child coughed. Kiernan looked down. The boy shrank back under the chair. Beside him, a girl with hair almost as dark as her mother’s sat staring suspiciously at a rocking horse in the far corner.
Kiernan’s head throbbed as she looked at them. How many children like them had she seen in her medical school days working in the ER? Children with cigarette burns, with bruises from electrical cords, children who looked at teddy bears and rocking horses and saw only something to trick them.
A woman in a pale denim shirtdress strode in. She had a boyishly athletic look to her: a sturdy, winsome face, a thatch of sandy hair, and a splattering of freckles so dark that even her desert tan didn’t mask them. Holding out an envelope to the dark-haired woman, she said, “Mrs. Allen, I’ve arranged an appointment with Dr. Herrera at three forty-five. He’s about a mile down the street. You can catch the bus outside.”
Mrs. Allen stood slowly, nodding. She took the envelope but continued to hold it away from her. The sandy-haired woman put a hand on her arm. In a soft voice she said, “It’ll be okay now. You can do this. You’re taking charge now, right? I’ll keep your things in my office till you get back. Call me if you have any trouble; we’ll be leaving at six sharp. Okay?”
Slowly the dark-haired woman pocketed the envelope. Her “Thank you” was almost too soft to be heard, but there was a solidity to it, as if in taking the envelope she had accepted an infusion of the freckled woman’s strength. An unusual skill, Kiernan thought, one most doctors would give an added year of internship to possess.
Mrs. Allen picked up the boy. The little girl clasped her free hand fiercely. Kiernan held the door open.
When they left she turned to the sandy-haired woman. “Are you Beth Landau?”
“Yes,” she said. Her gaze was still on the departing family, worry apparent in the set of her eyes.
“I’m Kiernan O’Shaughnessy. I need to talk to you.”
“Yes?”
“It’s about Austin Vanderhooven.”
Her eyes hardened. “Shit! What is this? I’m sorry he’s dead. Really sorry. But it’s his own fault. And I’ve got my own responsibilities.” She turned and strode down the hall.
“Hey.” Kiernan ran after her, catching her outside her office. “Look, the man is dead.”
“And his father’s already been here to accuse me.”
“His father came here?” Kiernan asked, taken aback. “Why?”
“To tell me I’d driven Austin to hang himself!” Beth’s freckled face was drawn tight; her hand shook as she braced herself against the doorframe.
Kiernan’s shoulders tightened. What was Philip Vanderhooven doing running around accusing people and making the investigation that much harder? She took a deep breath and said, “No wonder you’re angry, Beth. He had no business doing that. I’m a private investigator and there are a couple of things I think you have a right to know about Austin’s death. Can we go inside?”
Beth flicked a chip of yellow paint from the doorframe. “An investigator? Who’s paying you? The Vanderhoovens or the Church?”
“ And I’m doing this because I want to see that Austin gets a fair shake.”
The color rose in Beth’s face. “Austin Vanderhooven always got a fair shake, more than a fair shake. Austin’s dead. You’re not doing anything for him. What you’re getting your money for is protecting the delicate Vanderhooven reputation, and, of course, protecting the Church from its bête noire, scandal. I don’t give a damn about either one.”
“Nor do I, believe me.” Kiernan smiled. “But there’s a good chance Austin did not hang himself, that he was killed. Murdered. I do care about that.”
Beth Landau’s face paled; her freckles seemed darker in contrast. “Okay,” she said, “come into my office.”
Kiernan followed her into a shabby yellow room and settled on a black plastic sofa. High on the wall a vent rattled, but no cold air came out. The
Kiernan’s head throbbed as she looked at them. How many children like them had she seen in her medical school days working in the ER? Children with cigarette burns, with bruises from electrical cords, children who looked at teddy bears and rocking horses and saw only something to trick them.
A woman in a pale denim shirtdress strode in. She had a boyishly athletic look to her: a sturdy, winsome face, a thatch of sandy hair, and a splattering of freckles so dark that even her desert tan didn’t mask them. Holding out an envelope to the dark-haired woman, she said, “Mrs. Allen, I’ve arranged an appointment with Dr. Herrera at three forty-five. He’s about a mile down the street. You can catch the bus outside.”
Mrs. Allen stood slowly, nodding. She took the envelope but continued to hold it away from her. The sandy-haired woman put a hand on her arm. In a soft voice she said, “It’ll be okay now. You can do this. You’re taking charge now, right? I’ll keep your things in my office till you get back. Call me if you have any trouble; we’ll be leaving at six sharp. Okay?”
Slowly the dark-haired woman pocketed the envelope. Her “Thank you” was almost too soft to be heard, but there was a solidity to it, as if in taking the envelope she had accepted an infusion of the freckled woman’s strength. An unusual skill, Kiernan thought, one most doctors would give an added year of internship to possess.
Mrs. Allen picked up the boy. The little girl clasped her free hand fiercely. Kiernan held the door open.
When they left she turned to the sandy-haired woman. “Are you Beth Landau?”
“Yes,” she said. Her gaze was still on the departing family, worry apparent in the set of her eyes.
“I’m Kiernan O’Shaughnessy. I need to talk to you.”
“Yes?”
“It’s about Austin Vanderhooven.”
Her eyes hardened. “Shit! What is this? I’m sorry he’s dead. Really sorry. But it’s his own fault. And I’ve got my own responsibilities.” She turned and strode down the hall.
“Hey.” Kiernan ran after her, catching her outside her office. “Look, the man is dead.”
“And his father’s already been here to accuse me.”
“His father came here?” Kiernan asked, taken aback. “Why?”
“To tell me I’d driven Austin to hang himself!” Beth’s freckled face was drawn tight; her hand shook as she braced herself against the doorframe.
Kiernan’s shoulders tightened. What was Philip Vanderhooven doing running around accusing people and making the investigation that much harder? She took a deep breath and said, “No wonder you’re angry, Beth. He had no business doing that. I’m a private investigator and there are a couple of things I think you have a right to know about Austin’s death. Can we go inside?”
Beth flicked a chip of yellow paint from the doorframe. “An investigator? Who’s paying you? The Vanderhoovens or the Church?”
“ And I’m doing this because I want to see that Austin gets a fair shake.”
The color rose in Beth’s face. “Austin Vanderhooven always got a fair shake, more than a fair shake. Austin’s dead. You’re not doing anything for him. What you’re getting your money for is protecting the delicate Vanderhooven reputation, and, of course, protecting the Church from its bête noire, scandal. I don’t give a damn about either one.”
“Nor do I, believe me.” Kiernan smiled. “But there’s a good chance Austin did not hang himself, that he was killed. Murdered. I do care about that.”
Beth Landau’s face paled; her freckles seemed darker in contrast. “Okay,” she said, “come into my office.”
Kiernan followed her into a shabby yellow room and settled on a black plastic sofa. High on the wall a vent rattled, but no cold air came out. The
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