T. Parker - Black Water

Kirsten.

She also revealed to Paul that she was seeing someone, too. He was in real estate, she said, mentioning his name only once: Frank.

Zamorra looked at her oddly, then. The only thing she could read for certain in his eyes was relief.

Zamorra had known.

By the time she got to one of the ladies' rooms back at head quarters her heart was pounding and she was sweating but cold and she had only just lifted the toilet seat when she vomited. After wiping up she'd sat on the seat and wept into a huge wad of toilet paper that shredded and broke away and stuck to her face. She hadn't vomited since the night she'd seduced Mike McNally in order to gather evidence to charge him for murder. This felt worse but she didn't know why. Maybe because back with Mike she'd been disgusted by what she was doing but she had believed it was the right thing to do. Now she was just crying for her own wretched, pathetic little heartbreak.

Before leaving the ladies' room she'd looked at the mirror and seeing what she always saw: a tall, big-boned woman with unruly dark hair and a face that was not quite pretty. She had nice skin, correct? Looking back into her own dark eyes she saw anger and disappointment and humiliation. Zamorra had known.

She took a deep breath and thought, screw it: I've got Tim Jr. to think about anyway, and the last thing my sorry ass needs is a romance with another cop whose wife has just died of cancer.

And that was that.

"What did you get on her family, Paul?"

"I got their names and address off one of the Wildcraft loan forms. Earla is the mother, Lee's the dad. Last name is Kuerner. Earla said they'd be there at five. They had funeral arrangements to make."

Merci remembered the GK in the bottom right corner of some of the paintings in Gwen Wildcraft's music room.

"How did she sound?"

"Numb."

The Kuerners lived in Norco, a small city not far from the county line. Zamorra used a map to navigate. Merci got off on Lincoln in Corona, picked up River Road, made a right on Second Street.

"I've never been out here," she said, looking out at a dairy farm, rows and rows of black cows lined up at the feed bars.

"It's interesting."

The houses along Second were mostly beat-up, the grass mostly dead. Chain-link fences, cars on blocks, corrugated metal tool sheds with brown rain stains on their flanks. One place still had the Christmas lights sagging from the roofline and faded, oncered bows sagging from the stucco. A spray-painted sheet of plywood advertised pygmy goats for sale. Merci looked at the stubby, big-bellied little goats, wondering what they were good for and what they cost. One yard was nothing but junk-automobile doors stacked like pancakes, dozens of rusted-out lawnmowers, piles of old steel fence posts, a collection of decrepit cement mixers. An ostrich stood in a child's wading pool and looked at Merci like a cop. The smell of the dairy farm came through the air-conditioned car, dark and mammalian and foul.

"Scenic," she said.

"Norco's a contraction for North Corona," said Zamorra.

"It looks like a contraction."

"They're poor on this end of town."

"Lazy, too, by the looks of it."

"There you go again, Merci."

He had a point. She'd enlisted Zamorra to help purge herself of glib opinion and rapid judgment. She'd gotten so exhausted with endless opinions of others about herself- she busted Sheriff Brighton, for her career, she did it because she hated him and he didn't promote her, she busted her father because she hated him, too, no, it was cause she loved him, she got suckered about McNally and had to blame it on somebody else, she did it because she's amoral, because she's too moral, blah fucking blah, blah, blah — that Merci had even grown exhausted by her own.

It was just so hard sometimes, to keep from making up her mind before she had all the facts. You saw what you saw, thought what you thought, smelled what you smelled. She thought of Archie Wildcraft, and what he had either done or not done to his wife and himself. There she was again, making up her mind before all the facts were in.

"Yeah," she said. "Yeah. I'm sure a lot of them work hard for A they have."

"I wore the same shirt for my second and third-grade school pictures. My big brother had worn it for his second-grade shot."

"How many wrecked cars in your front yard?"

She smiled slightly and Zamorra did, too.

"I know," she said. "I just have to remind myself to, when in doubt, shut my trap."

The Kuerner house off of Cherokee was a pale blue bungalow white porch columns. There was a white picket fence around the small front yard, stepping stones leading to the porch. Two big pine trees stood on either side of the stones and held the house in shadow, place was neat and clean.

The driveway gate was open so she pulled in and parked in front of the garage. When she got out the smell of cattle hit her hard so did the heat. Ninety-five at least, she thought.

Earla Kuerner answered the knock and let them in. A little jingled when she shut the door behind them. She looked to be in early fifties, average height and weight. Wavy, gray-black hair and a good face.

The living room was cool and the windows were draped to keep out the afternoon heat. An air conditioner hummed. There was a small TV with the sound turned down and two recliners set up in front of it, with a round occasional table between them. Green carpet. A brown plaid print sofa with heavy oak arms, a bookcase neatly stocked with paperbacks, family pictures on one wall, a china cabinet against another. Two framed paintings by Gwen hung beside the cabinet. One was of the front of the house and the two big pine trees, the other a kitten sitting in front of a barn. Merci noted that the stereo system still had a turntable.

Lee Kuerner rose from the left chair, offered his hand to each detective and introduced himself.

"Have a seat," he said.

"I've got lemonade," said Earla.

"I'd like some of that," said Paul.

"Yes, that would be great."

"I'll get it, honey," said Lee. Merci watched him walk toward the kitchen, a tall, slender man with a slowness about him that she instantly liked. Glasses, plaid shirt, jeans. Reminded her of her father, though Lee Kuerner was probably almost ten years younger. His hair was graying brown and full, long enough to touch his shirt collar.

Zamorra carried the burden of small talk while they waited. Merci looked at the pictures on the wall. It looked like the Kuerners had four children, all girls. Gwen was either the youngest or second youngest, Merci saw, but she couldn't say for sure. The girls were all bony and toothy, pretty faces.

Lee Kuerner came back with two glasses of lemonade balanced in one hand, and a TV tray under the same arm, which he snapped open with the other. To Merci it looked like the tray practically opened itself and locked its own legs into place. Well used. Lee set the tray between them, put the glasses on the tray, went back and got two more.

"We got a tree in the back," he said. "Earla makes good lemonade off it."

Merci sipped hers and agreed. Then, after a long pause: "I'm sorry."

Lee looked away and nodded. Earla looked down into her lemonade glass. A tear ran off her cheek. A tissue appeared in her hand and she dabbed her face.

Merci led, as usual. "Mrs. Kuerner, tell us about Gwen. Tell us who would want to kill her."

"Oh, oh my. I'm just hoping and praying it wasn't Archie. Was it?"

"We don't think so, but we don't know," said Paul. "There is some evidence pointing to him, and some evidence pointing away."

"No," said Lee. "It wasn't Archie. The papers made it sound like he was a suspect."

"The papers don't make that judgment," said Merci. "We do, and as of right now, he isn't."

"But a neighbor said he'd heard them fighting earlier that day. Her birthday, the twentieth," said Zamorra.