Gail Bowen: The Last Good Day

One of Noah Wainberg’s most eloquent pieces hung like a figure on a ship’s prow from the base of the structure. The carving was of a woman, seemingly a prisoner, her hands tied behind her back, her legs long and graceful, her breasts full, her face gentle but filled with an ancient and private sorrow. I had jogged past the carving for a week, but I had never seen it from this angle, and it was compelling. I reached out and touched the curve of her arm. Sun-heated, the wood was warm as flesh.

“Noah used my body as his model for the piece.” The voice was husky and low. It was Lily Falconer’s. I turned to face her. She’d been jogging, too. Her face was slick with sweat and her long hair had come loose. It fell against her shoulders – brush strokes of black against the glowing bronze of her skin. Her shorts and halter were the colour of pale jade, but they too were sweat-stained. “I need to talk to you,” she said.

I gestured towards the gazebo. “Maybe we should go in there, get out of the sun.”

She shook her head vehemently. “No. Let’s just go down to the beach.” She reached down and snapped off Willie’s leash. “Your dog wants to play in the water.”

Free at last, Willie bounded into the lake. Outmanoeuvred, I followed him.

When we came to the beach, Lily dropped to the sand and lay on her back, arms flung wide, palms up, legs sprawled, eyes closed. She was absolutely without self-consciousness. As I looked at her toned body and endless legs, I knew that if I had a body like hers, I wouldn’t be timid either.

She didn’t waste time on preamble. “I heard that you and your son tried to save Chris. We’re all grateful for that.”

“I wish the outcome had been different,” I said.

“If wishes were horses, then beggars could ride.” There was an edge in Lily’s voice, the pragmatist correcting the dreamer. “Chris is dead, Joanne. All we can do now is keep things from getting worse.”

A seagull swooped down and snagged something from the water. Willie, unaware that his mission was futile, paddled to the spot where the bird had been.

“I agree,” I said. “Has something happened?”

Lily pushed herself up on her elbows and met my gaze. “There’s a police officer named Alex Kequahtooway who wants to talk to you. From what I understand, you won’t need to be introduced.”

Her announcement had the force of a punch in the stomach. She was right. Inspector Alex Kequahtooway and I didn’t need an introduction. For three years, he had been my lover, and our parting had not been amicable.

“No,” I said. “The inspector and I are acquainted.”

“Then you know you can trust him.”

“I know I can trust him professionally,” I said.

A hint of a smile passed her lips. “Well, that’s all that matters here, isn’t it?”

“Lily, what is it exactly that you want me to do?”

“Tell the truth,” she said. “Answer the questions you’re asked but don’t introduce anything extraneous. Alex says -”

“Alex?” I said.

“We go way back.” She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “That sun’s hot.”

“Maybe we should move.”

In a movement as fluid as an athlete’s, Lily stood up. For a beat, she stared at the horizon. “No, we’re finished here. Just remember that none of us knows for sure just what happened last night. Don’t say anything that will muddy the waters.”

I scrambled to my feet. “I’m pretty good at keeping my focus,” I said.

Lily’s grey eyes bored into mine. “Good,” she said. “That’ll make it easier all around, won’t it?” She picked up the leash and whistled. Willie had not distinguished himself at obedience school, but he came to Lily immediately. She rubbed his head, snapped on the collar, and offered me the leash. “Chris’s death was an accident,” she said. “A terrible, terrible accident.” Her tone was without emotion – like that of a schoolgirl reciting by rote words that were beyond her comprehension.

When Willie and I got back to the cottage, Alex Kequahtooway’s silver Audi was in the driveway. I swore softly. I was depleted, without resources to examine a night that was still a fresh wound. There was something else, and it did not reflect well on me. The accident and its aftermath had battered me to the core, but apparently my vanity had survived. As I walked by the Audi, the rear-view mirror was in easy proximity, but I didn’t bend down to give myself a quick onceover. There was no point. I knew I looked like hell.

Alex was sitting in one of the rockers on the front porch. I hadn’t seen him since Christmas. He’d been involved in a difficult case then, and I’d chalked up his pallor and weight loss to overwork and stress. But the man in the rocker was suffering from something beyond too many late nights and too much caffeine. His eyes were closed and his head was resting against the wicker back of the rocker. His lethargy was a shock. Alex had always been driven, a dynamo who could grab a few hours’ sleep and function well. That morning, he looked as if something had hollowed him out. I called his name.

When he heard my voice, he opened his eyes and then raised his head slowly. “You’re okay?” he said.

“I will be,” I said.

“And Angus?”

“He’s remarkably resilient – as you well know.”

“Jo, how did you and the kids get mixed up with these people?”

“I explained that to the officers we talked to last night. We’re renting a cottage here for the summer.”

“And your landlord is Kevin Hynd, the hippie lawyer.”

“I see him more as Kevin Hynd, the loyal friend,” I said.

Alex flushed. The reference to loyalty had been a zinger. We’d broken up when Alex had become involved with another woman. Despite the hit, he soldiered on. “The storefront law business must be booming if Mr. Hynd was able to take off for parts unknown,” he said.

“They’re known to me,” I said. “Kevin is in Tibet, half a world away from Lawyers’ Bay. He’s not connected with this.”

“Maybe not,” Alex said. “But patterns are always provocative. It would be interesting to know why Mr. Hynd keeps walking away – first from a partnership in a highly lucrative law practice, now from his storefront office. Something seems to be making him uneasy.”

“This conversation is making me uneasy,” I said. “If you have questions about last night, I’ll answer them. Otherwise, I’m going inside to take a shower.”

“Okay, let’s get started.” Surprisingly, Alex made no movement to get his notebook and pen. “Something in your statement caught my eye. You said you were sleeping out here last night. Any special reason?”

“It was hot. It had been a full day, and my mind was racing. Monkey thoughts, my yoga instructor would say.”

“You’re still going to yoga?”

“Inner peace takes time.”

Alex smiled. “You seem to be moving in the right direction. You look good, Jo.”

The air between us was heavy with things unsaid, but I was in no mood for a trip down memory lane. “We were talking about the accident,” I said.

The warmth went out of Alex’s face. “All right, then why don’t you take another run at your story? Somehow, it just doesn’t feel right to me.”

My account of what had happened the night before was truthful and, except on one point, meticulous. As I had in my first interview, I hurried over my conversation with Chris Altieri. When Alex didn’t challenge me, I thought I was home free. I was wrong. He might not have been super-cop any more, but he hadn’t lost his touch. When I’d finished, he took out his notebook and uncapped his pen. “Interesting,” he said. “Now why don’t you tell me everything you know about Christopher Altieri.”