Jan Burke - Dear Irene

He made a gesture of impatience. “Yes, Robbie was the one who was killed. But at the time, we all just thought he had a nasty crack on his head. He went into a coma and died, but that was later. It was the first time I had ever heard of anyone going into a coma, so I guess that part did scare me. I just saw him lying on the ground, all pale and quiet before the ambulance came, but he was still alive then.”

“So who is Jimmy?” Mark asked.

“Jimmy Grant. We were friends. His mother was the one they arrested. That’s what scared me. It was just an accident, and all of a sudden, they took Mrs. Grant away and then they took Jimmy. As a kid, I remember being worried that someone would take my mother away, too. I was scared to death of it. I never saw Mrs. Grant or Jimmy after that. Next thing I know, the child care center is closed, and we moved.”

I tried to imagine the impact those events would have had on Howard Parker as a young boy – a young boy who had already lost his father. To a child his age, the thought of losing his mother would be terrifying. Perhaps it would be terrifying to any child – I remember being inconsolable after seeing Bambi, years before my own mother died.

“Did you know Jimmy’s mother, Pauline Grant?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Vaguely. I don’t really remember her as much as Jimmy.”

“Did you ever hear from Jimmy after you moved here?” Mark asked.

“No, I have no idea what became of him. I don’t even know who took him in. His relatives, I suppose.”

“Did he have any brothers or sisters?”

“No, none that I remember.”

“Is your mother still living?” I asked.

Parker smiled. “Yes, she’s still here in Las Piernas. She’ll probably be able to tell you more than I can.” He gave us her name and number.

We talked with him awhile about the three victims, none of whom he remembered clearly. We asked about other ideas he might have on Thanatos’ motives, but he had no suggestions. We gave him our cards and thanked him. After waving good-bye to Reed and Vince, we made our way to Justin Davis’s house.

“If he’s telling the truth,” Mark said, “Parker doesn’t seem to have been a witness to Pauline Grant hurting Robbie Robinson.”

“No. But at least we learned the name of Pauline’s son.”

“Oh, we learned a lot. But I was just thinking that Howard Parker may not be a target, since he couldn’t have been one of the ones that testified.”

“Only two of them testified, Edna Blaylock and Alex Havens. But even though Rosie Thayer didn’t take the witness stand, she was killed. And he tried to kill the guy we’re on our way to see. So who knows what Thanatos is using for his criteria,” I said.

“Yeah, you’re right. And besides, Thanatos said they drank from Lethe, so maybe Parker just doesn’t remember what role he might have played in it himself.”

“Let’s hope that Justin Davis has a little clearer memory of it all.”

JUSTIN DAVIS LIVED in Mason Terrace, a gated community on the cliffs above the beach. The development was built in the early 1980s, a subdivision of what had once been a single parcel owned by one of Las Piernas’s older families. There were only fifteen houses in the entire development, but they were so huge that they still ended up being somewhat crowded together. The gatehouse had lost its human gatekeeper long ago, replaced by a fancy electronic security system. We entered a code that Davis had given us when we set up the appointment; he had told us it could only be used once. We were buzzed through a double set of gates. The gates were apparently designed to prevent a second car from riding through on another car’s tail without clearance.

He had one of the choice lots, a little larger than most, on the staggered row that lined the cliff. The stark, white stucco house was built on lines drawn by an architect who apparently forgot to carry anything more than a T square that day. There was a patrol car out in front of it, which I’m sure must have thrilled the neighbors. The officers on duty seemed to be expecting us, and merely waved to us as we walked up the front steps.

The front door was white and unadorned except for a fancy electronic lock – one that had both a key-card slot and number pad on it. We were searching for the doorbell when Justin Davis himself opened the door.

“Hidden video camera?” I asked.

“Yes, and a pressure-sensitive doormat,” he said. “Please come in.” He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted. He had that kind of lean, muscular sleekness that comes only to those who work at it, and that kind of grace in motion that belongs only to those who are born with it. He was dressed in a gray sweater and jeans, but made them look as if they would be acceptable attire at a coronation.

Except for a small scar on his cheek, his face was not remarkable, but neither was he plain nor unattractive. He had pale gray eyes and thick, straight black hair, which was cut in a conservative style. He either hadn’t acquired any gray hair yet or his hairdresser knew some neat tricks to make a dye job look natural.

He took our coats and hung them on a metal object that I assumed to be an advanced form of hall tree, but it could have been artwork pressed into doing double duty.

High ceilings, skylights, and tall windows gave the house an open and airy feeling. The inside was as white and bare as the outside. A painting here, a vase there, were all that would break up the starkness of white walls, ceilings and carpet. As a result, my eyes were immediately drawn to these few objects. I found myself anticipating the paintings as soon as I saw the edge of a frame, ready to savor any kind of respite from the blankness that governed the rest of the house.

But soon we rounded (not literally, since it seemed nothing was round in that house) a corner and came into a room that made me feel a certain appreciation for the spare decoration that had gone before. A wall of windows facing the Pacific gave Justin Davis an incomparable ocean view. The sun was just finishing its business day, and the rich sunset colors displayed beyond Davis’s windows and balcony were stunning. The Pacific and sky combined to make a natural mural.

We declined his offer of a drink. He seated us on a low white couch at one end of the room, near a fireplace. A fire was burning behind a glass screen, somehow as removed from us as the ocean, but warm and fragrant.

Davis poured himself a scotch on the rocks and took a seat across from us, in a chair that matched the couch. His voice, when he spoke, was soft and low. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you, Miss Kelly. If you hadn’t contacted the police about that letter today, I wouldn’t be here to welcome you.”

“I’m just glad you didn’t have a chance to fly that plane before the police found you,” I said.

“Perhaps you could give us some details about what happened this afternoon,” Mark suggested.

The corner of his mouth quirked up for about a nanosecond. “Wouldn’t the police tell you?”

“Yes, but it would be good to hear from you, as well.”

“Certainly. I understand that Miss Kelly and – Lieutenant Harriman, is it?”

“Detective Harriman,” Mark said easily. “I’ll let him know you wanted to give him a promotion, though.”

“Thanks. Perhaps I’ll contact his superiors. I really would like to see that the man’s efforts are appreciated.”

“I’m sure Miss Kelly will see that he’s rewarded,” Mark replied. “He’s definitely been more than cooperative with certain members of the press.” Mark managed not to laugh as he said this. Barely. He was avoiding eye contact with me at all cost.

“So what did happen at the airport today?” I asked.