T. Parker - Summer Of Fear

Amber took a step toward Grace, then stopped. "When Russell told you it was Alice, why didn't you call me, Grace? Why didn't you… weren't you at least relieved I was still alive?"

"Mother," said Grace, "I believed you would blame it on me, as you and Russell are trying to do right now. What I wanted, more than anything, was a few days' rest with Russell-or anywhere, really-then a long vacation somewhere alone. You can't believe how horrible it was… seeing what I saw and feeling what I felt. I love you. I hate you, too, but not enough to kill you like that. Believe what you want."

Amber stared at Grace but said nothing. There was more damnation in her silence than in any words she might have said.

Grace looked back down at her knees, sighed deeply, and rested her head against them. "And you, Russell?" she asked quietly.

"I've always believed you, girl. How much of this have you told Martin?"

"All," she answered, still not looking up.

Of course, I thought, it explained Parish's initial fingering of Grace at the scene, and his final decision to frame me-not her.

"Did you know he's going to charge me with Alice's murder?"

She looked up then, with a look on her face as close hopelessness as I had ever seen from her. "I had no idea that what he was doing. He told me very little. I thought Martin was a decent man. He always was-to me, anyway. But you should know, Russell, I'll do whatever I can to help you."

"I'm going to need your help. Parish killed Alice. Do you understand that?"

She shook her head. "Why?"

"Because he was in line for money if Amber died, because, quite frankly, Martin Parish hates your mother more than you ever did. He hates me, too. And he found a way to knock us all down with one shot. He thought he could pull off a perfect crime."

"I'm so sick of everything," Grace whispered. Tears ran down her cheeks. "Amber, I love you, but I still hate you. Russell, I'll do whatever I can to help you with Martin. I'll testify. I'll to the police."

"You already have."

"Then what can I do?"

Audacity, I thought. Meet Martin on his own turf, not sure yet," I said.

Amber had already left the room.

I walked past my father in the living room, fully unconscious on a couch. I caught up with her on the deck outside. She was lighting a cigarette and her hand was shaking. I lighted it for her.

"She needs you," I said.

"It wasn't clear to me until now."

"You can go to her."

"You don't understand. She's in it with Martin. She's his partner. I'm positive. Nothing on earth interested her more as a child than my men. It's her and Martin, working together. With me out of the way, it would have been millions for them both. And all the jolly good fun they could have bashing my brains all over my bedroom. I think I'm going to puke, Russell."

She ran up into the brush of the canyon and vomited.

A few minutes later, she came back down, her shape materializing from the darkness. "I'm going home with Theodore," she said. "And in the morning, I'll see the State Attorney General again. Now that I understand Grace's role, it makes all the more sense. I will not allow Martin Parish and my loving daughter to get away with this. Not at your expense, and most certainly not at mine."

I hardly slept that night-or rather, morning-but the dreamy wakefulness offered me the clarity of mind that one enjoys just before falling asleep and just before fully waking. I wondered about Izzy, then wondered some more. I called the IC Unit eve: hour for reports. When I could momentarily assuage my worries about Isabella, I did my best to consider other actualities, wondered whether Amber's tack to the Attorney General might be a sound one. But again, I had no desire to meet Martin Parish on the playing field of the law-his advantage was too great.

Instead, I dreamed-or imagined-meeting Parish in Amber's house. The scene played like this: He had come to finish what he'd started on July 3. He would have the club. I would be there, a witness to his second attempt. There, I could make a citizen's arrest for burglary, which would lead to questioning, investigation, and an eventual unmasking of Parish.

I liked the directness of this action, but, at the same time Grace and I clearly needed help. Would Amber participate, perhaps help us lure Martin back to her home? Maybe. But where could we find an ally with power outside of the system? Just as the first light brought forth the basic shapes in the room around me, I thought of Erik Wald. At first, the idea seemed ridiculous, Erik being so ensconced within the court of the department. But looked at another way, I could see that he might cooperate, because taking down Martin Parish would not only clear Wald's appointment to undersherifTbut would also be the glitziest coup he might pull. Imagine the headlines when the homicide captain lay exposed by the cleverness of Professor Erik Wald and journalist Russell Monroe! And I thought, too, that Erik's natural boldness might suit him perfectly. The question was, Would he believe us, and, if so, would he help us trap Parish?

I called him at 6:00 a.m. and told him we'd be at his house in one hour. He was too mystified to protest.

Then I called the ICU nurses again.

No change.

Wald lived in a ranch-style home in the Tustin hills, a swanky area that boasted an equestrian flavor, smatterings of sweet-smelling orange groves, and $5 million Spanish-style mansions on large parcels of land. His modest house sat back from the road, at the end of a drive lined by eucalyptus trees. The gate was locked, and I announced myself through an intercom speaker. Wald said nothing, but the gate swung open and we drove in. "Can he help us?" Grace asked.

"I think so. The question is, will he?"

"I remember him as being swashbuckling. In his own mind, that is."

"There is that side of Erik."

We parked. Wald was waiting at the door, dressed in corduroy pants and a thin T-shirt that accentuated his tanned, well-muscled arms. His golden mop of hair was still wet from a shower. He looked at me as I walked past him into the house, then he rather formally hugged Grace.

"Nice to see you," he said.

"Nice to see you, too, Erik," she replied. "Have any coffee on?"

In the smallish kitchen, Erik poured us three cups. I could see the living room, which was large and furnished in heavy Mexican-style ranch chairs and sofas. A large trunk that looked quite old served as a coffee table. The fireplace at the far end was of brick-dark and well used.

Wald led us through a sliding glass door, across a small backyard with a fountain and plantain trees and giant birds paradise, then into his study, which was likely built as maid quarters. He pushed open the door without unlocking it and followed us inside.

All the rustic charm of the house proper was lost upon Erik's study. The walls were white, the floor was gleaming hard wood, the furnishings looked more corporate than domestic was clearly a place of work. Two computers sat at two differant gray metal desks, two printers beside them. There were fax, a copy machines; file cabinets lining three walls; two telephone, a large video monitor; two video cameras, each mounted on tripod; a film screen. It was also a place of pride and self-absorption, as I noted the big portrait of Wald that hung on ^ the far wall, the dozens of plaques and trophies (marksmanship, tennis), the custom-made cabinets that displayed Wald's certifcates, badges, awards, pins-every commendation he might have collected in fifteen years of academic and law-enforcement work. Even the larger newspaper stories were available for viewing, spread on foam, then shrink-wrapped and framed. A dozen copies of his much-lauded doctoral dissertation, "Aspiring to Evil: Transference Identification in the Violent Felon," which had been published by the university after Wald's and Winters's spectacular snaring of the rapist Cary Clough, took up an eye-level shelf in one of the cases.