fact.” She smiled ruefully. “A double feature.”
“Okay, I’ve got another question for you. Or, rather, a request.”
“A request?”
“I’d like you to tell me about Brice Hanchett. Tell me everything—his history, his enemies, his friends, his career, anything you can think of.” He let a moment pass, watching her. Frowning now, she was watching him in return. Had he gained her confidence?
“To me,” he said, “you seem like a pretty good talker. So talk. Start at the beginning, and talk to me.”
Her answering smile was bitter. Her eyes were sharper, as if the memory of ancient hatreds had concentrated her attention. “A good talker, you say.” She nodded wearily. “That’s nice. I take that as a compliment.”
“And so it was meant, Mrs. Hanchett.”
“You seem like a thoughtful man. Do you like your work?”
Once more, he raised a hand. “Remember—I’m not here to answer. I’m here to ask.”
“Yes. Well …” She sighed, shifted her bloated body. Her voice dropped to a lower, more introspective note. Her eyes softened reflectively as she said, “Well, there was a time, Lieutenant, before I met Brice, when I was considered a very good conversationalist. I was a good musician, too. I’m still a good musician, I think. But, unhappily, my opinion isn’t the one that counts.”
“A musician, eh? What’s your instrument?”
“The cello.”
“With what orchestra?”
“I played in the Boston Symphony.” Her voice was soft. “I was only twenty-two when I got the chair. And then, two seasons later, I got an offer from San Francisco. San Francisco excited me, so I took the offer.” She let her voice die, let her memory-clouded eyes wander away. “I’ve often wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t taken the offer. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wondered.”
“So you met Hanchett,” Hastings prompted.
With what seemed infinite regret, she nodded. “Yes, I met Brice. I’d just come to town. I hadn’t been here a month when I met him. We were married six months later. And a year later I had John.” She pronounced her son’s name tentatively, her voice shaded.
John …
Is it John? she’d asked anxiously.
Could John have killed his father, to avenge his mother? What was the ancient Greek play? Oedipus? No.
“John lives here,” he said. “With you. Is that correct?”
She nodded. “He lives in back. There’s an in-law apartment in the rear of the house.” As she said it, the complex shading came back into her voice. “John’s a casualty, too.”
“A Brice Hanchett casualty, you mean.”
Her lips twisted. Her voice dropped, as if hatred had smothered the words at their source. “Yes—another casualty.”
“Tell me about Brice, Mrs. Hanchett. Tell me everything. It’ll help. It’ll help both of us. Start at the beginning. Take your time.”
For a long moment she made no reply, but simply sat motionless, staring down at her hands, loosely clasped in her lap. Then she began to speak. “Brice had an ego that drove him like a demon. His father and grandfather were both doctors. His grandfather made a fortune in real estate, too. A multi-, multimillion-dollar fortune. And his father doubled the fortune. Maybe that’s what drove Brice to excel as a doctor. I mean, there was already so much money, the only way he could distinguish himself, set himself apart from his father and grandfather, was medicine. So Brice went for it all: high-risk, high-profile surgery. And he succeeded, too. He was a first-class surgeon, there’s no question. But he was—he was insatiable. That’s the only word for it. Prestige, power, women, money—whatever it was, he could never get enough. Never.”
“But you married him.”
“Yes,” she answered, “I married him. I was dazzled, that’s the only word. I grew up in Grand Rapids. My father owned a lumberyard. A small lumberyard. I’d never met anyone like Brice. I was”—she paused, searching
“Okay, I’ve got another question for you. Or, rather, a request.”
“A request?”
“I’d like you to tell me about Brice Hanchett. Tell me everything—his history, his enemies, his friends, his career, anything you can think of.” He let a moment pass, watching her. Frowning now, she was watching him in return. Had he gained her confidence?
“To me,” he said, “you seem like a pretty good talker. So talk. Start at the beginning, and talk to me.”
Her answering smile was bitter. Her eyes were sharper, as if the memory of ancient hatreds had concentrated her attention. “A good talker, you say.” She nodded wearily. “That’s nice. I take that as a compliment.”
“And so it was meant, Mrs. Hanchett.”
“You seem like a thoughtful man. Do you like your work?”
Once more, he raised a hand. “Remember—I’m not here to answer. I’m here to ask.”
“Yes. Well …” She sighed, shifted her bloated body. Her voice dropped to a lower, more introspective note. Her eyes softened reflectively as she said, “Well, there was a time, Lieutenant, before I met Brice, when I was considered a very good conversationalist. I was a good musician, too. I’m still a good musician, I think. But, unhappily, my opinion isn’t the one that counts.”
“A musician, eh? What’s your instrument?”
“The cello.”
“With what orchestra?”
“I played in the Boston Symphony.” Her voice was soft. “I was only twenty-two when I got the chair. And then, two seasons later, I got an offer from San Francisco. San Francisco excited me, so I took the offer.” She let her voice die, let her memory-clouded eyes wander away. “I’ve often wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t taken the offer. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wondered.”
“So you met Hanchett,” Hastings prompted.
With what seemed infinite regret, she nodded. “Yes, I met Brice. I’d just come to town. I hadn’t been here a month when I met him. We were married six months later. And a year later I had John.” She pronounced her son’s name tentatively, her voice shaded.
John …
Is it John? she’d asked anxiously.
Could John have killed his father, to avenge his mother? What was the ancient Greek play? Oedipus? No.
“John lives here,” he said. “With you. Is that correct?”
She nodded. “He lives in back. There’s an in-law apartment in the rear of the house.” As she said it, the complex shading came back into her voice. “John’s a casualty, too.”
“A Brice Hanchett casualty, you mean.”
Her lips twisted. Her voice dropped, as if hatred had smothered the words at their source. “Yes—another casualty.”
“Tell me about Brice, Mrs. Hanchett. Tell me everything. It’ll help. It’ll help both of us. Start at the beginning. Take your time.”
For a long moment she made no reply, but simply sat motionless, staring down at her hands, loosely clasped in her lap. Then she began to speak. “Brice had an ego that drove him like a demon. His father and grandfather were both doctors. His grandfather made a fortune in real estate, too. A multi-, multimillion-dollar fortune. And his father doubled the fortune. Maybe that’s what drove Brice to excel as a doctor. I mean, there was already so much money, the only way he could distinguish himself, set himself apart from his father and grandfather, was medicine. So Brice went for it all: high-risk, high-profile surgery. And he succeeded, too. He was a first-class surgeon, there’s no question. But he was—he was insatiable. That’s the only word for it. Prestige, power, women, money—whatever it was, he could never get enough. Never.”
“But you married him.”
“Yes,” she answered, “I married him. I was dazzled, that’s the only word. I grew up in Grand Rapids. My father owned a lumberyard. A small lumberyard. I’d never met anyone like Brice. I was”—she paused, searching
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