Double

John had been the only one home, and I’d joined him in the living room to watch an old movie on TV and drink a couple of beers. We’d said little until about ten-thirty, when, during one of the long commercial breaks, he’d again brought up the subject of getting custody of his kids.

Maybe it was the general frustration of the day, or maybe it was the nagging worry in the back of my mind about Don and his so-called cousin, but whatever caused it, I became very stuffy with John. “You know,” I said, “before you start any expensive court proceedings, you might consider going back to work and finding your own place to live.”

“I’ll get to that.”

“Like hell you will. How long has it been since she threw you out?”

“A couple of months is all.”

“And how long since you worked?”

He shrugged.

“Also a couple of months. John, you’ve got that contractor’s license. If you don’t want to work for yourself, there are lots of firms that would hire you.”

Nothing from him but the sound of a pull-top popping on a beer can.

“If you really want custody of those kids, you’ll have to prove to the court that you can support them — and give them a decent home.”

“Ma—”

“Ma’s already raised her family.”

“She said she’d help.”

“Sure, help. But not raise them. Besides, no judge is going to take the kids away from their natural mother under circumstances like these.”

“Since when are you a lawyer?”

“I don’t have to be a lawyer to know that.”

He turned to face me, his long chin jutting out defiantly. “I want those kids, Shar.”

“Do you? Maybe you just like to talk about it. Because it makes people feel sorry for you.”

And at that he got up and stalked out of the room. And I had watched the rest of the movie feeling stuffy and self-righteous and ashamed, because I loved him and I’d hurt him.

Now I sat in the sunny breakfast nook, drinking my coffee and wondering what I was really accomplishing here. I’d missed the whole convention, and instead of spending time with my family as I’d planned, I was chasing all over San Diego trying to prove Elaine Picard hadn’t killed herself or fallen from that tower by accident. And why? She had been a friend, but not a close one, and that friendship had been put on hold years ago. There were lots of people here I’d been closer to, including the women who’d acted scared of me at the party the other night. Why all this frantic activity over Elaine?

Because, I told myself, you’re an investigator. Not somebody who just works at it nine to five, but a person who lives it every hour, every day. You can’t escape it; it’s in your blood.

Besides, I added, there’s something illegal going on at the Casa del Rey, something involving the little boy Wolf met, and you want to get to the bottom of it. And you keep seeing Elaine’s pensive face, with the little lines of tension and shadows under her eyes — strain that was probably caused by her awareness of the illegal goings-on.

And, finally, I kept on thinking that if only we’d had the talk Sugarman had said Elaine had wanted — a real talk rather than superficial chat about houses and boyfriends — she might not have died the other day...

I looked at my watch and realized I’d just have time to get downtown for my eleven-thirty appointment.

Alan Thorburn’s office was plush and modern, with a fine view of the bridge and Coronado Island. Thorburn himself surprised me. He was young-looking, bespectacled, and saved from being homely only by a boyish, almost bumbling charm. I wondered how he could afford such offices; surely anyone of his appearance could not attract the high-paying clients necessary to foot the bills. But when I shook his hand, I saw the wrinkles that the boyish manner had at first made me overlook and I caught the gleam of keen intelligence in his eyes. Alan Thorburn was neither young nor incompetent; his mannerisms had probably fooled a good many people — and fooled them to his advantage.

We sat down and I explained my relationship to Elaine and my suspicions about her death. Thorburn listened quietly, only reacting when I mentioned the carbon of her letter to him and the clipping she’d supposedly enclosed. “I guess,” I said, “that the sheriffs department will be calling on you soon, wanting to see that clipping. But I’d like to get a look at it too.”

He thought a moment, then reached over and pressed a button on his intercom. When a woman’s voice answered, he said, “Linda, has anyone from the sheriff’s department asked to see me regarding Elaine Picard this morning?”

“No one.”

He glanced at me. “That shows how strong their interest in her death is.”

“I’m sorry?” the voice on the intercom said.

“Never mind. Will you bring me her file, please?”

In a moment the secretary entered and placed a large manila folder on Thorburn’s desk. He looked through the papers in it, then extended a newspaper clipping to me. “Maybe it will make sense to you. Frankly, it’s had me puzzled, and I’d be glad of an explanation.”