eyes. For the most part they were soft, unfocused , even lost. Now and then they would begin to melt as a memory passed behind them. But at other times they would narrow, and they would shine. Molly knew that they were seeing, trying to see, the man who had killed her sister. Trying to feel him, as she said she had where Lisa's body had been found.
It was strange, she thought. Like watching two different people. The Carla she'd known for years, and the Carla she was just getting to know as she'd finally stroked her to sleep in their bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
Molly had known, of course, that Carla and her sister had been born almost fifteen years apart. She'd presumed Lisa to have been an accident. Parents well into their for ties by the time she was born. But the accident, it turned out, had been Carla. Her mother, unwed, became pregnant. Father forced into marriage. Embittered by it. Resented Carla. Mother was much closer to her but became a drunk. Lisa born while Carla was in high school. Parents, espe cially the father, doted on Lisa, took her everywhere, bragged about her, rarely mentioned Carla except in terms o f the scrapes she got into and the cars she wrecked, possibl y to get their attention, although she'd deny that, possibly to hurt them back. And yet Ca rl a, far from re senting Lisa, doted on her the most. She loved her, she had said last night . . . “ with th e passion put to use i n my old griefs . . . and with the love I seemed to lose with my lost saints .''
Molly had to shake her head. Carla Benedict, Calamity Carla, quoting sonnets from the Portuguese. The second bottle of wine had done it.
They moved toward the bedroom. Molly entered first.
A queen-size bed, no headboard, stacked with pillows. More poster art on the walls but these were of movies. Old movies. Some of them silent films. By the window stood a scarred oak desk with a computer and printer on it. A telephone answering machine, not blinking. There was a two-drawer filing cabinet, and three shelves crammed with books.
Something was wrong here. She didn't know what, ex actly. Perhaps it was the answering machine. After two days, there should have been a call on it. She reached for the switch and moved it to Play.
“ Hi, gorgeous. It's Kevin .”
The sound, a young man's voice, startled Carla. She stepped closer.
“ Listen, I got a tape of Flesh and the Devil. Gilbert and Garbo with a whole new score b y the London Sym phony. Great stuff. We're going to watch it at nine at DiDi Fenerty's . I f you get this in time , just come over .”
Molly heard a TV in the background. The end of a car commercial followed by a loud ticking sound. “ The ma i l this week was unusually . . . ” The caller disconnected. But the television show, she realized, was 60 Minutes.
There was a second message. A woman's voice, no name but obviously a friend , asking if Lisa planned to run in the morning. Two calls, thought Molly. Both on Sunday evening. But who had played them? Not Lisa. She was long dead by then.
“ That wasn't flashing ,” Ca rl a said quietly.
Molly nodded. ‘T h e police were probably here .” But now her eyes were roaming the room. They fell on the surface of the desk. She sniffed it. It smelled of a cleanser. She felt it. It seemed to have been wiped clean. She leaned over the keyboard of Lisa's computer. Same odor there. And on the answering machine. But on the outer reaches of the desk she could see an accumulation of dust and soot. And on the bookcase.
She noticed something else. The bookcase had not been dusted, probably for a week or more. And in front of each book she saw tracks in the dust, fresh tracks, as if each of them had been examined. Why, she wondered, would the police look inside every book? The answer: they wouldn ' t. Not unless they had reason to believe that some thing had been hidden between the pages. Molly reached into her purse. From a zippe r ed compartment she produced a pair of thin surgical
It was strange, she thought. Like watching two different people. The Carla she'd known for years, and the Carla she was just getting to know as she'd finally stroked her to sleep in their bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
Molly had known, of course, that Carla and her sister had been born almost fifteen years apart. She'd presumed Lisa to have been an accident. Parents well into their for ties by the time she was born. But the accident, it turned out, had been Carla. Her mother, unwed, became pregnant. Father forced into marriage. Embittered by it. Resented Carla. Mother was much closer to her but became a drunk. Lisa born while Carla was in high school. Parents, espe cially the father, doted on Lisa, took her everywhere, bragged about her, rarely mentioned Carla except in terms o f the scrapes she got into and the cars she wrecked, possibl y to get their attention, although she'd deny that, possibly to hurt them back. And yet Ca rl a, far from re senting Lisa, doted on her the most. She loved her, she had said last night . . . “ with th e passion put to use i n my old griefs . . . and with the love I seemed to lose with my lost saints .''
Molly had to shake her head. Carla Benedict, Calamity Carla, quoting sonnets from the Portuguese. The second bottle of wine had done it.
They moved toward the bedroom. Molly entered first.
A queen-size bed, no headboard, stacked with pillows. More poster art on the walls but these were of movies. Old movies. Some of them silent films. By the window stood a scarred oak desk with a computer and printer on it. A telephone answering machine, not blinking. There was a two-drawer filing cabinet, and three shelves crammed with books.
Something was wrong here. She didn't know what, ex actly. Perhaps it was the answering machine. After two days, there should have been a call on it. She reached for the switch and moved it to Play.
“ Hi, gorgeous. It's Kevin .”
The sound, a young man's voice, startled Carla. She stepped closer.
“ Listen, I got a tape of Flesh and the Devil. Gilbert and Garbo with a whole new score b y the London Sym phony. Great stuff. We're going to watch it at nine at DiDi Fenerty's . I f you get this in time , just come over .”
Molly heard a TV in the background. The end of a car commercial followed by a loud ticking sound. “ The ma i l this week was unusually . . . ” The caller disconnected. But the television show, she realized, was 60 Minutes.
There was a second message. A woman's voice, no name but obviously a friend , asking if Lisa planned to run in the morning. Two calls, thought Molly. Both on Sunday evening. But who had played them? Not Lisa. She was long dead by then.
“ That wasn't flashing ,” Ca rl a said quietly.
Molly nodded. ‘T h e police were probably here .” But now her eyes were roaming the room. They fell on the surface of the desk. She sniffed it. It smelled of a cleanser. She felt it. It seemed to have been wiped clean. She leaned over the keyboard of Lisa's computer. Same odor there. And on the answering machine. But on the outer reaches of the desk she could see an accumulation of dust and soot. And on the bookcase.
She noticed something else. The bookcase had not been dusted, probably for a week or more. And in front of each book she saw tracks in the dust, fresh tracks, as if each of them had been examined. Why, she wondered, would the police look inside every book? The answer: they wouldn ' t. Not unless they had reason to believe that some thing had been hidden between the pages. Molly reached into her purse. From a zippe r ed compartment she produced a pair of thin surgical
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