there as soon as I can get a plane.”
“Thanks, Lydia.”
Her voice hardened again, but unconvincingly. “Don’t thank me. You’re going to pay full price for anything you get, you rich bastard.”
It was late afternoon when she arrived in Santa Barbara. Mallon watched her from behind the window blinds as she got out of the back seat of the cab, handed a bill to the driver, and waved him away from her wheeled suitcase. As the cab drove off, she slung her big purse over her shoulder, extended the handle of the suitcase, hung her carry-on bag over it, and pulled it up his driveway.
She did not look as he had expected her to, and he had not been prepared: she did not show the ten years since he had last seen her. Her face seemed nearly the same to him, although he knew he was probably not seeing wrinkles that were there, maybe now appearing at the corners of the big, light brown eyes. He could see that she still hadthe hourglass figure that, when Mallon had worked with her, used to cause whispered, longing comment among their colleagues in the overwhelmingly male office. The narrow waist curving out to wide hips and shoulders had, even then, been out of fashion with other women, but no man had ever agreed with that assessment. There had been a kind of defiance to her attitude about her appearance: the business suits she favored had seemed tailored to show the curves.
She walked with the same energy and determination that he remembered, her eyes making tiny restless movements to take in everything around her as she came. She did not knock at the door, because she had already seen him studying her through the blinds, merely waited for him to get there to open it.
They hugged wordlessly, and then she stepped in, bumping her suitcase up and over the threshold before he could get around her to reach it.
“Don’t pretend you’re a gentleman at this late date,” she said. “I worked with you when you couldn’t afford an extra pair of socks.”
The voice, with its mock-sarcastic tone, made him begin to sense how much he had missed her. “You’re looking great, Lydia.”
“You’re not. You look ten years older.” She brushed past him and sat on the couch. “On the plane I used my laptop to read the Santa Barbara papers. It wasn’t exactly page-one stuff. Tell me what wasn’t in the papers.”
He recited the story again, telling her everything he had told Detective Fowler. When he had finished, Lydia sighed and stared at the wall, her lips pursed.
“I didn’t expect that you would approve,” he said.
“I don’t approve or disapprove,” she answered. “I’m not your mother, and I never had any interest in you myself, except what I could get out of you as a parole officer, which was damned little. You were terrific at holding their hands and sympathizing, but not so hot at tracking them down when they got scarce. Since I’ve known you for a very long time, I will say that I had hoped that by now you wouldhave outgrown having sex with any young thing who has the impulse, but there’s no reason for you to be the first man who ever did. So let’s get started on finding out who she was.”
“How do you want to begin?”
“Where you did. Take me to the spot where you pulled her out of the water.”
“All right,” said Mallon. “When?”
“Now,” she said. “Give me a few minutes to change. While I’m doing it, you can put on the clothes you wore that day. It will help me put together a picture of what happened.”
Fifteen minutes later, she emerged from the spare bedroom dressed in a pair of shorts and a loose Hawaiian shirt with her long brown hair unraveled from its bun and tied back in a ponytail. Mallon drove her along the ocean to the stairway that led down to the beach.
As they walked, Lydia asked Mallon questions about his daily activities, about local real estate and weather patterns. She never showed a reaction to any of the answers except comprehension. She simply waited for a
“Thanks, Lydia.”
Her voice hardened again, but unconvincingly. “Don’t thank me. You’re going to pay full price for anything you get, you rich bastard.”
It was late afternoon when she arrived in Santa Barbara. Mallon watched her from behind the window blinds as she got out of the back seat of the cab, handed a bill to the driver, and waved him away from her wheeled suitcase. As the cab drove off, she slung her big purse over her shoulder, extended the handle of the suitcase, hung her carry-on bag over it, and pulled it up his driveway.
She did not look as he had expected her to, and he had not been prepared: she did not show the ten years since he had last seen her. Her face seemed nearly the same to him, although he knew he was probably not seeing wrinkles that were there, maybe now appearing at the corners of the big, light brown eyes. He could see that she still hadthe hourglass figure that, when Mallon had worked with her, used to cause whispered, longing comment among their colleagues in the overwhelmingly male office. The narrow waist curving out to wide hips and shoulders had, even then, been out of fashion with other women, but no man had ever agreed with that assessment. There had been a kind of defiance to her attitude about her appearance: the business suits she favored had seemed tailored to show the curves.
She walked with the same energy and determination that he remembered, her eyes making tiny restless movements to take in everything around her as she came. She did not knock at the door, because she had already seen him studying her through the blinds, merely waited for him to get there to open it.
They hugged wordlessly, and then she stepped in, bumping her suitcase up and over the threshold before he could get around her to reach it.
“Don’t pretend you’re a gentleman at this late date,” she said. “I worked with you when you couldn’t afford an extra pair of socks.”
The voice, with its mock-sarcastic tone, made him begin to sense how much he had missed her. “You’re looking great, Lydia.”
“You’re not. You look ten years older.” She brushed past him and sat on the couch. “On the plane I used my laptop to read the Santa Barbara papers. It wasn’t exactly page-one stuff. Tell me what wasn’t in the papers.”
He recited the story again, telling her everything he had told Detective Fowler. When he had finished, Lydia sighed and stared at the wall, her lips pursed.
“I didn’t expect that you would approve,” he said.
“I don’t approve or disapprove,” she answered. “I’m not your mother, and I never had any interest in you myself, except what I could get out of you as a parole officer, which was damned little. You were terrific at holding their hands and sympathizing, but not so hot at tracking them down when they got scarce. Since I’ve known you for a very long time, I will say that I had hoped that by now you wouldhave outgrown having sex with any young thing who has the impulse, but there’s no reason for you to be the first man who ever did. So let’s get started on finding out who she was.”
“How do you want to begin?”
“Where you did. Take me to the spot where you pulled her out of the water.”
“All right,” said Mallon. “When?”
“Now,” she said. “Give me a few minutes to change. While I’m doing it, you can put on the clothes you wore that day. It will help me put together a picture of what happened.”
Fifteen minutes later, she emerged from the spare bedroom dressed in a pair of shorts and a loose Hawaiian shirt with her long brown hair unraveled from its bun and tied back in a ponytail. Mallon drove her along the ocean to the stairway that led down to the beach.
As they walked, Lydia asked Mallon questions about his daily activities, about local real estate and weather patterns. She never showed a reaction to any of the answers except comprehension. She simply waited for a
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