Thomas Perry - Dead Aim

Mallon stepped closer. “Miss,” he said. “I’m Robert Mallon, the client who hired Miss Marks. Catherine Broward tried to drown herself on a beach in California where I live. I pulled her out of the ocean, but a few hours later she shot herself. She’s dead. The police in Santa Barbara have not yet been able to find and notify her family. All we want to know is whether there’s a local address on the form where she said she could be reached. It might lead us to her parents. They could be frantic with worry, trying to reach her right now, and there’s no reason to make them go through that. They have a right to be told what happened.”

The young woman was no longer smiling opaquely, but she did not offer to give them anything.

Mallon persisted, as though what needed to be prodded was her memory. “She was about your age, not blond like you but with long, dark hair. She was kind of pretty-I don’t mean like a movie star, just a nice-looking person. Do you at least remember her coming in?”

The young woman looked worried, and perhaps even a bit irritated by his attempt to manipulate her. “So many people come in for cars, and I have to watch the paperwork so closely that I don’t always even look close at faces.”

“Honey, you look at their faces when they show you their driver’s licenses,” Lydia reminded her gently. “You have to be sure it’s the same person.”

The girl’s smile came back. Mallon could see it was her armor. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Lydia would not be dismissed. “We’re not from your company. We don’t work for your company. Here’s my identification. As you can see, I really am a private investigator.”

The girl stared at the detective’s license, but seemed unconvinced. She looked at Mallon expectantly. He pulled out his wallet and held it open while she examined the California driver’s license behind the plastic to verify that his name really was what he had said. She sighed. “All right. I’ll see what I can find.”

Lydia reached into her purse. “Here’s your five hundred.”

“I don’t want it,” she said. “I just don’t want to lose my job.” She began typing on the keyboard of her computer terminal, staring at the screen. Then she took the pen that was lying on the counter tied to a string, scribbled something on the back of a company brochure, and handed it to Mallon. She did not touch the money Lydia had placed on the counter. “That’s the address and phone number she gave.”

“Please,” said Mallon. “I would like you to take the money. If this is her family, the whole search is over, and you’ve saved me whatever I would have spent hunting for them.”

She ventured a glance at the money, but she didn’t move. She studied Mallon. “Why are you doing this-any of it?”

He shrugged. “I suppose it’s because this is the only thing left that I can do for her. I had a chance to talk her out of it, but I didn’t think of the right thing to say. I feel sad about it. I wish you would take that money.”

“Why do you care whether I take the money?”

“So that somebody who showed compassion would get some small benefit out of it.” He took the bills from the counter and added some from his pocket. “I’m rich now, but there have been a couple of times when a few hundred bucks might have changed my life.” He folded the money, took her hand, and folded her fingers over it. He held the hand for a couple of extra seconds, until he felt her finger muscles tighten, then gently released it like a small bird. “Thanks for your help.” He turned and walked out the door.

Lydia said quietly, “We really aren’t from your company. And I really am a detective.” She pointed up at the tinted glass half-globe on the ceiling above the door. “Don’t forget to put a fresh tape in the security camera’s tape deck before you leave. You can lose the old one on the way home.”

The address belonged to a woman named Sarah Carlson. The house was a very small, narrow, two-story cottage painted a daffodil yellow with spotless white enamel trim. There was a small covered porch with a white railing that gleamed in the sunlight.

Lydia and Mallon stood on the porch listening to the soft footsteps moving toward the door. The woman who opened it was about thirty, with light skin and dark brown hair that she wore short, and Mallon knew that Sarah Carlson was not just a friend.

Lydia appeared not to have seen the resemblance. “Good afternoon. Are you Sarah Carlson?”

The woman looked at Lydia, then at Mallon through the closed screen door, and answered, “Yes.” The voice was like Catherine’s. It made Mallon feel the sadness again.

“My name is Lydia Marks, and this is Robert Mallon. Do you know Catherine Broward?”

She looked at them warily. “What is this about?”

Lydia said, “A few days ago, in Santa Barbara, California, Catherine Broward took her own life. We’re trying to find her family, and-”

Sarah Carlson was crying. It had begun at “took her,” the tears appearing in the eyes without the expression having time to change yet, so that it looked as though a cold wind had simply blown into her eyes and made them water. But then the eyes squinted, the shoulders came up in a cringe, the mouth quivering and the chin puckering before the hands could rise to her face to hide it. She began to wail, “Oh, no. Oh, no. No…”

Mallon watched, wondering. The girl he had saved had seemed to be healthy, smart, sure of herself. Now he could see that she’d had someone who had cared very deeply about her. He had heard or read somewhere, in the period after his sister’s death, that sometimes people killed themselves in order to punish someone-their families, usually. As he watched this young woman behind the screen sobbing, he reflected that if this was a punishment, it was incredibly effective. It was hard to imagine anything a stranger could have said to this woman that would have made her dissolve into sorrow this way. It occurred to him that what he was seeing was probably like watching himself thirty-three years ago-not the tears or the exact expressions, but the utter devastation.

He turned to Lydia, at first only to keep from staring cruelly at the woman. Lydia’s body was straight and rigid, her face solemn, but her eyes were in quick motion. She was looking past the woman, over and around her into the house, then to the left at the house beside hers, then to the right, and back at the woman. Now that she had temporarily forgotten the visitors, Lydia studied her pitilessly. After Lydia seemed to have exhausted the sights available to her, she asked, “Would you like us to come back later? We only need to ask a few questions. Her parents…”

Sarah Carlson forced herself to focus her attention on the two people still standing at her door. She raised her eyes toward them and seemed to see them as troublesome. She began to nod, but then appeared to remember something, or to discover it. “No, please,” she said. “Come in.”

She pushed the door open and held it, and it occurred to Mallon why Lydia’s offer had sounded so perfunctory and insincere to him. Lydia had known Sarah would not send them away. If she did, she would be left sitting alone in this house grieving, but knowing nothing about what had happened.

Mallon followed Lydia in and stood awkwardly beside her in the small living room. Mallon liked the room as much as he had liked the outside of the house. Built-in bookcases covered two of the walls, all filled tightly, but without pretense. There were old leatherbound volumes stuck in among paperbacks, sets of faded clothbound books that looked as though someone had reread them many times beside bright-jacketed books he recognized from recent visits to bookstores. The framed pictures on the walls were all interesting rather than merely decorative. There were a couple of miniature portraits of nineteenth-century people who didn’t seem to be famous and weren’t beautiful, a couple of color plates of ferns from some forgotten botany text.