Guilt (38 page)

She offered no resistance, was answering freely when the bell rang.

She blinked. “That’s him? We really need to do this?”

“We do.”

“Only time I’ve ever dealt with the police was in London, a bunch of us got busted for smoking hash in a park. Rich little twits, everyone had connections, we got off with a warning.”

“You’ve got connections, again.”

“Do I …?”

“Prema, there’s a reason you decided to come here.” I got to my feet. “Ready?”

Standing slowly, she teetered for a second, hooked her arm in mine.

“No red carpet,” she whispered. “But here we go.”

Introductions were brief. Both of them were wary. When they shook hands, Prema used both of hers, as if wanting to prolong contact. Milo offered only his fingers, pulled away soon.

I led Prema to the living room sofa, sat down next to her. Milo settled in a facing chair. His suit was one I’d seen for years, a baggy green-brown hopsack worn over a white shirt and a muddy blue tie that Prozac couldn’t fix.

One thing was different: He’d slicked down his hair. Two-hundred-forty-pound kid waiting for communion.

Prema said, “You look just like a cop should.”

Milo said, “You look just like a movie star should.”

“I meant that as a compliment, Lieutenant. I find it reassuring.”

“So taken.” His expression was unreadable. “What can I do for you, Ms. Moon?”

She turned to me.

I said, “Just go for it.”

She inhaled. “Okay … all right … Donny Rader smokes meerschaum pipes.”

“Does he.”

“Do you know what meerschaum is?”

“Some kind of carved stone.”

“It’s a mineral, Lieutenant. It washes up on the beach and people carve it into smoking pipes. Donny Rader has lots of carved meerschaum smoking pipes, I don’t know how many. He smokes weed in them, not tobacco. He’s a compulsive collector, loves
things
. To my mind, it’s just greed. Like cars: He’s got a dozen, maybe more, even though he hardly ever drives them. He has more clothing than I do.” One hand kneaded the other. “He collects women. But we don’t need to go there.”

“Sounds like your husband leads a busy life, Ms. Moon.”

She flinched.

I said, “There’s another collection.”

“Yes,” she said. “There is. He has a closet full of guns. When we were living together I made him lock them up in a big safe. That I paid for. For the children’s safety.”

“Where are the guns now, Ms. Moon?”

“At his place.”

“You don’t live together?”

“He lives in the adjoining property. I bought all of it years ago but I only use part of it.”

“You know about his gun closet because—”

“I saw it. Not recently, we don’t have much … I stay at my place, he’s at his.”

“When did you see the gun closet?”

Her chest heaved. “Maybe half a year, I really can’t be sure.”

“You went to visit—”

“Not a visit, an obligation. He needed to sign a tax form from our accountant. Our life is complicated, you can delegate a lot of things but at some point you still need to sign your name to papers. All the financial forms come to me because he’d neglect them.”

“So around six months ago—”

“Could be seven months, eight, five, I don’t know. What I do recall is he was still in bed, the place was a mess, as usual. There was a woman. I asked her to leave for a moment. So he could sign the tax form. The safe’s in a closet in his bedroom. The closet door was open, there were also loose guns. On shelves. And big ones—rifles—propped up on the floor of the closet. I got out of there.”

“Has he ever threatened you with a firearm?”

“Not yet.”

“You think he might.”

“At this point, Lieutenant, I don’t know what to think.”

I said, “About the meerschaums …”

Milo’s eyebrows rose.

Prema said, “Yes, of course. The meerschaums. The lovely meerschaums … when you collect them, the big deal is to get them to color gradually as you smoke them. From white to amber. For that to happen, the pipes are coated after they’re carved. Then the owner recoats them from time to time.”

Her hands clenched. “What’s used for the coating, Lieutenant, is beeswax.”

Milo’s lips pursed. “Really.”

“Specifically, confectioner’s beeswax, Lieutenant. With all those pipes, Donny Rader must go through the stuff like crazy because he buys pots of confectioner’s beeswax. Back when we were living together, I saw it in his workshop. He builds things. Birdhouses, ashtrays. Not very well.”

“You’ve seen him work with beeswax.”

Nod. “One time he called me in to watch him work on a pipe. Showing off. He heated up the beeswax, brushed it on, waited for it to cool, then buffed it shiny. About a month ago, he ordered six fresh pots
of beeswax. I know
that
because instead of going through his purchasing assistant—a gopher at Apex, our management firm, we each have one—he ordered it online himself. Using
my
personal credit card, the package ended up on my desk. It came from a baking supplies outfit, my first thought was the cook had bought it, someone had screwed up and used my personal card instead of one of the household cards. Then I opened it and realized what was inside and called him to take it. We met at the gate to his place. I asked him why he’d bought it using my name. He didn’t really have an answer, was pretty much loaded on weed or whatever. As usual.”

“He say anything at all?”

“He mumbled something about not being able to find his own card. Which made sense, he’s always losing things. It didn’t explain why he hadn’t gone through Apex, but I didn’t push it, this was wax, no big deal, and frankly the less contact we have with each other the better. I forgot about the whole incident until I learned today that he’d bought something else saying it was for me. Only this time he
had
contacted my purchasing assistant at Apex, probably using one of my email addresses, and bought … those terrible things.”

“You know the order came from him because—”

“Because
I
didn’t buy them, Lieutenant. He’s obviously trying to cover his tracks. By casting suspicion on me.”

Milo studied her.

She said, “I know it sounds crazy, but, Lieutenant, I will take any lie-detector test you want me to take. I have never once in my life bought beetles or surgical tools.
Or
beeswax. Nor have I ever asked anyone to buy those things for me. Check out every single computer in my house including my personal computer. I’m sure you’ve got specialists who can do that.”

“Do you know for a fact that he bought the wax online?”

“How else?”

“Maybe he got on the phone and ordered.”

She thought. “Okay, good point, maybe—so examine our phone records, we’ve got I don’t know how many lines between us, go ahead
and trace them all. Then do the same thing for his phones and see what you learn.”

Milo rolled his tie up to his collar, let it drop. “Any idea why your husband would need beetles and surgical tools?”

Her hands clenched. “Do I have to say it?”

She turned to me.

I gave her my best therapist smile.

She said, “Fine, I’m afraid—I’m terrified that it had something to do with that poor baby in the park. And that’s another thing. The park. Like I told Dr. Delaware just before you got here, Donny Rader has a connection to that place. He used to work as a caddie at the golf course right next door. Back when he was a nothing.”

Milo’s bulk inched forward. “This is all very interesting, Ms. Moon. Thanks for coming forward.”

“What’s my choice, Lieutenant? He’s obviously trying to ruin me.”

“So you believe your husband is—”

“Could I ask a favor, Lieutenant? Please don’t call him that, he’s my husband in name only.”

“You believe Mr. Rader had something to do with the baby in the park.”

“I don’t know what else to think, Lieutenant. Those bones were treated just like he treats his stupid pipes. After he sicced those horrible bugs on them.”

“Any idea why he’d do such a thing?”

“No,” she said. “I mean he’s not a caring person, quite the opposite. But I never imagined … not until Dr. Delaware told me about the beeswax.”

“No idea at all what Mr. Rader’s motive might be?”

The question I hadn’t gotten to when the bell rang.

Her eyes filled with tears. “I have an idea. But not one that makes sense.”

“What’s that, ma’am?”

“It’s not rational. Not in terms of normal people, anyway,” she said. “I mean how can you ever explain things like that?”

“Explain what, ma’am?”

She pulled at her hair. “This is … even for him it’s—let me ask you one thing, Lieutenant. Was the baby in the park black?”

Milo looked at me. “Why would the baby be black, Ms. Moon?”

“Because the only baby I can think of who lived at my house since Boo—my youngest—was born was black. The mother was someone who worked for us. She went into labor early, actually delivered in her room in the staff house. Needless to say I was shocked. One day she’s pregnant, the next she’s got a baby. She said she delivered it herself. Her, a little girl. I wanted to get her to the hospital, she said no, she was fine. I thought that was absolutely crazy but she insisted and she
seemed
fine. Even though the baby was small. Not abnormal small, not a preemie. Everything seemed okay. Except for the blood and crud on her bed.”

She frowned. “My home, her delivery.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Maybe … four months ago?”

“What happened after that?”

“The baby was adorable—lovely little thing, great disposition. Cordelia. That’s the name the mother gave her. I gave the mother time off to care for her. Gave her some of Boo’s old baby clothes. Had Boo’s crib set up in her room. She repaid me by leaving without giving notice. That’s what I assumed—a flake-out. But now …”

“You think something worse happened.”

She didn’t reply.

Milo said, “Ms. Moon, why would Mr. Rader harm this particular baby?”

Long silence.

Prema said, “Maybe you can do DNA?”

“For what?”

“To find out who the father was.”

“You think it could’ve been Mr. Rader.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I know what he is. I
didn’t
know he could be that stupid.”

“What is he?”

“Anything with a vagina gravitates toward him. He doesn’t exactly play hard-to-get.”

“You suspect the mother of the child and Mr. Rader had an—”

“I don’t suspect, I know. Once, after her workday was over, I saw her go over to his place. After dark. Wearing a minidress. There was no reason for that, she worked for
me
. Watching
my
children.”

“Did you mention it to her?”

Head shake. “No big deal, everyone has sex with
him
, it’s about as meaningful as taking a drink of water.”

“His promiscuity didn’t bother you.”

“In the beginning—when we started out—it sure as hell did. But later? Just the opposite. Kept him out of my hair. But did I suspect he’d knocked her up? Never, because that had never happened before. And she never got that look
they
always get.”

“Expectant mothers.”

“No, no,” she snapped. “Freelance vaginas thinking they’ve snagged him. When that happens they get a certain smile, a smug smile. I’ve fired assistants, cooks, maids. Not because I’m jealous. But don’t think you can collect a paycheck from me and give me that smile.”

Milo said, “The baby’s mother didn’t have the smile.”

“She had a nice smile, the way a woman gets when she’s productive. It’s a special thing for women, Lieutenant.”

Her hand grazed her belly. Tears filled her eyes. “Or so I’ve been told—no, no, scratch that, no playing the pity card, I’ve got my tribe, they’re gems, just as precious as if I’d carried them myself.”

She bounded up, hurried to the door, flung it open, ran out.

No footsteps from the terrace.

Milo glanced at me. I held up a restraining palm.

A minute later, she returned. Positioned herself between us.

Center stage.

Milo said, “Please,” and pointed to the sofa.

She said, “I know you guys are just doing your job but this is cutting the
guts
out of me.”

T
he police detective strode to the movie star’s side, placed his arm around her, guided her back to the sofa.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Moon, I really am. If it makes you feel any better, you’re helping achieve justice. For that baby and others.”

Prema didn’t answer. Milo relocated to a closer chair. Pulled it even nearer.

She said, “Mr. Fuck-everything-that-moves.
Another
collection. That’s why my estate manager is—was a man. That’s why the maids I have are Church Ladies in their sixties.”

“You think Donny Rader killed the baby.”

“I never would have thought him capable. I mean I know he couldn’t care less about kids. But … I guess he’s capable of anything if it’s in his best interests. She probably became an inconvenience—pressured him.”

“For money?”

“Money or emotional commitment—wanting him to step up to the plate. I will tell you one thing: Giving her serious money would definitely
be a problem for him. Because he has no control over the finances. Gets an allowance because he’s an idiot.”

“What’s serious money?”

“Anything more than ten thousand dollars a month. If he needed to come up with something like that, he’d have to ask me. Or else start selling his crap.”

She turned to Milo. “That’s probably the motive, Lieutenant. She got greedy, put him in a bind.” She sagged. “But that poor baby. How did it die?”

“That’s unclear.”

“What do you mean?”

“The skeleton bore no evidence of trauma.”

“The skeleton,” she said. “Why would he do that?” She turned to me. “What kind of insanity is that, Dr. Delaware?”

I shook my head.

Milo said, “This woman, what was her—”

“Simone. Simone Chambord.”

He showed her Qeesha D’Embo’s mug shot. In this photo, no concealment of the booking numbers around her neck.