoke to Deborah’s parents this morning, Agent Wittier, about her body being released on Monday. They’re making funeral arrangements.” He shook his head. “Isn’t it odd how your world can come to a dead stop and the world outside keeps on going around you? I’m glad Gloria’s okay.”
Cam said, “Do you know where Gloria lives?”
Doc frowned, stared down into the cup. “I remember Deborah saying she lived close by, because her parents wanted her to be safe.” He laughed, shook his head. “A good area, a safe area. Well, that didn’t work. Who saved her?”
Cam said, “She saved herself. She had a gun. Did Deborah like her?”
“Yes, I guess so. I only met her a couple of times. We didn’t talk about all that much. She wasn’t really a part of our lives, you know? I’d say she and Deborah were like so many of the other young women out here trying to scratch their way into the movies or TV.”
“What would ‘scratch their way’ mean exactly?” Cam asked.
Doc shrugged. “Some of them would probably run their own mothers down to succeed in the business. Was she different? Sorry, I really don’t know.”
He broke off, became statue still.
“Is that how you thought about Deborah, Doc?” Daniel was lightly tapping his fingers on the table. “When all was said and done, did you believe Deborah was so determined to make it big she’d hurt anyone she believed was an obstacle? Even you?”
“Of course not! Deborah wanted to succeed badly, sure. And she wasn’t perfect, I mean, no one is, right? But”—he broke off, tears pooling in his eyes. He swallowed—“for me she glowed. She had this special light that shined on everyone she loved, including me.”
Arturo walked into the room with a guy built like a linebacker, massive chest, maybe six five. The lie detector machine looked like a toy in his big hand.
“Everyone, this is Buzz Quigley, our examiner. Buzz, this is Dr. Mark Richards.”
Buzz greeted everyone, found an electric outlet for his machine and started unpacking his kit. He asked all of them to witness Doc agreeing to taking the test voluntarily, without any undue pressure, and then he told everyone to leave the room, to watch and listen through the two-way mirror. When they next got a view of the room, Buzz had pulled out some sheets of paper, no doubt including the questions Arturo had prepared for him. As he hooked up the electrodes, Buzz began to tell Doc how everything would work, his voice matter-of-fact.
When Quigley was finished, he looked across the table and said in a calm deep voice, “Is your name Maxwell Mark Richards?”
“Yes.”
“Are you thirty-three years old?”
“I am.”
“Are you a pediatric surgeon at Children’s Hospital here in Santa Monica?”
“Yes, I am, but still a fellow.”
“You’ve been in the program for six years?”
“No, this is my fourth year.”
Cam watched the needle, it was steady.
Buzz asked him a series of obvious questions, interspersing truth with fiction, and the needle remained steady. Then he said in the same calm voice, “Did you kill Deborah Connelly?”
Doc reared back in his chair and the needle went crazy for a moment. Slowly, it returned to baseline.
“Did you kill Deborah Connelly?” Buzz asked again.
“No, I did not.” No movement at all.
Cam shot a look at Daniel and Arturo. He was telling the truth.
“Do you know who killed her?”
“No, I do not.”
“Were you out walking the night Deborah Connelly was murdered?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Were you walking on the beach near Santa Monica Pier?”
“Yes, I was.” The needle spiked.
Doc couldn’t see the spiking needle, but he cleared his throat. “I think I wanted to go down to the beach and sit and think, but looking back, I don’t think I made it all the way down there. Sorry, since Deborah’s death, I can’t seem to think clearly.”
The needle returned to baseline.
“Do you know Theodore Markham?”
“I’ve met him, but no, I don’t know him.”
The needle jumped, then fell back.
“Do you know why Markham believes you killed Deborah?”
“No, certainly not.” The needle jumped.
A lie, but why?
Buzz said, “Did you sleep with any of Deborah’s actress friends?”
“No. They did not interest me at all. I was faithful to Deborah.”
Needle steady.
“Did you admire Deborah’s actress friends?”
“Yes, some of them, but most of them—no.” Steady, steady. The truth.
“Have you ever killed anyone, Doctor Richards?”
“Damn it, no!” The machine went haywire. Doc ripped off the tethers, roared to his feet, planted his palms on the desk. “Yes, yes, I have—I’m a surgeon, of course I’ve lost patients, of course I was responsible, they died under my care—of course I’ve killed people.”
Buzz looked back at them through the mirror and nodded for them to come back into the room. The test was over.
When they filed back in, Doc’s face was leached of color. He was huddled in on himself, the picture of misery. “Listen, I can’t talk about this anymore, it’s—it’s too hard. I want to go home.”
They cut him loose. They had no grounds to hold him.
57
* * *
SAVICH HOUSE
GEORGETOWN
<
br /> FRIDAY EVENING
Savich looked down at the tablet screen. Things didn’t look good for Sherlock. “I hate to say this, sweetheart, but I came a lot closer to beating Captain Isbad. It pains me to say you’re folding like a two-dollar suitcase. Aren’t you even going to put up a decent fight?”
Sherlock looked up, grinned. “Captain Isbad is sly, Dillon, and ruthless. You can’t believe a word he says.”
“A two-dollar suitcase,” Sean repeated. “Okay, I think I get it. Don’t fold, Mama. What does ruthless mean?”
“It means you’ll do almost anything to win,” Sherlock said. “Sean, you’re going to knock me over the head with that branch hanging down over the water up ahead, aren’t you? Keep an eye on me, boyo, I can still make a comeback.”
The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band sang out Fishin’ in the Dark. Savich punched his cell. “Savich here.”
He heard Veronica’s voice, controlled, but she couldn’t hide the worry. “Dillon, I was right about Venus. She complained of chest pain, said she felt awful, but she refused to go to the hospital. She asked Dr. Pruitt to come over, and I left her with him. She’s insisted on summoning the whole family, including Rob and Marsia. And she asked me to call her estate lawyer, Mr. Gilbert Sullivan, have him come over to the house, too. And you and Sherlock. Dillon, I think she’s worried she’s dying and that’s why she wants everyone here.”
“Sherlock and I will be over as soon as we can.” Savich punched off his cell, pulled Sean against him, hugged him, kissed him. “Captain Isbad will have to wait to beat your mama another night, although from the looks of it, you’ve already got her on the ropes. We have to go out.”
Sean pulled back in his father’s arms, studied his face. “Papa, be careful, okay? And take good care of Mama?”
“It’s not like that, Sean, but yes, we’ll take care of each other. Are you ready, Sherlock?”
“Yes, it’s time. I’ll tell Gabriella we’re leaving.”
* * *
Isabel ushered them into the mansion. “The family is upstairs, in the sitting area across the hall from Ms. Venus’s bedroom door, arguing, of course, now that Rob and his girlfriend have arrived.”
No surprise in that. Savich and Sherlock followed Isabel up the wide staircase. Isabel said over her shoulder, “Mr. Sullivan has arrived as well. Ms. Venus told me to seat him in the living room. She wants to speak to you first, Dillon.”
They found Guthrie, Alexander and Rob grouped together across from Venus’s bedroom, Marsia off to the side on a settee, speaking in voices too low to hear until Guthrie said out loud, “Enough is enough. I want to see my mother.” He stepped toward the closed bedroom door only to draw up when one of Venus’s guards barred his way.
Isabel stepped in, calling out, “Ms. Venus made it clear she doesn’t want anyone with her, Mr. Rasmussen, except her doctor and Agent Savich.”
Guthrie whirled around to frown at Savich.
Veronica said, “Dillon, come quickly, Dr. Pruitt said he was alarmed at how anxious she is to see you, and to show you in immediately. Let me tell Venus you’re here.”
“No, Veronica, please stay here with the family.” He looked at each face, then at Rob and Marsia Gay, who gave him a tired smile. He nodded to Sherlock.
“Dr. Pruitt insists Grandmother wants to speak to you, but that’s absurd. I don’t even know why you’re here.” Savich turned as Alexander took a step toward him. “What could she possibly have to say to you that she can’t say to us? What is this about? You’re not even a blood relation, much as you may wish to be—instead of a loser cop.”
Savich smiled, knowing it would only infuriate Alexander more. Sherlock said from behind Alexander, “Don’t tell Dillon’s mother that, Alexander, she might shoot you.”
“Well, that would be par for the course, wouldn’t it? Guns and violence, that’s what you’re both about, like my little brother here.”
Savich was pleased Rob kept his cool. “We’re all here because Grandmother asked us to be, Alexander. I have as much right to be here as you do, as much as you may hate that fact.”
“That’s enough, both of you.” Guthrie laid his hand on Alexander’s shoulder. He took one last look at the guard, at Savich. “We will do as Mother wants. Come along now, we’ll go downstairs.”
Alexander shook off his father’s hand. “And what, Dad? Have a drink?”
Guthrie shook his head, gave his eldest son a long look, and walked away.
Savich didn’t give anyone time to say anything else, though he heard Rob call out his name. He nodded to Sherlock and slipped into Venus’s bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him. As he flipped the lock, he heard Glynis’s voice, high and out of breath from running up the stairs, then her mother, Hildi’s, voice behind her, panting a bit, begging her to slow down.
He heard Glynis say, “So the gang’s all here, I see. And handsome Rob as well. And the girlfriend. What was your name again?” She looked at Marsia but continued before she could speak, “Why all the excitement? Did one of you try to murder Grandmother again?”
Savich heard a babble of indignant, angry voices, Sherlock’s calm voice sounding clearly over the lot of them. He turned to see Venus sitting up in bed, looking too pale. Dr. Pruitt was standing near the windows, speaking on his cell phone with someone at the hospital. He looked up, slowly nodded to Savich, and continued his conversation.
“Venus, everyone’s here. Sherlock’s in charge of crowd control outside your bedroom. How are you?”
Venus waved her hand. “I could hear them all arguing from in here. Of course, Alexander, primarily, accusing Rob of coming back only to murder me and Ms. Gay of being Rob’s accomplice, though how that would work, I don’t have the faintest idea.
“It always amazes me that Alexander never runs out of vitriol.” She sighed. “Of course Alexander would be very happy if you simply disappeared, Dillon.” She gave him a grin. “Sherlock is right, your mother would shoot him. I remember Buck, your daddy, what a man he was. Always ready for a joke, yet he could turn on a dime, and you’d see the FBI agent, flat eyes, all cop. I do miss him.” She paused a moment, as if garnering her strength. “Come sit by me, Dillon. There’s a powerful brew of emotions on the other side of that door. Volatile. All of them are afraid I’m about to pass to the hereafter, worried about what I’ve left them, hoping they won’t be accused of trying to kill me. I do hope Sherlock will keep them apart.”
Savich eased down on the bed next to her, took her hand. Her hands revealed her age, thick veins riding high beneath her parchment skin. But her nails were lovely, painted a soft pink. “You’ve never been a pessimist, Venus, so don’t start now. They’re all more worried about you than how much money you’ve left them. They all love you. Regardless of Alexander’s antics, he loves you, too.”
“Sometimes I wonder, Dillon. I wonder.”
“Don’t wonder. It’s the truth, Venus. You must have heard Guthrie saying he was going downstairs, probably to escape the unpleasantness with a visit to the bourbon bottle.”
“Poor Guthrie,” Venus said. “He can’t face life, any unpleasantness, never could. Angie protected him, but then she died and he dove into the bottle. He simply fell off the earth. It’s been downhill for the last twenty years. Even working for Rasmussen didn’t change his course.”
“Rob’s back. We’ll see what Guthrie does about his youngest son. It might make a difference. Mr. Sullivan is downstairs in the living room. Are you ready to call him up?”
She sighed. “In a moment. I suppose I’m pleased you don’t believe Alexander guilty, at least. He worries me so. I seem to have failed to teach him how to appreciate the people he works with, to value their creativity, help them flourish. He won’t succeed unless he learns that, and so far I’ve failed—oh dear, I should shut up.” The hand he held was shaking. “Maybe I should die, or step down, just go away, and let Alexander have whatever he wants. Maybe I should accept that I’m just an old lady causing a lot of trouble.”
/>
He rubbed his thumb over her hand to calm her and consulted his Mickey Mouse watch. “That’s not the truth, Venus, and hiding from it isn’t in your DNA. No one can change what’s happened. All we can do is fix it. You’ve got to hang tough for a little while longer.”
He leaned over and kissed her forehead. He looked into her fierce Rasmussen green eyes, still powerful with intelligence, now sheened with tears. He hated her pain. He said quietly, “Thank you for being in my life, Venus. My grandmother thought you were amazing. So do I. So does Sherlock.”
He nodded, released her hand, and rose. “When he’s a bit older, Sean will think so, too.” After a moment Savich nodded to Dr. Pruitt, who was standing now against the draperies, his arms crossed, waiting. “I’ll buzz down and ask Isabel to bring Mr. Sullivan up.”
Venus nodded, leaned her head back on the pillow, and closed her eyes. “Yes, it’s nearly time. Please get the family downstairs and yes, ask Mr. Sullivan to come up. It’s time. I want to get this done.”
58
* * *
Dr. Pruitt faced the family in the living room. “Mrs. Rasmussen is speaking with Mr. Sullivan, then she must rest. She will see each of you later.”
“But there might not be a later,” Hildi shouted. “Why aren’t you with her? Why haven’t you called an ambulance?”
Guthrie stood, squared his shoulders as if awaiting a blow. “Is she going to die?”
“You know your mother, Mr. Rasmussen. I would prefer to care for her in the hospital, but she refuses to go. I will return to her immediately.” Dr. Pruitt nodded to each of them and left the living room.
Savich remained by the closed door, Sherlock by the windows, studying their faces.
Alexander stood in his favorite spot, by the fireplace, his hands in his pockets, his shock slowly turning to anger. He took a step toward Savich. “You were with her, not her children, her grandchildren—you, an outsider, who never belonged here. What did she say to you? You turned her against me, didn’t you?”