Marriott Hotel in Encino this afternoon. Witnesses saw Ortega smack his wife in the head so hard that he drew blood from her ear. Police said Ortega was the best-dressed prisoner in custody.”
“The things people do to each other,” Tony mumbled, clicking it off with the remote.
Heading into the kitchen for a glass of ice water, he saw the red message light flashing on the answering machine. He had a love-hate relationship with the contraption. Impersonal, yes, but it saved him from having to talk to annoying salesmen. If they weren’t real estate agents wanting to show his house (it was the nicest one on the block; he should know, he built it himself), it was someone selling something, or one of Helen’s friends hoping to persuade her to donate his money to yet another charitable cause. Or even worse, it was another machine talking to his. He was considering Tania’s idea of just going with a cell phone and nothing else. She said all her friends were doing it.
Tony hit the Play button. “Hello, Mrs. Marcus? This is Detective Goode with the San Diego Police Department calling you back. I’d like to talk to you. . ..”
Tony leaned closer to the machine as if it were talking to him, and listened to Helen’s conversation with the detective earlier that evening. The impact was immediate: he broke out in a sweat and felt like he was going to throw up.
“My baby,” he whispered. “My little baby.”
As if on cue, the phone rang. It could be anyone, but he didn’t want to answer it. He was likely to say anything. Anything at all. After four rings, the machine clicked on.
“Mrs. Marcus? If you’re there, please pick up the phone. This is Detective Goode again. Sorry to bother you, but I have some more news about your daughter. . . .”
Tony held his hand on the receiver, trying to decide whether he could stand to hear anything more from Detective Goode. “Hello?” Tony said quietly.
“Is this Mr. Marcus?”
“Yes.”
The officer paused. “I’m very sorry about the loss of your daughter, Mr. Marcus. This must be a very difficult time for you. I don’t know if your wife mentioned it, but we’d like you both to come down and talk to us. We need your help, sir.”
“What the hell happened?”
“We think she was killed sometime last night. She was found in the alley behind her apartment building this afternoon.”
“But what happened? I mean, how?”
“We’re not exactly sure, but it looks like someone strangled her. The medical examiner will do an autopsy tomorrow to determine the official cause of death.”
The image of some man squeezing the life out of his daughter’s neck flashed across his brain. The breath went out of him, as if someone had just punched him in the gut.
“Sir? Are you all right?” Goode asked.
“I’m okay. Go on,” Tony said, his voice barely audible.
“So far, we don’t have any eyewitnesses. We’ve talked to her neighbors, but most say they didn’t know her because she’d only just moved in to the complex. We’re going to try her classmates next.”
“You’d better find her killer or I’ll do it myself,” Tony muttered.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Nothing,” Tony replied.
“We would have liked for you to come down tonight, but given how late it is, we hope to see you first thing in the morning. You’ll want to ask for Sergeant Stone. He’s my supervisor.”
Tony hung up and pushed the answering machine off the kitchen counter, sending it crashing to the tile floor. Helen stirred on the couch in the next room, but didn’t wake up. She snored like that only when she’d drunk herself into oblivion.
He still loved her, but since she’d stopped wanting to have sex, they’d lived together like roommates. She kept saying she didn’t feel sexy anymore, but he knew it was the alcohol. She was having an affair with the damn bottle and he couldn’t compete with that. When he tried to talk to her about it she blew up, say she didn’t have a problem.
“The things people do to each other,” Tony mumbled, clicking it off with the remote.
Heading into the kitchen for a glass of ice water, he saw the red message light flashing on the answering machine. He had a love-hate relationship with the contraption. Impersonal, yes, but it saved him from having to talk to annoying salesmen. If they weren’t real estate agents wanting to show his house (it was the nicest one on the block; he should know, he built it himself), it was someone selling something, or one of Helen’s friends hoping to persuade her to donate his money to yet another charitable cause. Or even worse, it was another machine talking to his. He was considering Tania’s idea of just going with a cell phone and nothing else. She said all her friends were doing it.
Tony hit the Play button. “Hello, Mrs. Marcus? This is Detective Goode with the San Diego Police Department calling you back. I’d like to talk to you. . ..”
Tony leaned closer to the machine as if it were talking to him, and listened to Helen’s conversation with the detective earlier that evening. The impact was immediate: he broke out in a sweat and felt like he was going to throw up.
“My baby,” he whispered. “My little baby.”
As if on cue, the phone rang. It could be anyone, but he didn’t want to answer it. He was likely to say anything. Anything at all. After four rings, the machine clicked on.
“Mrs. Marcus? If you’re there, please pick up the phone. This is Detective Goode again. Sorry to bother you, but I have some more news about your daughter. . . .”
Tony held his hand on the receiver, trying to decide whether he could stand to hear anything more from Detective Goode. “Hello?” Tony said quietly.
“Is this Mr. Marcus?”
“Yes.”
The officer paused. “I’m very sorry about the loss of your daughter, Mr. Marcus. This must be a very difficult time for you. I don’t know if your wife mentioned it, but we’d like you both to come down and talk to us. We need your help, sir.”
“What the hell happened?”
“We think she was killed sometime last night. She was found in the alley behind her apartment building this afternoon.”
“But what happened? I mean, how?”
“We’re not exactly sure, but it looks like someone strangled her. The medical examiner will do an autopsy tomorrow to determine the official cause of death.”
The image of some man squeezing the life out of his daughter’s neck flashed across his brain. The breath went out of him, as if someone had just punched him in the gut.
“Sir? Are you all right?” Goode asked.
“I’m okay. Go on,” Tony said, his voice barely audible.
“So far, we don’t have any eyewitnesses. We’ve talked to her neighbors, but most say they didn’t know her because she’d only just moved in to the complex. We’re going to try her classmates next.”
“You’d better find her killer or I’ll do it myself,” Tony muttered.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Nothing,” Tony replied.
“We would have liked for you to come down tonight, but given how late it is, we hope to see you first thing in the morning. You’ll want to ask for Sergeant Stone. He’s my supervisor.”
Tony hung up and pushed the answering machine off the kitchen counter, sending it crashing to the tile floor. Helen stirred on the couch in the next room, but didn’t wake up. She snored like that only when she’d drunk herself into oblivion.
He still loved her, but since she’d stopped wanting to have sex, they’d lived together like roommates. She kept saying she didn’t feel sexy anymore, but he knew it was the alcohol. She was having an affair with the damn bottle and he couldn’t compete with that. When he tried to talk to her about it she blew up, say she didn’t have a problem.
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