Blood Innocents by Thomas H. Cook Page B

had remembered Steadman saying that she was a strange girl and that she spent a lot of time in the park. It was not altogether inconceivable, Reardon thought, that she could have killed the fallow deer. Cases had been broken on slimmer leads before. Consequently he had gone back to Van Allen’s building and mentioned to Steadman that he wanted to question Melinda Van Allen. Steadman had told him she was not in the building, but that he could probably find her sitting in the Children’s Zoo.
    That was where he found her.
    â€œMiss Van Allen?” he said as he approached.
    She looked up from a book. “Yes?”
    Reardon had expected her to be prettier than she was. He had never really discarded the notion that rich young women were always beautiful. But Melinda Van Allen was not. She was large-boned and slightly overweight. Her hair was coarse and unruly, and her face was plain except for a certain fragile softness about the eyes which Reardon — in his present state of mind — instantly took to be a sign of sadness.
    â€œMy name is John Reardon. I’m a detective with the New York City Police Department. I’m investigating the killing of the deer your father donated to the zoo.” He sat down on the bench beside her. “It’s a pleasant day, isn’t it?”
    â€œLovely,” Melinda said. “Would you like some grapes?” She held out a paper bag.
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    â€œNow that the boycott is over, I can eat all I want,” she said.
    Reardon nodded. During the strike in the California vineyards he had quietly boycotted grapes himself.
    â€œI’m very sorry about the deer,” Melinda said.
    â€œDo you come to the zoo often?”
    â€œAll the time. It’s one of my favorite places. I wanted to be a veterinarian when I was a child.”
    Reardon smiled. He shoved his hands into his overcoat pockets to protect them from the cold. He noticed that Melinda did not seem to be bothered much by the chill that surrounded them. But her coat was much heavier than his and, of course, she was younger.
    â€œI wanted to be a kind of female Saint Francis,” Melinda explained.
    â€œIs that what you’re studying in school,” Reardon asked, “veterinary medicine?”
    Melinda frowned. “Oh, no, that was just a childhood thing. No, I’m studying art now. I want to be a sculptress. There’s no money in it of course.”
    That struck Reardon as a curious remark from such a rich young woman, but he kept his opinion to himself.
    â€œBut I love it, you see,” she said energetically. “It’s a passion with me.” She looked intently into Reardon’s face. “I think it is important to be passionately committed to your work, don’t you, Mr. Reardon?”
    â€œI suppose,” Reardon said. “Of course, some jobs don’t call for much passion.”
    â€œBut all jobs should,” Melinda said very seriously. “No one should do anything without having a total commitment to it. Total commitment is the key. Don’t you think? Total commitment is the necessary element of total happiness. Without it, there is only frustration and bitterness.”
    Reardon felt reasonably certain that Melinda had underlined and memorized that remark from something she had read. “Maybe so,” he said.
    â€œHave you ever read Carlos Castaneda?” she asked.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œCarlos Castaneda. He’s a sociologist.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWell, he had a great experience with Don Juan, an old Indian. And Don Juan says that there are many roads down which a man may travel, but only one of them has a heart.”
    Reardon did not know what that meant. “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt the fallow deer?”
    Melinda lowered her head. “No,” she whispered.
    â€œAny people mad at you or your brother or your father or anything like