Robert Parker - Family Honor

“You may as well know, up front, Miss Randall,” she said, “that our attorneys are preparing legal action against you for the return of our daughter. You stand an excellent chance of being charged with kidnapping.”

“I’m all atremble,” I said.

I took the embarrassing picture of Betty Patton from my purse and leaned over and placed it on the writing desk face up. She looked at it. And looked quickly away. Her face colored slowly until it was a full blush. Good. She was human. After a moment, she turned the picture over very slowly and placed it facedown on the desk. The snow fell straight down some more outside the glass walls. The heat continued to rise gently from the stone floor. Betty Patton stared at the blank white back of the photograph. She looked out the window. She looked past me at the door I’d come in. She looked back down at the facedown picture.

“Many people allow themselves to be photographed naked,” she said.

I didn’t say anything.

“Admittedly this is perhaps a bit beyond simple nakedness,” Betty said.

I waited.

“I have needs,” she said. “Sometimes I can’t help myself.”

I nodded.

“If you knew what being married to him was like,” she said.

“You’re not married to the man in the picture,” I said.

“Of course not. I was referring to Brock.”

I knew that, but I didn’t comment.

“The man in the picture is a plumber,” I said, “named Kevin Humphries. He did some work for you once. He’s dead.”

She continued to stare down at the back of the photograph. Then she looked up and her gaze was pretty steady.

“What do you want?” she said.

“This picture is just a sample. There are more.”

She nodded.

“Tell me about him,” I said.

“The plumber?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to know,” I said.

“And you think you can threaten me with the pictures?”

“Yes.”

“He came a year or so ago to put in a bathroom in my part of the house, off my bedroom.”

“You and your husband had separate bedrooms.”

“Yes. It had nothing to do with intimacy, it’s just a matter of each of us needing more privacy.”

“Sure,” I said. “You were intimate.”

“Of course, if it’s any of your business.”

“Someday I’ll figure out what my business is,” I said. “How did he get from plumber to lover?”’

“Lover,” Betty Patton said. “How quaint.”

“It seemed so much more ladylike than ‘fucker,’” I said.

“But the latter is far more accurate,” Betty Patton said, and smiled.

At least the corners of her lips moved up. I think she intended it to be a smile. It was awful.

“He was a big, strong man, attractive in a sweaty, capable way, and I could tell he was interested.”

I nodded again.

“I... as I said, I have needs.”

“And the pictures?”

“I gave them to him. I wanted him to remember what we’d had.”

“Did it occur to you that it might give him some leverage on you?” I said.

“I thought we mattered too much to each other. When it became apparent that we could no longer be together, I wanted him to have something that spoke to him of our intimacy.”

“What made you break up?”

Betty Patton looked at me as if I were far too stupid to get in out of the rain.

“I am a married woman, if you hadn’t noticed,” she said.

“Did Kevin attempt to use these pictures?” I said.

“No, certainly not.”

“Did you know he was dead?” I said.

“No, of course not, how would I? I told you we agreed to be apart.”

“You didn’t seem to have much reaction when I told you he was dead.”

“I know, I... I should. We were very close for a while. But you had just thrust that picture at me... How did he die?”

“Someone shot him in the back of his head while he was sitting in his car outside a restaurant on Route 9.”

“My God.”

“Would you have any thoughts on that?” I said.

“How awful.”

“Any others?”

“No. You think I... because of the pictures?”

“You said he didn’t use the pictures.”

“He didn’t. I didn’t mean that. I just meant you might be suspicious.”

I nodded. We were quiet. The snow was still steady, melting as it touched the warm glass walls, turning into glistening rivulets that distorted the gray light.

“There’s a thing that’s been bothering me,” I said.

She waited.

“Many of these pictures feature you and Kevin together.”

She nodded.

“This one is not your standard Polaroid nudie,” I said. “Intimate close-ups, longer full shots, interesting perspectives.”

She nodded again. There was a deep numbness about her, as if she were slipping further and further below the surface.

“Who took them?” I said.

She stared at me as if she didn’t understand the question. I waited. She took in some air and let it out, several times. She opened her mouth and closed it and opened it again.

“What do you mean?” she said.

“Mrs. Patton. You’re in a pretty sizable mess,” I said. “The only way we are going to get you out of it is if you will talk to me. Who took the pictures?”

She breathed some more and did the mouth-open, mouth-closed thing again. She looked down at the blank back of the photograph, and out the window at the snow, and back at me. She was blushing again.

“Brock,” she said.

The name hung in the air between us. She tried to meet my stare but she couldn’t hold it, and finally her gaze dropped and then she put her face in her hands.

“Your husband took these pictures of you,” I said.

She nodded.

“Did the plumber know?”

“Yes.”

“What did he think about it?”

“He was a little embarrassed, but...”

“But?”

“He found me desirable.”

“So he didn’t care if your husband was standing there with a camera?”

“Well, he still did, a little.”

“And?”

“And we...” She cleared her throat. “We gave him money.”

Jesus Christ.

Betty sat with her face in her hands. I stood up. There was no reason to stand, it was just that I couldn’t bear to do nothing. I walked the length of the room, looking at the snowfall, and turned around and walked in the other direction, and stopped by the desk.

“Did you reciprocate?” I said.

She didn’t move. Every aspect of her was angular and painful.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you take pictures of your husband with other women?”

More silence.

When she finally spoke her voice was thin and hard to hear.

“Yes,” she said.

“The Asian women?” I said.

“You... yes. Sometimes.”

“What next,” I said. “You rent the Fleet Center, invite everybody?”

She didn’t speak.

“Here’s some things I think,” I said. “I think you know that Kevin Humphries was murdered, because I think you agreed to his murder.”

Her shoulders hunched tighter.

“Your daughter heard the conversation,” I said. “Between you and Cathal Kragan.”

Her voice was a thin screech, barely audible.

“Oh God,” she said.

“Kragan works for Albert Antonioni, and Antonioni wants your husband to be governor. Humphries threatened to go public with the pictures, and one thing would lead to another and Antonioni’s plans would blow right out of the water. He or Kragan got wind of the blackmail, probably from you, and that was the end of Kevin Humphries.”

She was crying now, her face still in her hands. It was hard for her to cry; the sobs racked out of her paroxysmally.

“I have that about right, don’t I.”

She nodded.