by the white linen sofa, drinking coffee Pérez must've offered him, examining the glass-framed quilt that hung next to the fireplace. The Marin County detective Prost hovered behind him, watching Damarodas' hands as if to make sure he didn't steal anything.
John tried to remember if he'd met Prost before. John gave generously to the department's retirement fund. He remembered them at Christmas, played golf with the sheriff. After a while, all the deputies had become facets of the same entity to him—a huge, friendly guard dog nuzzling his hand.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Z,” Prost said. “I tried telling the sergeant—”
“Quite all right, Detective. Sergeant Damarodas, tell me some good news. You've arrested the Montrose boy.”
Damarodas gestured toward the quilt on the wall. “Local artist, sir?”
“My daughter's kindergarten class.”
Damarodas' eyes sparkled. “That's a relief. Here I was thinking, this looks like it was done by a six-year-old. And it was. So much of the art these days, you can't tell.”
Damarodas smiled into the silence he'd created.
“Sergeant,” John said, “was there something you wanted to discuss?”
Damarodas set down his coffee cup, turned the handle so it pointed toward John. “Actually, sir, I wanted to ask you a real estate question.”
“You're in the high-end market for a home, Sergeant?”
“No, sir. We found out where the money came from.”
“The money.”
“In Talia Montrose's account.” Damarodas raised his eyebrows. “I'm sorry to bother you with all these details. You do remember Talia Montrose. She's the woman who was knifed to death.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” John said. “I remember.”
“Maybe I mentioned somebody opened a new checking account for her—deposited two hundred and thirty grand in it. We think she probably had the rest with her, in cash, when she was murdered.”
“The rest.”
“Mrs. Montrose acquired the money by selling her house. Title was processed this week. Some development corporation bought the place—paper corporation, we're still trying to find the real owners. They immediately sold it at a loss to a Realtor in Berkeley. Would you say the Montrose house was worth a quarter of a million?”
“I'd have to see the house.”
“Never picked your daughter up there? Never visited?”
“No.”
“Your—uh—driver, Mr. Pérez, ever pick her up there?”
“No.”
“Your daughter was friends with her son for how long—about six, seven years?”
“Sergeant,” Prost intervened. “Mr. Zedman said no. Twice.”
“My apologies,” Damarodas said. “Mr. Zedman, one Realtor I spoke to told me the Montrose place wouldn't sell for more than a hundred grand, tops.”
“Why are you telling me this, Sergeant?”
“Thought you could help me understand how Mrs. Montrose got such a good deal.”
“Ask her family.”
A tick started in the corner of Damarodas' eye. “Love to. You wouldn't happen to know where they are?”
“No idea.”
“Funny. I get that answer a lot. Neighbors can't even tell me how many kids she had. Talia Montrose's mother—you ever had the pleasure?”
“No.”
“She supposedly took care of the grandkids from time to time—turns out she's an unmedicated schizophrenic. Morning I talked to her she was busy swatting pink cockroaches out of her dress, couldn't really answer my questions. That leaves us with Race, who hasn't been seen since the murder. A boyfriend, Vincent, seems to have left town. And of course, your daughter.”
“My daughter has nothing to do with this.”
“Probably not. Probably we could clear this up if we could ask her a few questions, seeing as Race was her best friend . . .”
“Classmates.” John said the word with distaste. “Not best friends.”
“Okay,” Damarodas agreed. “Classmates who were staying together for several nights. Her personal effects were found at the crime scene. Her voice was on the 911 tape reporting the murder. She and Race disappeared
John tried to remember if he'd met Prost before. John gave generously to the department's retirement fund. He remembered them at Christmas, played golf with the sheriff. After a while, all the deputies had become facets of the same entity to him—a huge, friendly guard dog nuzzling his hand.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Z,” Prost said. “I tried telling the sergeant—”
“Quite all right, Detective. Sergeant Damarodas, tell me some good news. You've arrested the Montrose boy.”
Damarodas gestured toward the quilt on the wall. “Local artist, sir?”
“My daughter's kindergarten class.”
Damarodas' eyes sparkled. “That's a relief. Here I was thinking, this looks like it was done by a six-year-old. And it was. So much of the art these days, you can't tell.”
Damarodas smiled into the silence he'd created.
“Sergeant,” John said, “was there something you wanted to discuss?”
Damarodas set down his coffee cup, turned the handle so it pointed toward John. “Actually, sir, I wanted to ask you a real estate question.”
“You're in the high-end market for a home, Sergeant?”
“No, sir. We found out where the money came from.”
“The money.”
“In Talia Montrose's account.” Damarodas raised his eyebrows. “I'm sorry to bother you with all these details. You do remember Talia Montrose. She's the woman who was knifed to death.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” John said. “I remember.”
“Maybe I mentioned somebody opened a new checking account for her—deposited two hundred and thirty grand in it. We think she probably had the rest with her, in cash, when she was murdered.”
“The rest.”
“Mrs. Montrose acquired the money by selling her house. Title was processed this week. Some development corporation bought the place—paper corporation, we're still trying to find the real owners. They immediately sold it at a loss to a Realtor in Berkeley. Would you say the Montrose house was worth a quarter of a million?”
“I'd have to see the house.”
“Never picked your daughter up there? Never visited?”
“No.”
“Your—uh—driver, Mr. Pérez, ever pick her up there?”
“No.”
“Your daughter was friends with her son for how long—about six, seven years?”
“Sergeant,” Prost intervened. “Mr. Zedman said no. Twice.”
“My apologies,” Damarodas said. “Mr. Zedman, one Realtor I spoke to told me the Montrose place wouldn't sell for more than a hundred grand, tops.”
“Why are you telling me this, Sergeant?”
“Thought you could help me understand how Mrs. Montrose got such a good deal.”
“Ask her family.”
A tick started in the corner of Damarodas' eye. “Love to. You wouldn't happen to know where they are?”
“No idea.”
“Funny. I get that answer a lot. Neighbors can't even tell me how many kids she had. Talia Montrose's mother—you ever had the pleasure?”
“No.”
“She supposedly took care of the grandkids from time to time—turns out she's an unmedicated schizophrenic. Morning I talked to her she was busy swatting pink cockroaches out of her dress, couldn't really answer my questions. That leaves us with Race, who hasn't been seen since the murder. A boyfriend, Vincent, seems to have left town. And of course, your daughter.”
“My daughter has nothing to do with this.”
“Probably not. Probably we could clear this up if we could ask her a few questions, seeing as Race was her best friend . . .”
“Classmates.” John said the word with distaste. “Not best friends.”
“Okay,” Damarodas agreed. “Classmates who were staying together for several nights. Her personal effects were found at the crime scene. Her voice was on the 911 tape reporting the murder. She and Race disappeared
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