The Nomination (28 page)

Mac shrugged. “Sounds like a murder-suicide, all right.”

Alberts narrowed his eyes at him. “But . . . ?”

Mac shook his head. “But nothing. I guess they probably committed suicide, just the way you say it looks. But let's say that's not what happened. The only other explanation is, somebody killed them both and tried to make it look like suicide.”

Alberts nodded. “And?”

“Okay,” said Mac. “If somebody killed them and set it up so it would look like Jill shot Simone twice in the chest then turned the gun on herself . . . which, you say, is exactly what it does look like . . . but if somebody did it . . . killed them . . . tried to make it look like suicide . . . the question is why.”

Alberts nodded. “And who.”

“Well, sure,” said Mac. “Who, too. The who and the why go together.”

“That's a pretty wild scenario,” said Alberts.

“But just for the sake of argument, let's say that's how it happened,” said Mac. “What about a motive?”

Alberts spread his hands. “Near as we can tell, nothing was taken from the house. There's money and jewelry and silverware and art. A lot of stuff that looks pretty valuable. It's all still there. This wasn't a burglary.”

“What about ... ?” Mac let his voice trail off.

“No sign of sexual assault on either woman. Nothing like that.”

“Can you think of any other motive?”

Alberts shrugged.

“So it must've been suicide.”

“We talked to Ms. Bonet's doctor, Dr. Mattes,” said Alberts, “and he said she was dying of multiple sclerosis, that the disease was progressing rapidly, and that she'd been pretty depressed about it. He prescribed something for her, but in her situation, he said it wouldn't necessarily do much for her depression. The doctor also believes that these two women were, um, lovers, very devoted to each other. He thought it was entirely possible that Ms. Bonet would decide she wanted to die.” Alberts spread his hands. “Murder-suicide.”

“You're comfortable with that?” said Mac.

Alberts nodded. “Sure. You're not, huh?”

“I'm surprised, that's all,” Mac said. “I know Simone was depressed and sick, but she had things she was looking forward to.”

“Like what?”

“Like finishing our book. Like getting together with her daughter.”

“She had a daughter?”

Mac shook his head. “I don't know much about it. Just that Simone had a daughter who she gave up for adoption when she was a baby. She'd be a grown woman now. They'd recently had some communication. Maybe I'll know more when I listen to the tapes.”

“What tapes?”

“Simone has been telling her life story on tapes for me. For our book. I haven't listened to them yet.”

“I'd like to hear those tapes,” said Alberts. “They could go a long way to clearing this whole thing up.”

Mac smiled. “You think there's something to clear up?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Not really.”

“Well,” said Mac, “if Simone talks about a plan to commit suicide on tape, I'll let you know, okay?”

“Good deal.” Alberts shrugged. “You want to go inside, have a look?”

“Can I?”

“Sure. You can tell me what you think.”

JESSIE CROSSED THE Delaware River a little before noontime. Now she was getting close. She'd been driving on the winding two-lane roads, definitely country roads, with sandy shoulders and continuous bends and rises and dips. They wound through woods and past fields and over little rocky brooks, and there weren't many signs of civilization. Hardly any other vehicles on the road. Here and there a mobile home or a hunter's cabin nestled among some trees. That was about it.

After a while she turned into a grassy pull-off and looked at her road map. As near as she could tell, she wasn't more than an hour's drive from Beaverkill.

She picked up her phone and got out of the car to stretch her legs. She hit redial as she paced around. Simone Bonet's number was the last one she'd tried.

It rang three times. Then a man's voice picked up and said, “Yes?”

Jessie hesitated, then poked the “end” button.

She hadn't expected a man to answer. It threw her.

She took a breath and thought about it. Okay, so Simone was married, or living with a guy or something. Why should it matter to Jessie?

She decided it didn't. She hit redial again, still pacing around beside the road.

Again a man answered. She couldn't be sure, but it sounded like a different voice.

“May I speak to Simone Bonet, please?” Jessie said.

“Who's calling please?”

“Is she there?”

There was a hesitation on the other end. Then the man said, “Jessie? Is that you?”

S
tate Police Detective Alberts fished a key out of his pocket, stuck it in the lock, and pushed open the front door. Mac followed the cop into the living room. It looked the same as it had the last time he'd been there.

“Don't touch
anything
,” Alberts said.

“There was no sign of forced entry?” Mac said.

“No,” said Alberts. “Mr. Martinez, the gardener who found them, said the door was unlocked so he walked in. That was the side door off the deck. We're keeping the house locked now, but I would guess the ladies didn't lock up at night.”

Mac looked at him. “Really?”

“This is the country, Mr. Cassidy. Most folks don't bother locking their doors. People feel safe around here.”

“Yeah,” said Mac. “I can see why.”

Alberts shot him a glance. The lieutenant led the way to the bedroom. He stopped outside the open door. “This is how we found it,” he said. “Except, of course, there were two bodies here.”

Mac stood in the doorway. He hadn't been in this part of the house before. There wasn't much to see. A straight-backed wooden chair was pulled up beside the bed. The bed itself looked like it had been slept in. The pillows were bunched up against the headboard and the blankets were turned down.

He saw no bloodstains or bullet holes. It was just an empty bedroom.

“Maybe you see something I don't see?” said Alberts, making it a question.

Mac shook his head. “No. I don't think so.” But something was nagging at him.

Right then the phone beside the bed rang. It sounded loud and sudden in the hush of the empty house.

Alberts let it ring a couple of times, then picked it up and said, “Yes?”

He held it against his ear for a moment, then shrugged and put it back on its cradle.

“Nobody there?” said Mac.

He shook his head. “Hung up on me.” He hit a couple of buttons on the phone, put it to his ear, looked up at the ceiling, then shrugged. “No luck. Cell phone probably.” He waved the back of his hand, dismissing the subject. “Anyway, what were you were saying?”

“Nothing, I guess,” said Mac. “You asked if I noticed anything. I don't know how I could. I mean, I've never been in this room before. But still, I've got the feeling that something is . . . I don't know ... wrong. Off. Out of place or something.”

“You saying—?”

The phone rang again.

Mac said. “Let me. Okay?”

Alberts shrugged. “Be my guest.”

Mac picked up the phone and said, “Hello?”

There was a hesitation. Then, “May I speak to Simone Bonet, please?” A woman's voice.

“Who's calling, please?”

“Is she there?”

“Jessie? Is that you?”

Mac heard a quick exhalation of breath. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, it is. Who are you? How did you know?”

“I'm a friend,” he said. “Simone talks about you all the time.”

“So put her on the phone.” Mac thought he heard panic rising in Jessie's voice. “I want to talk to her.”

“Where are you?” Mac said.

“I'm standing beside the fucking road in the middle of nowhere getting aggravated.”

“What state are you in?”

“State? New York.”

“Do you know what town?”

“Jesus,” said Jessie. “I'm not lost. Near as I can tell, I'm less than an hour from Beaverkill. That's where I'm headed. I want to see Simone Bonet, and that's where she lives. But if she's not there . . .”

Mac was thinking that if he told Jessie that Simone was dead, she wouldn't come. He wanted to tell her in person. He wanted to meet her. He wanted to help her if she needed help. He realized that for some reason he felt obligated to Simone to finish what they had started. To get her story told. If Jessie was Simone's daughter, she had the right to know it. He figured they could get the story from the tapes Simone had made.

“Why don't you come to the house,” he said. “Do you know how to find it?”

“Yes, I've got GPS. I just wanted to make sure she's there,” Jessie said. “That's why I'm calling. Assuming she still wants to see me.”

“I'm sure she would,” he said. He gave her the landmarks for the driveway.

“Tell her I'll be there in about an hour,” said Jessie.

“Good,” said Mac.

He hung up the phone. Alberts was looking at him. “Who's Jessie?”

“Remember I mentioned Simone's daughter?”

“That was her?”

Mac nodded. “She's about an hour from here. She's on her way.”

“Where does she live?”

“California.”

“She came all the way from California?”

“Looks like it.”

“Does she know anything about this?” Alberts waved his hand at the bedroom.

Mac shook his head. “I don't see how she could know anything. Simone gave her up for adoption when she was a baby. They just got in touch with each other recently.”

“And now it's too late,” said Alberts. “Too bad.” He looked at his watch, then at Mac. “I'm afraid we're going to have to call it a day. I've got to be somewhere.”

They walked.

“So the daughter is on her way?” Alberts said.

Mac nodded. “I'm going to wait for her here, if that's all right.”

Alberts shrugged. “Do me a favor, though. If she has any thoughts or insights or theories, make sure I hear about them.”

“Of course.”

“And if you—”

“Wait,” said Mac. “I remember now. Something Simone told me the first time I was here. She gave me a batch of old photographs and documents for the book, and she told me there was one photograph from the batch that she was keeping on the table beside her bed.”

“A photograph?” said Alberts. “A photograph of what?”

“I don't know,” said Mac. “I didn't see it. Was there a photograph beside her bed?”

He shrugged. “No, I don't think so.”

“I mean, when you first went into the bedroom? Maybe somebody took it for evidence or something?”

“Nobody took any photograph.”

“So she probably moved it. Or maybe I'm not remembering right.” Mac shrugged. “Anyway, I feel better. It bothered me that I couldn't think of it.”

“Happens to me all the time,” said Alberts. “Trust me, it only gets worse.” He handed Mac a business card. “Ask Jessie to give me a call, would you? And if you think of anything else . . .”

“Sure.” Mac took out a card of his own and gave it to the detective. “If you need me for anything.”

THE DARK GREEN Jeep Cherokee pulled up behind Mac's car and Jill's old Wagoneer. It was five minutes of two. Mac was sitting on the front steps of Simone's house. He stood up and started toward the Cherokee.

The door opened and Jessie stepped out. He saw the resemblance instantly, even though Jessie had short blonde hair and her skin was fairer than Simone's. The eyes and the mouth, the shape of her face, the jawline and cheekbones, were the same.

She was tall and willowy, wearing shorts and a sleeveless jersey. She had athletic legs, muscular shoulders. Her skin seemed to glow with fitness and strength and health.

Mac realized he was staring at her. It occurred to him that he hadn't looked at a woman that way—the way he realized he was looking at Jessie—for a long time. Hadn't been much interested in how a woman looked.

“Hi,” he said. “Jessie?”

She nodded. “You're Cassidy?”

“Yes,” he said. “Mac.”

She slammed the car door, then turned to face him. She put her hands on her hips and smiled. “So do I pass?”

“What?”

“You're staring at me.”

“I'm sorry.” Mac smiled. “You look like Simone.”

“Really.” A statement, not a question. Sarcastic. Skeptical.

“Yes. Your eyes especially.”

“She's Asian?”

“You don't know anything about her, do you?”

“Nothing whatsoever,” said Jessie. “Just that she saw my picture in the paper, and based on that, she thinks she gave birth to me.”

“And you drove here all the way from California to find out if it's true?”

Jessie narrowed her eyes at him for a moment. Then she nodded. “Sure. Why not?”

Mac shrugged. “It's a long drive.”

“So where is she?” Jessie said. “Why are you meeting me out in the driveway like this. Who the hell are you, anyway? You her boyfriend or something?”

He didn't know how to say it except to say it. “Simone is dead, Jessie.”

She frowned. “What?”

“She's dead. It happened Monday night.”

Jessie went over to the front steps and sat down. “What happened?”

Mac sat beside her. “Suicide, apparently.”

“What do you mean, apparently?”

Mac told her everything he knew. As he talked, Jessie peered intently into his eyes. He found it unnerving. It was as if she could see right into his brain. He thought she was the kind of woman he couldn't lie to or keep a secret from.

As he approached the end of his story, Jessie started shaking her head. When he finished, she said, “And you believe it?”

“What? That they committed suicide?”

“Yes.”

“I guess so. That's what it looked like.”

“Never mind how it looked,” she said. “Just from what you know about her. Your sense of her. Your instincts. Would she do this? Can you imagine her and her friend actually doing this? Planning it? Agreeing to it? Carrying it out?”

Mac shook his head. “Not really. But—”

“She said she wanted to meet me, right?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “It was very important to her. It's what kept her going, I think. When you called the other night—when Jill answered and you hung up on Simone—she was thrilled. She was convinced you'd call again, that you wanted to learn about yourself, that you'd come to meet her. She thought you were just shy. She thought that's why you wouldn't speak to her. That you were bashful.”

Jessie looked at him out of the sides of her eyes. “I am. I'm extremely bashful.”

He wondered if she was flirting with him.

“So why would she do this,” Jessie said, “if she had things she was looking forward to?”

“There are reasons. Her disease, her depression . . .”

“Tell me what you think, Mac.”

He nodded. “Okay, I find it hard to believe they would do this.” He liked the way she said his name. He liked the way she held his eyes with hers. “Simone was deeply involved in our book. She was committed to it. I don't believe she wanted to quit before it was finished. She was telling her story for me on tape. I think it was hard for her. I think she had a lot of painful memories. But she wanted to get it done. She said she was doing it for you. So you'd know all about yourself.”

“Look,” Jessie said. “We don't even know if I
am
her daughter. I mean, so I've got Asian eyes and I'm the right age, and I happen to be adopted.”

“Your name, too.”

“Church,” said Jessie.

Mac nodded. “Simone knew the name of the people who adopted you.”

She was looking at him. He found it hard not to look away from her eyes.

“All that,” she said softly. “It sort of adds up, doesn't it?”

“It does,” said Mac.

“My parents,” she said. “They told me I was adopted right from the beginning. It was one of the first things I knew about myself. They told me it was something I should be proud of. Like they picked me out. It made me special. But they never told me anything about my . . . my origins.”