The Murderer's Daughter (36 page)

Amy Chan shrugged. “That's the last time I saw him, Sarah. I figured it was some kind of unpleasant issue, maybe something in Asia. Not my business, so I forgot about it.”

“What did this other guy look like?”

“Nothing scary—kind of good-looking, actually. Long blond hair, beard, around Andrew's age. Well dressed but in kind of a rich hippie mode, kind of über-Berkeley. And unlike Andrew, the contact between them didn't seem to bother him. Just the opposite, he seemed super mellow.”

The noise level had suddenly risen on the plaza. More young women with kids.

Amy Chan said, “That's it, Sarah. I guess all we can do is wait and hope for the best.”

“Guess so,” said Grace. “Thanks for taking the time, Amy. Meanwhile I've got some anxiety-prone middle schoolers to deal with in Atherton.”

Chan smiled. “A few more years and they'll be my concern.”

G
race drove away from the museum and cruised downhill until she reached the upper edge of campus. Backing into a
Staff Only
parking space at the rear of what looked like a physical plant, she deep-breathed and tried to settle down.

Amy Chan likely viewed their conversation as unproductive but Grace had learned plenty. A chance meeting between brothers had, indeed, uncorked a whole bunch of darkness eventually leading to Andrew's demise.

Had his reaction to spotting the piece-of-work now known as Dion Larue been surprise after a long absence? Or dread after repelling Larue's attempts to reestablish contact?

Grace had unearthed Andrew's Stanford link easily enough. No reason Big Brother couldn't have done the same.

The emotions Chan described were telling: Andrew shaken, Venom Boy enjoying the experience.

Getting in a dig by addressing Andrew by his cult name.

Thai.
Not quite, Amy.
Hello, Ty.
A bit of naughtiness, that.

Two years ago was well past the murders of the McCoys, the Wetters, and the Van Cortlandts. And while Andrew's shock at seeing his brother didn't eliminate the possibility that years before he'd collaborated in the killings, Grace was shifting to his being innocent. Because nothing about him implied cruelty and the man Chan had described meshed with her own impressions.

Meaning Big Brother had engaged in solo slaughter, which fit perfectly with the already high-level teenage psychopath she'd witnessed at the ranch. With the bullying scamster Mr. One-Eye had described.

If that wasn't enough, the anagram said it all. Arundel Roi comes to life as Dion Larue.

She pictured whoever he'd been ten years ago driving to Oklahoma, torching poor little Lily and her family, dumping their truck and returning, sated, to California.

Though the same question persisted: Why eliminate his sister but allow his brother to survive?

Maybe because Lilith was deaf and deemed defective while Ty had earned a Stanford Ph.D. and was seen as potentially useful.

Structural engineer, big projects in Asia. Dion Larue fancied himself a developer but he was small-time—scamming the city of Berkeley in order to rehab a dump. Perhaps he'd seen Andrew as a ticket to bigger and better.

Andrew turning him down could've caused all sorts of untoward reactions.

Which brought her back to Larue's murder of the Van Cortlandts. Why would he think that would've curried favor with Andrew?

Because like all psychopaths he was grandiose, and convinced of his own personal magnetism, assumed worship on the part of others.

You know all that money you got to inherit young, bro? Guess who did that for you.

Samael/Dion would've appreciated that kind of “favor,” but Ty/Andrew had been sickened and horrified. Traumatized sufficiently to seek professional help.

And that had turned him into a huge liability.

Turned Grace into collateral damage.

She realized she'd been concentrating hard enough to lose contact with her surroundings and looked around. Still no trolls, ogres, or hulking thugs. But an unmistakable chill of threat was tracing up and down her spine.

Act, don't react.

She got out of there, fast.

Returning to city
center, she drove along Telegraph, found metered parking, and scored an out-of-the-way table at a different Internet café. A sign warned that the toll for logging on was food, not just a beverage, so she bought an iced tea and a mozzarella and allegedly heirloom tomato panini, left the sandwich swaddled in its oil-spotted, recycled paper wrapping.

She began by assuming Beldrim Benn's age to be the same as Roger Wetter Junior's, or close to it, and a fellow student at Berkeley High. Calculating the year of Benn's high school graduation, she plugged in his name and keywords and waited as the café's overtaxed bandwidth finally kicked in.

Nothing from the school itself, but the rarely accessed personal website (
You Are Visitor 0032
) of an optician in Stowe, Vermont, popped up. The star of that obscure show was now a paunchy and slope-shouldered fellow named Avery Sloat, who adored his family and his golden retriever and his LensMaster franchise but whose most treasured moments seemed to be his years on Berkeley High's Yellow Jackets varsity wrestling team.

As proof of that, Sloat had posted a low-resolution group photo of said grapplers in their red-and-gold athletic togs, circling his own image in white just in case you missed it.

Grace tried to enlarge the shot but couldn't, made do with getting close to the screen and matching faces with the small-print roster at the bottom.

Roger Wetter Junior had not been on the team. No surprise, she supposed. A pretty boy like him wouldn't risk injury nor would he be interested in a fair fight. But there was B. A. Benn, second row to the right, a surly-looking, pimply, shaggy-haired middleweight.

Above Benn, in the top row, there was only space for five boys because each was massive; the heavyweight division, bursting out of their XXXXL jerseys.

Any one of whom was large enough to be the bastard she'd run off the road.

Andrew's likely killer.

She studied the photo. One meat-mountain was Samoan, another black, the remaining three, white kids. One of whom was the younger manifestation of the man who'd stood behind Dion Larue in the New Mexico photo.

Hands vibrating, she stilled an index finger and found the name in the roster.

W. T. Sporn.

Uncommon surname, a stroke of good luck. She typed away.

Unlike Beldrim Benn,
Walter Travis Sporn's criminal history, though relatively petty, had attracted the attention of local papers in San Mateo and Redwood City. No infractions for the past fifteen years, but before then, a nice lucid pattern. No way Sporn's clean record since then meant he'd reformed. More likely, he'd gotten better at avoiding responsibility. From ages eighteen through twenty-two, Sporn had been busted three times for drunk and disorderly, twice for battery, once for assault. From what Grace could glean from the short, dispassionate Crime Blotter accounts, everything stemmed from bust-ups at bars. No follow-up on how Sporn's cases had been disposed but Grace doubted he'd served much serious jail time; in a world teeming with violence, bashing a few faces was no big deal.

Maybe he'd evaded arrest by submitting to the leadership of a far brighter villain.

Any self-congratulation at
I.D.'ing Sporn faded as she realized she was no closer to finding him or Larue.

Time to try Wayne again, hopefully he'd learned something and wasn't just being protective. But still no answer or message at his private line. Finishing her tea, she took her sandwich with her and handed it to an emaciated homeless woman who was astonished by the unsolicited generosity.

Back in the Escape, she gave Center Street another try, made half a dozen uneventful passes, timed over an hour to avoid being conspicuous, and saw nothing.

Time to regroup.

Then she saw him.

Big man working his way out of a black Prius parked illegally in front of the site. Pulling to the curb, Grace watched as Walter Sporn waddled to the padlock that secured the chain-link, let himself in, relocked.

Smoking a cigar and wearing a black mock-turtle over black sweatpants and black sneakers.

He had to be well over three hundred pounds. But not a roly-poly pushover; a substratum of muscle underlay the fat and, despite the rocking gait imposed by tree-trunk thighs, he moved quickly and confidently.

So confident he wasn't bothering to check out his surroundings when he emerged a few minutes later, returned to the black Prius, and drove away.

Gliding right past Grace.

Why would he be vigilant? For years—decades—he and his buddies had gotten away with everything.

Grace let a pickup truck with a Berkeley city emblem pass before pulling out.

The truck gave her perfect cover. Evasive driving, huh, Walter?

Time for a little motorcade.

W
alter Sporn, a poor fit for the Prius, drove south of campus and turned onto Claremont Boulevard, continuing into a neighborhood of large, gracious Craftsman, Tudor, and Mediterranean houses on tree-dimmed streets that evoked Grace's years in Hancock Park.

This was the Claremont district, one of the college town's most affluent enclaves and home to generations of old money, brand-new Silicon Valley profits, professors with trust funds. Grace knew the area well; a couple of times Malcolm had booked rooms at the Claremont Hotel, a giant century-old masterpiece of architectural excess tricked out with overlapping triangular segments and a landmark tower and set on twenty or so acres atop a hill that offered spectacular views. During their stays, Grace and Malcolm had breakfasted in the dining room. Memories of that time had slipped from her consciousness—as a rule, the past held no attraction for her—but now she recalled Malcolm's seemingly endless appetite for pancakes and scholarly discussion and smiled.

Far cry from her current digs at the Olds. One adapted.

With the truck still between her and Sporn, she swerved slightly, just in time to catch Sporn turning onto a street called Avalina. A sign said
No Exit.

Parking, she jogged to the corner and peered up the block. Short block, full view all the way to the end of the cul-de-sac. She watched as the Prius turned right into a driveway, counted houses to pinpoint the location, returned to the Escape and waited.

When Sporn hadn't reappeared in an hour, she hazarded a stroll.

The houses lining Avalina perched atop sharply sloping lawns, many partially blocked by mature vegetation. The property Sporn had entered was nearly at the street's terminus.

Gigantic Tudor, slate-roofed and multigabled, weathered brick face nearly blocked from view by unruly ten-foot hedges, three massive redwoods and two nearly-as-large cedars. And, incongruously, a thatch of spike-leaved palms. Tiny bluish-white flowers speckled the hedges, which had been trained into an arch that stretched over the cobbled-and-dirt drive. The Prius was parked behind its twin.

Two black cars. Black clothes for Sporn, same as the children of Arundel Roi the night they'd showed up at the ranch.

Grace continued to the end of the street, reversed direction and crossed the street, and pretended not to take another look at the brick mansion. Not a single glint of window glass behind the veil of green but that didn't mean much.

Memorizing the house's address, she forced herself to walk away slowly.

Back in her
room, she tried the Olds's WiFi again, found it no more useful than before. But her disposable cell worked just fine and she tried Wayne, yet again.

This time he picked up. “Where are you?”

“NoCal.”

“Lovely region. May I hope against hope that you've decided to settle for sightseeing?”

Grace laughed. “What's up, Uncle?”

“Oh, well,” he said. “At least you're okay.”

“I'm great.”

“Does that mean you've accomplished whatever it was you set out to do and are on your way back home?”

“Making progress.”

Silence.

Grace said, “Really, I'm fine.”

“So you say…you will take care of yourself.” A command, not a request.

Grace said, “Of course.”

“If you don't make a solemn pledge to that effect right now, I won't tell you what I learned.”

“I pledge allegiance to the flag of Wayne—”

“I'm serious, Grace.”

“I promise. Everything's fine, really. What did you learn?”

Wayne cleared his throat. “Let me preface this by reminding you that I can't vouch for the factuality of what I'm about to tell you. But my source has never let me down.”

Sounding every bit the lawyer.

“I'll bear that in mind, Wayne.”

“Okay…as you might expect, this has to do with the late Ms. McKinney. Who, as we discussed, does not appear to have ever indulged in a romantic or sexual relationship with anyone or anything at any time.”

Grace waited.

“However,” said Wayne. “And this is a big however, Grace, my source—a new one, one can't keep going to the same well—claims that at some point in middle age, Selene began to regret not having a family.” A beat. “It's a common thing…she tried to solve her problem by adopting.”

“Tried? Someone with her clout was turned down?”

“Oh, she was allowed, all right,” said Wayne. “Scored herself a white girl—not a baby, perhaps she had no stomach for poopy diapers—a lass of around eight or nine. A name beginning with a Y—Yalta, Yetta, something like that.”

Grace heard him sigh.

“Here's the painful part. The poor thing was with Selene for a couple of years, enjoying the life Selene was able to provide until Selene realized she wasn't cut out for motherhood, after all, and solved
that
problem by giving the girl back.”

“Shit.”

“Indeed,” said Wayne.

“Who'd she give her to?”

“Unknown, Grace, but presumably to whatever agency or shyster colleague of mine found her the poor thing in the first place. Can you imagine the hurt? Rejected twice? Good Lord. No surprise that led to the poor thing developing problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“The kind that end up with a young woman being incarcerated, Grace.”

“Sybil Brand,” said Grace. “Where she met Roi.”

“That's where girls who acted out criminally went in those days, Grace. It keeps getting worse. Somewhere along the line, she had two children of her own.”

“Only two?”

“Yes, I wondered about that,” said Wayne, “but that's all my source is aware of. Here's the story and it goes back twenty-five years ago, Selene throwing herself a party for the Christmas season—she was always fêting herself—big garden affair at her home, the right people on the guest list, rented topiary and all that. My source is a right person and this is what she—what was observed: At some point during the bash, there was an attempt by my source to use the powder room but it was occupied and an alternative was sought. What presented itself was a lav in the utility wing, off the kitchen, and as my source did her thing and was walking out, she heard a commotion.”

Another throat clear. “A bit of peeking and eavesdropping ensued. Selene was in the kitchen, full regalia, smoking like a chimney and having words with a young woman dressed in black. Not chic black, shabby duds. My source couldn't hear what was being said but the hostility was obvious. And flanking the young woman were two boys clad the same way, not tykes—not small boys, ten, eleven. Both sat silently, looking ‘stricken' as their mother and Selene went at each other. Finally, Selene picked up her phone and summoned security staff but before the guards could arrive, the young woman yanked the boys away and ran out through the back door. Upon which Selene muttered something to the effect of ‘good riddance to bad rubbish.' ”

“Not very grandmotherly,” said Grace.

“Not very human,” said Wayne, with sudden fury in his voice. “You're the one with the Ph.D., Grace. Tell me: Why doesn't evolution select against human monsters?”

A host of answers flooded Grace's head. Including:
Where else would we get our politicians?

She said, “Good question. Twenty-five years ago is about one year before the shoot-out at the Fortress Cult.”

“Exactly, Grace, exactly. Perhaps Yalta, whatever her name was, realized something bad was brewing and came to Selene for help. What she received was anything but.”

“And soon after, everyone at the compound perished except for three kids.”

“Yes, three. So where was the daughter that day? I don't know, Grace, but my source is certain: two boys, only.”

“Maybe Lily wasn't Yalta's, Wayne. The account said Roi had three wives. That could be why she wasn't adopted by a wealthy family. Selene had nothing to do with her.”

It could also explain why she hadn't been spared. Half sibs didn't count.

Wayne said, “You could be right. In any event, we have motivation for Selene finding homes for the boys. Not guilt over turning them away, anyone who acted the way she did is far too callous for remorse, no?”

“Agreed,” said Grace.

“On the other hand, having the boys at the mercy of the system raised the risk of Selene's rejection coming to light. So she called in markers from people who owed her. A pair of couples who were childless and would accept older children with baggage.”

“Especially if the offer was sweetened with some cash.”

“Hmm,” said Wayne. “Selene certainly wasn't lacking funds. Yes, that makes perfect sense—now, what does all this mean for you, Grace?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Do you really need to pursue this further?”

Grace didn't answer.

Wayne said, “You say you'll be careful with such confidence. I wish I could be sure you weren't humoring me.”

“I'm not,” she assured the kind, moral man who'd done so much for her.

Lying without a trace of regret.

Third Internet café,
this one a casual Vietnamese eatery around the corner from the Olds. What netted her access to the electronic universe was a bowl of pho that she actually had an appetite for.

She spooned the broth into her mouth, enjoying the bite of hot peppers not quite tempered by coconut milk. Pork, shrimp; glassy rice noodles that slid down her gullet.

Everything crystallizing. She could
feel
it.

She plugged in the address of the big brick house on Avalina and pulled up a City of Berkeley Landmarks Preservation Commission staff report, dated three years earlier.

Structural Alteration Permit Application (LM#5600000231) for rehabilitation of City Landmark, The Krauss House; including in-kind replacement of (historic and non-historic) window sashes and (non-historic) doors on the main house and replacement of (non-historic) drainage gutters, composite/slate/shingle roof and skylight on the carriage house addition. Prepared by…

Five city employees claimed authorship of that golden prose. Next came small-print paragraphs of something called a CEQA determination that had deemed the proposed project

categorically exempt pursuant to Section 15331 (Historical Restoration Rehabilitation) of the CEQA guidelines.

Property Owner: DRL-Earthmove.

Paging through the rest of the document, Grace put together the house's history. Built in 1917 for a metals dealer named Innes Skelton, it had served as a private residence until 1945, when an art history professor and collector of Asian ceramics named Ignatz Krauss purchased it for use as a private museum.

From what Grace could tell, Krauss had set up one of those arrangements with the university in which he got tax write-offs for his collection and could enjoy them at will but would bequeath the collection and the building to UC Berkeley upon his death.

Krauss had passed away in 1967 and the pottery was auctioned off shortly after. The structure remained in the university's possession for eight more years, designated as housing for distinguished visiting faculty, after which it was swapped to the city of Berkeley for a commercial building downtown that the university wished to use for administrative facilities.

What the city did with the place was unclear, but four years ago it had sold the property to DRL after buying the building on Center Street from Larue for four million dollars. The only stipulation: “timely application for landmark preservation” of the house on Avalina.

The following year, Dion Larue had apparently complied, filing the necessary papers and pledging to do exactly what the city dictated.

Playing good boy?

When Grace saw how much he'd paid, she understood why.

Eight hundred grand. She was no expert on Berkeley real estate but that had to be way below market. Looking up sales of other houses on the block, she quickly confirmed her suspicion. Comps ranged from $1.6 to $3.2 million.