I didn’t sleep until nearly dawn. Which was when the phone rang. I was groggy enough that the call could have been part of a dream.
But I took what the voice said seriously and got up and got dressed and headed for the hospital after shaving, brushing my teeth, and taking what my parents always called a “sponge bath.” Maybe I would have saved time showering.
Edelman, who had involved himself only to help me deal with the Branigans, waited for me in the lobby. We rode up silently to Jane’s floor and got off. In the dim light of the elevator I watched my old friend, good cop, good husband, good father, good man. He was getting older. It was like a flu—getting older seemed to be going around these days.
Malachie, the detective officially in charge and the man who’d directed the cleanup at Stephen Elliot’s house, stood above the Branigans, who sat on a couch in the waiting area.
Obviously he had just given them the news. The ballistics report was in on the gun I’d taken from Jane that day in the park.
Maybe it was the earliness of the hour, maybe it was because the past few days had drained them, maybe it was because they’d expected it—whatever, the Branigans had taken the news with a kind of bitter quiet. Their expressions were angry, but they said nothing, simply watched Malachie as if he were some kind of rodent.
Edelman touched my arm before we got over there. “I only called because they look like they could use a friend. I know her father’s a big-shot lawyer, but—” He shrugged. “I kinda feel sorry for them is all.”
“Yeah. I appreciate the call.”
We started across the room to them. On my way I saw a story in the morning paper that made me wonder if I wasn’t hallucinating. I reached for the paper tossed on the empty chair just as Mrs. Branigan began sobbing.
The sounds were horrible, animal noises and froze everybody in position.
Then Mr. Branigan took her and brought her into his arms, and Edelman and I finished our walk over to them.
“Please, would you mind leaving us alone?” Mr. Branigan said to the officers.
They nodded, proceeded to withdraw. I turned away too. Mr. Branigan said, “Would you mind staying?”
I wanted to see the paper, make sure that I hadn’t imagined what I’d seen. But I could hardly refuse him.
I watched as he sat his wife down and put her hands together and fluffed a pillow and put it behind her head for her to lean back against. Apparently the hospital put feather pillows out in case you had an overnight vigil.
Mrs. Branigan, now obviously in bad condition mentally, shut her eyes and began to weep silently and convulsively. Her whole body moved to some ancient rhythm. She was mourning a daughter who was, in many respects, already dead.
Mr. Branigan walked me several yards down the hall and around a corner.
“You know what the police just told us—that Jane is being formally charged with murder.” His Spencer Tracy stature, boozed out though it was, bore the dignity of righteousness just then. He was professionally angry. “They’re charging her with murder in the first degree, if you can believe that.”
I didn’t know what to say, do.
“I hope you’ve been looking into this,” he said.
“Yes. I have.”
“Have you learned anything?”
“Nothing I should talk about right now.”
He kept his eyes on me. “What do you think?”
He had confused me. “About what?”
“Now that my wife’s not here, be honest. Do you think Jane killed him?”
“No.”
“You don’t sound as sure as you once did.”
About that I couldn’t argue. The more confusing things got, the more anything seemed possible. Even Jane’s complicity in murder.
He said, “Do you need money?”
I didn’t want anything from him. I felt sorry for the Branigans, but we’d never been close, so why should we start now? I shook my head.
“I’m not impressed with either of those cops. Malachie or Edelman.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Lord spare me from Jewish policemen.” I’m sure the line would have gone over very well at his country club.
“Edelman’s a good man.”
“I’m sure he is, ‘good’ that is. I’m not so sure about his competence.”
I sighed. “Look, I realize she’s your daughter, but think of it from their point of view. She calls me hysterical, I meet her, she has the murder weapon in her hand, and then she slides into shock. That would seem to indicate guilt, or at least a very heavy involvement.”
He wanted to change the subject. “What do we really know about this Elliot? I met him once. He struck me as a little—faggy. I can’t quite explain it. But there was something about him—”
“That seems to be the consensus. Not gay—just strange in some way.” I nodded to an orderly who was walking by. “The other thing we seem to know is that nobody is sure about his background. I’ve asked Bryce Hammond for his résumé, which he’s supposed to get me. And one more thing—Elliot lived way beyond his means.”
“That was the impression I got when my wife and I visited them in his house. My God, I could hardly afford a place like that. I didn’t see how he could, no matter how ‘creative’ he was.”
“I’ll keep working.”
He offered me his hand. “You know, we were talking about you last night.”
I knew what he was going to say and I wished he wouldn’t.
A common goal was making us friends, and I always distrust friendships that aren’t more spontaneous in some way.
“We’ve decided,” he said, “that we were very wrong about you and we’re very sorry.”
“Well, thank you,” I said, “thank you very much.”
We walked back. A nurse was giving Mrs. Branigan a glass of water, helping her drink it.
Edelman came over. “The DA thinks he’s got this one wrapped good and tight,” he said after I’d waved good-bye to the Branigans and was walking to the elevator.
“He’s wrong.”
There was pity in his eyes. “Shit, man, you gotta be kidding. I know what she means to you, but—”
I got on board the elevator, tilted my head good-bye, watched as the doors closed.
Then I opened the newspaper I’d picked up.
MOTEL CLERK KILLS PROSTITUTE, SHOOTS SELF
Larry the clerk had been wrong about one thing. He said his life was just as screwed up as his old man’s had been. It sounded as if, right at the last, he’d managed to make his even worse.