these.” She removed the wallet from the purse and thumbed through the credit cards and memberships and receipts, then opened the zipper on the cash compartment. Mallon could see a few twenty-dollar bills and hear a clink of change. She unzipped a compartment built into the silky fabric inside the purse. There was a sheaf of hundreds. She zipped it up again. “We’ll have to stop at the police station on the way to your house.”
“Maybe you ought to drop me off first,” said Mallon. “For the moment, the cops here seem to have accepted the idea that I might not be a murderer, but the case isn’t closed.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll make it clear you didn’t move this from your house or something. But this is the kind of evidence you have to get to them right away.”
As she walked along the beach toward the steps, she took out each item in the purse, one at a time, examined it closely, then put it back. When she reached the driver’s license, she held it out to Mallon.
Mallon reached for it, but she said, “You know better than that. Don’t touch it, just look. I want to be sure it’s her.”
Mallon stared at the photograph, scanned the name, the birth date and description. “Catherine Broward,” he said. “Cathy Broward. No, I think she wasn’t a Cathy. Catherine.”
“You didn’t see her on her best day,” she reminded him. “People who are in that kind of depression talk slowly and think slowly. And she had been unconscious. You’d have to hunt down some people who knew her before, if you wanted to know what she was like.”
“I need you to help me do that,” said Mallon. “I want to know.”
She looked at him steadily. “What do you think it will tell you?”
“Why she was so sure she had to be dead right away. You can see from the picture that she was an attractive young woman. She looked healthy, and she said she was, too. She had some money—maybe not a lot, I don’t know—but there was enough in her purse so she wasn’t in danger of starving to death.” He realized that he wasn’t saying anything that mattered, and that made him try harder. “It was a calm, cool, hazy day. The ocean was glassy, the air was soothing. It was beautiful. Standing there and looking around her should have been enough.”
Lydia cocked her head but said nothing.
“You think I sound like an idiot.” It was an observation, not an accusation.
She said, “I think you sound like somebody who wants to know things that you’re not going to learn by investigating a stranger who killed herself.” She paused. “I know that sounds a little harsh. But I can tell you from bitter personal experience that having sex with somebody is not the same as knowing them. And unless she left a note that we haven’t found yet, we’re not likely to know her thoughts on any subject, least of all you.”
“I didn’t say this was about her relationship with me.”
“What else, Bobby? What else could it be?”
After a few more steps he said, “I know I have no excuse for this, but I cared about her. I wanted to be with her for a longer time. If thatturned out not to be something she wanted too, I wanted her to go off and enjoy the rest of her life. From a distance, the suicide looks unsurprising, even inevitable: she tried once, got stopped, then finished the job. But it wasn’t, and only I know it. It was shocking: it didn’t fit. Things like this—events that changed everything and just seemed to come from nowhere—have happened in my life before. This is the first time one happened after I had the time and money to try to find out what it meant. Maybe I want to know what I can’t. Even if I can’t, it’s worth the effort because the death of a person you shared something with is important. Maybe all that’s left to do for her is to care about why it happened.”
Lydia kept walking for an interval while she considered this. Then she said, “It is in the interest of anybody in any business to convince
“Maybe you ought to drop me off first,” said Mallon. “For the moment, the cops here seem to have accepted the idea that I might not be a murderer, but the case isn’t closed.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll make it clear you didn’t move this from your house or something. But this is the kind of evidence you have to get to them right away.”
As she walked along the beach toward the steps, she took out each item in the purse, one at a time, examined it closely, then put it back. When she reached the driver’s license, she held it out to Mallon.
Mallon reached for it, but she said, “You know better than that. Don’t touch it, just look. I want to be sure it’s her.”
Mallon stared at the photograph, scanned the name, the birth date and description. “Catherine Broward,” he said. “Cathy Broward. No, I think she wasn’t a Cathy. Catherine.”
“You didn’t see her on her best day,” she reminded him. “People who are in that kind of depression talk slowly and think slowly. And she had been unconscious. You’d have to hunt down some people who knew her before, if you wanted to know what she was like.”
“I need you to help me do that,” said Mallon. “I want to know.”
She looked at him steadily. “What do you think it will tell you?”
“Why she was so sure she had to be dead right away. You can see from the picture that she was an attractive young woman. She looked healthy, and she said she was, too. She had some money—maybe not a lot, I don’t know—but there was enough in her purse so she wasn’t in danger of starving to death.” He realized that he wasn’t saying anything that mattered, and that made him try harder. “It was a calm, cool, hazy day. The ocean was glassy, the air was soothing. It was beautiful. Standing there and looking around her should have been enough.”
Lydia cocked her head but said nothing.
“You think I sound like an idiot.” It was an observation, not an accusation.
She said, “I think you sound like somebody who wants to know things that you’re not going to learn by investigating a stranger who killed herself.” She paused. “I know that sounds a little harsh. But I can tell you from bitter personal experience that having sex with somebody is not the same as knowing them. And unless she left a note that we haven’t found yet, we’re not likely to know her thoughts on any subject, least of all you.”
“I didn’t say this was about her relationship with me.”
“What else, Bobby? What else could it be?”
After a few more steps he said, “I know I have no excuse for this, but I cared about her. I wanted to be with her for a longer time. If thatturned out not to be something she wanted too, I wanted her to go off and enjoy the rest of her life. From a distance, the suicide looks unsurprising, even inevitable: she tried once, got stopped, then finished the job. But it wasn’t, and only I know it. It was shocking: it didn’t fit. Things like this—events that changed everything and just seemed to come from nowhere—have happened in my life before. This is the first time one happened after I had the time and money to try to find out what it meant. Maybe I want to know what I can’t. Even if I can’t, it’s worth the effort because the death of a person you shared something with is important. Maybe all that’s left to do for her is to care about why it happened.”
Lydia kept walking for an interval while she considered this. Then she said, “It is in the interest of anybody in any business to convince
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