Alafair Burke: Never Tell

“Or we could get the hell out of here and eat lunch.”

“Again: Sensitivity and what not?”

“I don’t know. A hamburger sounds pretty good right now. Or does your girlfriend still have you watching your cholesterol, old man?”

Rogan shook his head. “I never should have mentioned that shit to you. Like riding with my moms. A whiter, blonder, more freakily intuitive version of my mother. It’s not like you to walk away from something so quickly, Hatcher.”

“I walk away when I know my time’s being wasted. You two stay up here if you want, but I’ve got a court appearance to make. I’m going to talk with the mother, then I’m out of here.”

Ellie found Katherine Whitmire perched on an upholstered banquette at the bottom of the stairs, a cordless phone to one ear. The officer who was supposed to have accompanied her outside stood by. “I’ve been with her the whole time,” he offered as a consolation.

Ellie was beginning to wish she possessed whatever power this woman seemed to exert over others.

Katherine used her free hand to wipe away smears of black mascara when she noticed Ellie approaching.

“I have to go, Bill,” she said into her phone. “One of the detectives just finished up in the bedroom. She might have some news. But you’re heading back into the city, right? Immediately?” She muttered a soft thank-you before clicking off the line.

“My husband,” she explained. “He’s getting a helicopter back from East Hampton. He was talking about a meeting out there. I think he’s in a bit of shock.”

“It’s not unusual.”

“Right. I guess you’re used to dealing with these sorts of things, aren’t you?”

“You never get used to it. Tell me about your daughter.”

“She would never do something like this to herself.”

Everyone thought they could spot suicidal tendencies. Ellie knew better. Some people advertised their misery with unshowered days spent self-medicated in bed, but just as many kept up appearances as workers, students, neighbors-fathers. It had taken Ellie nearly twenty years, but she’d come to the truth the hard way.

“So tell me about her.”

“I don’t understand, Detective. What is it that you want to know?”

She wanted to know how this woman saw her daughter. Mostly she wanted this woman to feel like she had been given the opportunity to speak before Ellie left her to deal with the long and messy aftermath of a suicide. “I know you overheard a couple of the police officers talking to the EMTs. Obviously you believe they jumped to the wrong conclusions. So tell me what you want us to know about Julia, so we can have the whole picture.”

Ellie followed the woman to the living room, where she removed a framed photograph from the mantel. “This was two Christmases ago.” Katherine Whitmire had not changed since the family portrait, but her daughter looked much younger with no makeup, plump cheeks, and pink lips struggling to cover her metal braces through a smile.

“Is that your son?” Ellie pointed to the preppy-looking boy seated next to Julia.

“Billy. Bill Jr., yes. He’s a freshman at Colby now. And that’s my husband, Bill. I haven’t called Billy yet. I–I don’t know how to. He doesn’t handle change well. He’s very regimented, very planned-like his father. Not like Julia at all.” She smiled sadly. “Julia’s more like me. Or was. Independent. Free-spirited. Stubborn as all hell, but so tolerant and accepting and loving of every person she ever met. She had the kind of heart that wanted to save us all.”

“Did you need saving?”

Her wistful expression was replaced by an intense stare. “I didn’t mean myself personally, Detective. I meant-you know-society, the world. She wanted to save the world. I warned her. I told her that some people just couldn’t be saved. They might have been decent people under other circumstances, but that kind of poverty, living on the streets-it makes people desperate. It makes them dangerous. That’s what happened here. One of those-animals-killed her. They probably stole a few bucks from her purse. That’s what this is about.”

The words were tumbling out too quickly to follow.

“You sound like you have someone in mind.”

“They’re kids from the street. I found them here with her-maybe two months ago.”

“And who were these kids?” In the world of the Whitmires, kids from public school might be considered bad influences.

“I don’t know if they’re orphans or in foster care, or maybe they’re just homeless. I don’t know their names. There were maybe three of them here-two boys and a girl, I think. Ramona would know. Ramona Langston. She’s Julia’s best friend. I told Julia not to have those people over again, but, God knows, my daughter never did listen to me. Bill said she’d only hold on to them closer if I tried to push them away. What can you do, though? She was all grown up.”

“I was told she was sixteen?”

The woman blinked as if Ellie’s response was a non sequitur.

“So these kids were here two months ago?” Ellie asked. “You didn’t see Julia with them since then?”

“I’ve only been back once since then.”

“I’m sorry. You told us when we arrived that this was your house?”

“It is, but Bill and I only come in about once a month or so. We’ve been going back and forth between here and East Hampton for years, but we’ve tapered off our city presence. When Billy went to college, Julia moved upstairs.”

“And before Billy was at school?”

“Then the two of them would be here. Oh, they were inseparable. I don’t even know how to tell him what’s happened. Julia followed Billy everywhere. She has never liked being alone. That was probably why she befriended such desperate people. You know, I was here more often before Billy went to school. She had me. She had him. Now-”

“So, I’m sorry-Julia was basically living here alone?”

“Most of the time. That’s right. She preferred the city. Her school. Her friends. Everything is here.”

And this woman had called the street kids the orphans.

What else would a good, thorough, concerned detective ask? “Did she have a boyfriend?”

“A boyfriend?” Like the word was foreign.

“A guy in her life?”

“Well, my daughter certainly dated, I’m sure. But no one special I know about.”

“I found birth control pills in your daughter’s medicine cabinet. I thought that might indicate she was seeing someone regularly?”

“Oh, those? She’s been on the pill since she was fourteen. Bill’s idea, actually. Better safe than sorry.”

There was something about Julia’s father’s name that felt familiar to Ellie. Whitmire. Bill Whitmire. She couldn’t quite place it.

“What about other prescriptions? We found Adderall in her purse.”

“Adderall? I’ve never heard of it. I mean, she would get headaches. Maybe-”

“It’s a prescription stimulant used for ADHD.”

Katherine shook her head. “She didn’t have anything like that.”

“Did she see a psychiatrist?”

“No. Lord knows I do, as do a lot of her friends. But Bill thinks therapy and antidepressants and all of that are overused by overindulgent rich people. I suppose to you we might seem to fit that description.”

“Your husband’s name sounds familiar to me. Do you mind if — ”

“CBGB.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t tell me you’re so young you don’t know about CBGB?”

Ellie and her brother, Jess, had probably logged a couple thousand hours at the celebrated music venue before it succumbed to escalating rent prices. “Of course I know it.” Then the light clicked. Bill Whitmire was the famed producer behind bands that had played with the Ramones and Blondie.