In this corner of Pasadena, the streets rolled up at night, and cars were mostly kept in garages. So Holly March felt awfully conspicuous sitting in the driver’s seat of her dad’s car at the curb outside the Leisure World retirement complex. Not least because she was twelve years old. Only until Thursday, it was true; after that she could at least say she was a teenager. But she had a feeling that “Actually, officer, I’m about to turn thirteen” wouldn’t be much of a defense if she was challenged.
Not that age should be what mattered. She felt strongly about that. She knew grown-ups who shouldn’t be trusted behind the wheel. Her dad, for instance. Not the most reliable of drivers, to say the least. And not in any condition to drive at the moment. What was he supposed to do, call taxis to take him everywhere? Hire a chauffeur like some Hollywood bigshot? With what money? Meanwhile, Holly knew all her turn signals, was careful and responsible, and her feet reached the pedals. What was the big deal?
She looked at her wristwatch. Mickey’s big hand was pointing at the nine. How long did it take to say “I quit”?
When she’d gone into the house and found her father passed out on the floor, moaning softly, at first she’d thought it had been an accident. That nice man couldn’t have done it—he’d drunk a Yoo-hoo with her. But when her dad finally came to, she got the whole story out of him. She’d made him swear he’d go straight to the client and drop the case, soon as they got out of the emergency room. He’d been more than willing. He should’ve never taken this case in the first place, he said.
But now he’d been in with the old lady for half an hour, and that didn’t bode well. He was such a pushover, her dad. Couldn’t say no to anyone. Especially when there was money involved.
“Do you really think she’s still alive?” she’d asked him as they drove over here from the hospital.
“Who?”
“ ‘Who,’ ” she said. “The one she hired you to find. Her niece.”
“No. The head medical examiner himself personally I.D.’d the body.”
“Oh, I bet he did,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“I saw that picture you’ve been carrying around.”
“You’re not supposed to look at pictures like that,” March said.
“Then don’t leave them lying around the house.”
“Touché,” March said.
And after driving some more: “Dad?”
“What.”
“Do all men like big ones like that?”
“Big what?”
“ ‘Big what.’ ” She rolled her eyes. “Boobs.”
March stared straight ahead, out the windshield. “Yes,” he finally said. “All men do.”
Holly had nodded, filed the information away for future reference, kept driving.
Now she sat by the curb and picked at her fingernails. She checked her watch again. How much longer—
Then she saw him coming. His head was down, his shoulders slumped. The cast on his arm shone white as he passed under a streetlamp.
He climbed in beside her.
“Did you drop the case?” she asked.
“Sure, yeah,” he said. “Case closed.”
“Really?”
He didn’t say anything. He’d meant to quit. He’d tried to quit. Then Lily Glenn had taken out her checkbook.
“Can I ask you a question?” March said. “Tell me the truth. And don’t take it easy on me just because I’m your father. Just—tell it to me straight. Am I a bad person?”
What kind of question was that? “Yes,” she said.
March sighed. “Just drive,” he said.