"She didn't. It was in a trust." And Britton must have known this, if he had talked to Irene.
Britton leaned back in his chair, puzzled. "I was wondering how come you didn't mention it."
"Excuse me?"
"At Renee's apartment. When we were talking about Renee's estate." After a moment she said, "I suppose I forgot."
"You forgot."
Gail gave him a long, steady look. "Yes. My sister had just killed herself. You can understand that her trust wasn't the first thing on my mind." Let him make of that what he wanted, she thought.
Britton put down his coffee and unwrapped the cord from around the accordion file, then lifted the flap. "I brought you something. I twisted the M.E.'s arm and got a preliminary death certificate." He handed her a single sheet of paper, a form with typing in the blanks, a raised seal at the top.
Gail glanced at it long enough to read a few of the lines.
Renee Michelle Connor. Age 29. Cause of death: Exsanguination. Due to or a consequence of. . . Pending investigation.
She turned it over on the table. Britton's eyes were on her, concerned. She smiled. "It looks so cold."
"Yes, ma'am. You do need the certificate to open the estate, though."
She nodded. "Thanks for bringing it. And you really don't have to call me ma'am. I'm younger than you are. It makes me feel strange."
Britton chuckled and settled back in his chair again. It creaked a little under his stocky form. "Okay, let me get your thoughts on something. Your cousin Ben Strickland's handling the estate, right? Last week he called the captain about us closing the investigation. Why would he do that?"
"He wouldn't." Gail sat silently for a moment, then recalled her conversation with Ben. "No, this is a misunderstanding. If he called it was only to find out what was going on."
Britton frowned, thinking. "That wasn't exactly how I heard it. Didn't you ask him to call?"
Gail said, "Yes. I wanted him to find out how long this is going to take. All those nice chats you're having with my mother aren't doing her any good. She needs to put this behind her. So do I, frankly."
"I sympathize. But I've got a young woman dead and a lot of different opinions as to whether or not she could have taken her own life. In the last couple days I've talked to several of her friends and coworkers. Most of them said no.
"Then they didn't know her very well. Renee showed whatever side of herself she wanted to show."
"And what was the real side?"
"Afraid. Lonely. Unable to cope when things got difficult for her. I think she finally just gave up."
Britton sat silently for a while. "Why was she like that?"
"I have no idea," Gail said. "A product of her lifestyle, most likely."
"We ran her name through the computer," Britton said, "and came up with half a dozen arrests. And two as a juvenile, but those files were sealed when she turned eighteen. There was a drunk and disorderly, a trespassing, a misdemeanor marijuana possession, and two driving under the influence. And a case last summer for trafficking in cocaine. Did you know about that?"
Gail drew a sharp breath. "No. My God. What was she doing?"
"Basically coming back from the Bahamas on a fishing boat with the wrong kind of people. They didn't find much, half a kilo, but the guys had priors. They skipped after the bond hearing. Renee's case was dropped before it got to arraignment."
"Well. Now you understand what I mean about her lifestyle."
Britton took off his glasses, held them up to the light, then worked a paper napkin on the lenses. "No, I don't think she was into drugs. She was showing up at work every day, on time. And helping to plan a baby shower for a girl at her office. Like I mentioned the last time we talked, there are several things about this case that bother me. No hesitation marks on her wrists. Tossing the razor blade after she cut herself. And she went out on that boardwalk after dark? No flashlight? No bug spray?" He put his glasses back on. "It makes you wonder."
Britton opened the file again. The jumble of papers Gail had seen before in Renee's desk had been rearranged into neatly stacked folders.
He said, "That box out there in the living room, you can have all that. I don't have any use for it. Old photos, notes from classes she took, papers regarding her condo, and so forth. What's in here are things I want to keep awhile. If I thought you needed it for the estate, I made copies and they're in the box too."
"Copies? Such efficiency," Gail said. "When do we get everything back?"
"It shouldn't be too long." Britton pulled a folder out of the file and opened it on the table. There were envelopes inside. A dozen of them, mostly white, a couple red, a pink, a dark green, a blue. The size that greeting cards come in. Britton lifted the torn flap of one envelope and withdrew a card, passed it to Gail.
On an empty white background there was a tiny cartoon figure holding out a flower.
Just to let you know
. . . She flipped it open. . . .
that I'm thinking of you.
Underneath in black marker was scrawled the initial D. And under that a note:
I hope the $$$ comes in handy. Don't worry about returning it.
Gail closed the card.
Britton said, "They're all from somebody named 'D.' " He opened more of them and showed her.
Merry Christmas to my favorite elf. Happy Birthday. . . . When you' re feeling blue. . . . Hope your day is a happy one. . . .
Cards that might have been purchased at any drugstore on the spur of the moment. Dave's taste hadn't been brilliant. Their banality embarrassed her more than their number.
Gail tossed the last one back on the stack. "They weren't having an affair, if that's what you're thinking."
"You're sure."
"Yes." When he continued to look at her from behind his gold-rimmed glasses, Gail said, "Dave and I have already discussed this. And you'll understand if I tell you that the conversation is private."
Britton spread his hands as if concurring, then closed the folder and put it to one side. "I'm going to keep these for a while."
"Fine."
She checked the clock on the microwave. "I'm expected at my office at ten," she said.
"Okay, but let me ask you about one more thing." Britton rubbed the back of his neck. "Renee died early Sunday morning, as near as we can tell."
Gail couldn't hold back a little smile. "I was at work by eight and my husband had a tennis match."
There was a momentary silence, Britton looking at her. "You know, all that stuff you hear on TV—the person died between eleven and eleven-fifteen, whatever—that's wishful thinking. We've got a bigger time span on your sister, with her lying in a foot of water for over twenty-four hours."
His eyes went over Gail's face, as if noting its pallor. "But I didn't want to ask you about that just now. I'm curious about your mother's birthday party. Mrs. Connor told me about it, but I'd like to get another perspective. Who all was there?"
Gail tapped lightly on the handle of her mug with a fingernail, making a faint clinking noise. "Her friends were there. Most of the family, except the ones out of town. Neighbors."
"Your daughter wasn't there."
"No, she was spending the night with a friend of hers down the street. It wasn't really a party for children."
"Do you suppose you could give me a list of who was there?"
"This minute?"
"No, you can think about it, let me know. Mrs. Connor gave me some names, but I'd like to make sure I have everybody." Britton leaned an elbow on the table. "Did Renee come with anyone?"
"No, by herself."
"How was she at the party? Happy? Depressed?"
"It's hard to say. She had a lot to drink."
Southern Comfort, Gail remembered. In a rocks glass. Renee dunking a cherry up and down by its stem, asking Irene's eighty-year-old neighbor if he could make a knot in it with his tongue. The old man laughing, red-faced, finally wheezing.
There was no need to tell Britton what Renee had done to Ben on the back porch. Let Ben tell him, if he wanted to.
"When did she leave?"
Gail looked up. "I don't remember exactly. Nine, nine-thirty. I left shortly afterward."
"Mrs. Connor said your husband drove Renee home." Britton seemed to want an explanation.
"Yes," she said. "She was too intoxicated to drive herself."
"He drove her car?"
"Yes." Renee had been laughing, her arm around Dave's neck as he half-carried her to her car. Beams of white swept across the shrubbery in Irene's yard, red tail-lights disappearing up the street.
"And you got home— How?"
"In our car."
"Did you go by Renee's to pick him up?"
"No, I went straight home."
"Why was that?"
Because they had argued. Because she had told him to find his own way home, hitchhike, walk for all she cared. "Because he said he'd take a taxi."
"About what time did he get home?"
"I'm not exactly sure."
"Can you give me an estimate what time it was? Ten? Eleven?"
"Who remembers things like that? I may have been asleep. I don't know." She glanced at the clock again. "I'm sorry, but I really do have to get ready for work."
Britton stood up. "There are a couple other areas I need to cover. How about if you come on out to headquarters Monday? I'll give you a tour of the facility."
"Monday is difficult."
He seemed surprised, his eyes widening a bit. ''I know you're a busy lady, but don't you want us to find out what happened to your sister as soon as possible?"
"Don't play games with me, Sergeant. Of course I'll talk to you, but I cannot bend my entire schedule around to do it. If you call my office I'll see when I have some time available."
Britton looked at her for another second, then put the folder back in the file and closed the flap.
"I expect cooperation, Ms. Connor. This is not a game. Your sister was murdered."
Ten
From the living room window Gail watched Frank Britton back his sedan out of the driveway. Plain hubcaps, blue light on the dash, antenna on the roof. She could see the neighbor across the street staring as he picked up his recycling bins at the curb.
Honey, there was a cop over at the Metzgers'. What do you think is going on?
Gail let the curtain fall back into place.
Until now she had managed to think of Frank Britton as a minor annoyance—Irene's grief incarnated into a functionary of the Metro-Dade Homicide Bureau. He would go away once the right paperwork had been filled out. Gail could not imagine he was serious about murder. Until now.
Renee had known some dangerous people. Not just decadent—dangerous. She might have gone willingly with one of them to that park in the Everglades, to do God only knew what.
But apparently Britton was pursuing other theories. He had shown Gail the cards from Dave. The implication was clear: a secret affair, a moment of rage. Dave could lose his temper. Britton knew it, if he had been listening at the front door.
Impossible, Gail thought. Dave wasn't capable of murder.
She let herself sink into a chair.
Perhaps Britton was thinking of a conspiracy, she and Dave planning it together, concocting alibis. Money was motive enough, two hundred thousand dollars, which she had forgotten to mention when Britton asked about the estate. Or did he think she had killed Renee by herself? Gail laughed at the thought. Britton wasn't that stupid.
Maybe he wanted to make lieutenant. He could shake the tree and see what fell out. Former deb of old Miami family slashed by crazed drug lord. Or by frustrated lover or jealous sister, take your pick. With no hard evidence, Britton was playing with theories. Stacking and shuffling, trying to find patterns.
And two and two are five. The simplest answer was, Renee had killed herself.
When the medical examiner had pulled back the sheet, Gail had held her breath. She had looked at a face they said was Renee's, but the colors were all wrong. Gray and rubbery. Pieces missing. But not as bad as she had feared. Gail stared until she heard someone ask if that was her sister. And she had nodded. Since then she had the feeling that the torn and bloated body in the morgue was real and that the Renee of her memory was disappearing, fading in and out like a distant radio signal.
Gail stood up from her chair. The living room was silent, utterly still, only a thin wedge of light angling across the ivory-colored carpet. Ivory carpet, white walls, track lighting, blue sofas. She had let a decorator do it, not having the time herself. She still didn't like it.
She went back through the dining room to the kitchen and called Bob Wilcox at the office.
Sorry, I can't come in today, Karen is ill. No, nothing serious, but I simply can't leave. Don't worry, you'll do fine at trial.