Evidence of Guilt (21 page)

She got defensive again. "It's just a thought. It came to me because of what the psychologist said."

"It's an interesting possibility."

"Maybe Amy was killed to keep her from telling what

had happened. Lisa might have come into the barn while the killer was still there, so he had to kill her too."

It didn't make sense that Amy would have been wandering around the barn alone at night. "Or maybe," I added, "Lisa discovered what was going on and tried to stop it. Assuming there's any truth to this abuse business to begin with."

Myra slumped down in her chair. "I wish my friend had never suggested having this program at the school. She thinks it's important, but like I told you before, she has her own agenda. I guess if you've been abused yourself, you become something of a zealot when it comes to sparing others. Myself, I just get depressed by these stories."

"What did you think of the psychologist who spoke to the group?"

"I liked her, and I trust her. She's very down to earth. Doesn't use a lot of fancy jargon, and she isn't afraid to laugh." Myra sighed. "Maybe it'll be okay because of her. I don't think she'll push the kids beyond what they can handle."

Myra's theory about the murders played through my mind during the flight to Los Angeles. It was enough, almost, to make me forget I was flying.

A five-year-old child as the primary victim. Her death as the catalyst for both killings. It certainly put a different spin on things. Although, to be honest, it didn't do much in the way of clearing Wes Harding.

Wes's rabbit's foot near Amy's body.

The torn clothing and exposed bodies.

A little girl and a grown man in a dimly lit barn.

They weren't images I wanted to dwell on, but once

they appeared I had trouble ignoring them. By the time the plane touched down at the Burbank airport my anxiety about flying wasn't the only thing scrambling my stomach.

Lisa's mother and stepfather lived in San Marino, an enclave of wealth and exclusivity at the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains. The streets were wide and serene. The lawns a lush green, and as manicured as a putting green. There was an air of tranquillity that hovered over the community, a stillness that set it apart from the hectic energy of the surrounding areas.

I found the address with ease. The house was a sprawling white stucco with a red tile roof and recessed windows. A low wall lined the front and sides of the property, but I could see a bed of roses through the gate. The neighboring houses were all of a similar style and construction, I probably built around the same time. By most standards they would have been impressive homes, but in the context of San Marino they were undoubtedly modest.

Before heading for the door I sat in my rental car for a I few moments, gathering my thoughts. What did you say to the mother of a murder victim, especially when you'd aligned yourself with the man accused of the crime? What
could
you say, besides "I'm sorry for your loss"? And even that, no matter how heartfelt, seemed almost a mockery.

Finally I willed myself from the car, took a deep breath and rang the bell. An Hispanic woman opened the door a moment later, then nodded with recognition when I told her my name.

"I tell Mrs. Reena you coming here," the woman said, and started off. When I didn't follow immediately she turned and gestured me forward.

I followed her to a glass-walled room at the end of the hall, where she mumbled a rudimentary introduction and then quickly departed.

The woman sitting on the sofa glanced up and frowned. She looked to be in her early fifties, although she was clearly doing everything in her power to keep the signs of aging at bay. Her hair was a solid shade of honey blond, feathered around her face and fuller in back. Her makeup was artfully applied, and her dress, though snug, was well-tailored. She held a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

The man standing behind her, kneading her shoulders, was probably ten years her junior, although it was hard to tell because he had the kind of smooth, urbane features that merely mellowed with age. A second drink rested on the table to his left.

"Maria said you were a friend of Lisa's." Reena Swanson's voice had the raspy quality of a longtime smoker. And the crisp intonation of someone who didn't wish to be bothered.

"I knew her," I said, "but not well enough to be called a friend."

Reena studied me a moment, her gaze level, the eyes cool. "I'm not interested in semantics," she said, crinking her neck so that her shoulders molded to her husband's fingers. "A little deeper, Ron, especially on the right side."

"Lisa was a lovely person," I said. "Always upbeat and friendly."

"Really." Reena dipped her head further forward. Her expression was hard to read, but it made me uncomfortable.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," I said, rather stiffly.

She looked up, frowned heavily, then stubbed out her

cigarette. What was it you wanted? You certainly didn t come all the way to L.A. to tell me what a wonderful daughter I had."

I felt both taken aback and chastised. "I understand you packed up some of your daughter's belongings. Had them shipped back here."

Husband and wife exchanged glances.

"Did Cole put you up to this?" Ron asked.

"Put me up to what?"

Reena waved her hand in disgust. "It doesn't matter," she said to her husband. "None of it's worth much. Besides, he made an inventory of everything we took."

"What is it he wants back?" Ron asked with a sigh.

There was only time for a quick round of soul-searching, not one of my fortes. Honesty won out. Although it probably had as much to do with not wanting to involve Cole as with any clear aversion on my part to stretching the truth.

"Ed Cole has nothing to do with my being here," I explained. "I'm an attorney representing Wes Harding."

"Harding?" As recognition struck, Reena Swanson's features clouded. "The man who killed Lisa and Amy?"

"The man accused of killing them."

There was a moment's silence.

"Are you telling us he didn't?" Ron asked, incredulous.

"I'm simply trying to get some information."

Silence again filled the room.

Reena's face was tight, with all the warmth of marble. She reached for a cigarette and lit it, hands shaking. Then she folded one arm across her chest and glared at me. "You've got a fat lot of nerve, showing up at our door like this."

"It's not a comfortable position, believe me. I may not

have known Lisa well, but I did know her. And I liked her."

Ron eyed me warily. "So what is it you want?"

"It doesn't matter what she wants," Reena said, standing abruptly. Her voice was raspy, her features squeezed tight with anger. "Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with us."

I looked toward Ron, then back at Reena. "I know the loss of your daughter and grandchild must be terribly painful--"

Her gaze turned to steel. "You don't know squat, my dear." She reached for her drink, lost her balance and had to steady herself by catching hold of the table.

"Reena. Please." Ron Swanson came around the edge of the sofa and tried to calm his wife.

She wrenched away. "My daughter was lost to me a long time ago. Isn't that right,
honey?"She
turned to Ron with an ugly expression.

He looked at her sharply.

"And I never met my granddaughter. Never so much as talked to her on the phone."

"Reena, you're letting yourself get worked up."

"Damn right I am." She spat the words at her husband, then turned back to me. "I never even knew I
had
a grandchild until last year. So don't talk to me about loss. And don't try to involve me in this ... this problem of yours. It doesn't affect me in any way."

I shifted my weight, discomfited at what I'd unleashed. "Still, you can't pretend it never happened," I insisted. "If nothing else, there's the property, and whatever else is part of your daughter's estate."

"Ain't that a hoot?" Reena finished off her drink and stared hard into the bottom of the glass. "Looks like little

Lisa s managed to thumb her nose at me all the way from the grave."

Ron Swanson had been hovering off to the side, looking about as comfortable as a man with a toothache. "Nothing's settled," he told his wife. "Cole was talking worst-case scenarios."

"Worst case," she repeated, stepping back unsteadily. She held the glass at eye level, regarding her husband through the bubbled surface. "I guess all the best-case scenarios have been taken."

He moved toward her, his voice full of concern. "You've got to put the past behind you, Reena."

"Easy words for someone like you." With a violent shudder, she turned, raised her arm and hurled the glass in her husband's direction. Fortunately she had a weak arm and a poor aim. The glass missed Swanson by a wide margin and shattered against the tile floor.

For a moment no one moved. Then, with a cry of anguish, Reena flung herself onto the sofa and began pounding the cushion with her fists.

Ron sat beside her and reached out to touch her arm. The flailing continued for a few seconds longer. Then, abruptly, she turned and crumpled into his embrace, where she began sobbing in great waves against his chest.

I let myself out and headed for the car, feeling guilty and vaguely voyeuristic at the same time.

As I reached the front sidewalk, I heard Maria call after me. "Mr. Ron," she explained, "he want to talk to you."

"Back inside?"

She shook her head. "The Crossing. In about half an hour."

"The Crossing?"

"A bar, not far from here. I tell him yes?"

I had a moment's hesitation about meeting a man I didn't know in a strange bar. But I figured if it was close to San Marino it had to be fairly safe. And I hadn't yet found what I'd come for. "I'll be there."

She gave me the address and directions, then retreated back up the walkway and into the house, muttering to herself.

The Crossing wasn't the dark, back-alley beer joint I'd half expected. In fact, it was so trendy I felt out of place, like a country cousin at a yachting party. The decor was glass and brass, garnished with enough greenery that the place could have passed for an indoor botanical garden.

I had planned to sit at the bar while I waited for Swanson, sip a glass of wine and maybe pick up a bite to eat. But the bar was packed three and four people deep, a wall of racket and commotion that showed no sign of thinning. I opted instead for one of the few available tables and had to peer through a tangle of schefflera in order to keep my eye on the front door.

I ordered a glass of chardonnay and a plate of fried zucchini sticks. My glass was almost empty by the time Ron Swanson arrived.

I stood and waved to catch his attention. Three men at the end of the bar waved back, and one of them blew a kiss. They seemed to find the exchange hilarious.

'Thank you for agreeing to meet me," he said. The waitress arrived, and he ordered a double martini. "I apologize for the scene back at the house. Reena's not usually so high-strung. This whole thing's been very hard on her. Hard on us both."

"There's no need to apologize, Mr. Swanson."

"Ron, please." He pressed his palms together, elbows on the table in front of him. "It's just that I didn't want you to think that, well... to get the wrong idea."

'The wrong idea about what?"

"About Reena. About me too, I guess."

I wasn't sure I followed his meaning. "It's understandable that you'd be upset Your wife especially."

He ran a hand across his forehead. "It's the anger I'm talking about... I mean, she is angry, but it's because she loved Lisa, despite everything. I wouldn't want it coming out at trial that her own mother didn't care about . . . about what happened to her."

"Or that she blamed you in some way," I added.

He nodded, looked around to see if his drink was on its way. "Yeah, that too."

"Does she?"

"Does she what?"

"Blame you? I got the feeling maybe she did."