her mother looming he knew she would be the kind of good polite woman who later would send a thank-you note written in her own hand, not simply a printed card. Whatever the mother might have been, she seemed to have raised her daughter properly.
“Please,” Bea said softly, “you have to help me.”
“Anything we can do, miss—er, ma’am.” Rossetti stumbled over his words, succumbing to her charm, making Harry smile too.
“Detective Rosssetti is correct, Ms. Havnel,” he said. “Just tell us what we can do for you.”
Throwing back the covers, Bea slid out of bed. Clutching the short flowered hospital gown around her, she stood silently, all long white legs, long blond hair wisping over her shoulders. There was something eerily childlike about her yet Harry had the gut feeling she knew exactly who she was as a woman, and how to use the power of her gentle beauty.
Now she turned that full power on him. “You came to tell me about my mother,” she said. “I know she’s dead. I was with her when it happened. I just wanted to know if you’d found her body.”
She was shivering and Harry reached for the terry bathrobe hanging behind the door and put it around her shoulders. She seemed to sink into it, then sink into the chair Rossetti held out for her.
“Tell us how it happened,” Harry said gently, standing directly in front of her. Rossetti stood to one side. They were in the classic interrogation positions of “good cop, bad cop,” though neither of them believed they were interviewing a criminal. Bea Havnel was a victim.
Bea clasped her hands in her white terrycloth lap. “My mother’s name is Lacey Havnel. She is fifty-four years old. I am twenty-one. My father…” She hesitated, looking embarrassed. “Well, the truth is there never really was a father, at least not one I ever met. There were always men with my mother but never a father.” She smiled hesitantly up at Harry. “I had to learn to fend for myself. Especially with a mother like mine.”
“Like what, exactly?” Harry asked.
Bea seemed to think for a moment, then she shrugged. “If you’d ever seen my mother I believe you would know what I mean. She was wild. ‘Flirtatious’ would be a kind word. Oh God,” she wailed in sudden despair. “The truth is my mother was a mess! She drank too much. She abused alcohol. She’d been in rehab many times, and was doing drugs whenever she could get her hands on them.” She lifted her eyes and stared from one man to the other. “What do you think caused the explosion anyway?”
Harry shrugged while Rossetti stared silently at his neatly filed fingernails.
Bea answered for them. “It was methamphetamine. She knew how to make crystal meth. It’s so simple even I could have done it. Not that I would of course.” She glanced up at them again. “She had a friend. His name is Divon. I never knew his last name. I never really knew him at all but she went out with him, partied with him … he got her the fixings, taught her how to make it.”
“And where were you when all this was going on?”
Harry’s question seemed to take Bea by surprise. “Why, I was just … home … I guess. Holding the fort, you might say.”
“You were not in college? Working at a job?”
“I dropped out of college after a year. Mom needed me. She was in rehab again, killing herself with all this other stuff.”
“What other ‘stuff’ exactly?” Rossetti focused in on her again and Bea gave him that wide blue-eyed look again.
“You name it, she used it. The first I remember as a kid is cocaine. There was always bags of it around, little piles on coffee tables with rolled-up ten-dollar bills just waiting to scoop it up.”
“You never tried it?” Harry’s tone was neutral but he knew she sensed his skepticism.
“You forget, I grew up with this. I saw what it did to people. One thing I will never touch in my life, Detective Jordan, is drugs.”
Remembering what she had said about her
“Please,” Bea said softly, “you have to help me.”
“Anything we can do, miss—er, ma’am.” Rossetti stumbled over his words, succumbing to her charm, making Harry smile too.
“Detective Rosssetti is correct, Ms. Havnel,” he said. “Just tell us what we can do for you.”
Throwing back the covers, Bea slid out of bed. Clutching the short flowered hospital gown around her, she stood silently, all long white legs, long blond hair wisping over her shoulders. There was something eerily childlike about her yet Harry had the gut feeling she knew exactly who she was as a woman, and how to use the power of her gentle beauty.
Now she turned that full power on him. “You came to tell me about my mother,” she said. “I know she’s dead. I was with her when it happened. I just wanted to know if you’d found her body.”
She was shivering and Harry reached for the terry bathrobe hanging behind the door and put it around her shoulders. She seemed to sink into it, then sink into the chair Rossetti held out for her.
“Tell us how it happened,” Harry said gently, standing directly in front of her. Rossetti stood to one side. They were in the classic interrogation positions of “good cop, bad cop,” though neither of them believed they were interviewing a criminal. Bea Havnel was a victim.
Bea clasped her hands in her white terrycloth lap. “My mother’s name is Lacey Havnel. She is fifty-four years old. I am twenty-one. My father…” She hesitated, looking embarrassed. “Well, the truth is there never really was a father, at least not one I ever met. There were always men with my mother but never a father.” She smiled hesitantly up at Harry. “I had to learn to fend for myself. Especially with a mother like mine.”
“Like what, exactly?” Harry asked.
Bea seemed to think for a moment, then she shrugged. “If you’d ever seen my mother I believe you would know what I mean. She was wild. ‘Flirtatious’ would be a kind word. Oh God,” she wailed in sudden despair. “The truth is my mother was a mess! She drank too much. She abused alcohol. She’d been in rehab many times, and was doing drugs whenever she could get her hands on them.” She lifted her eyes and stared from one man to the other. “What do you think caused the explosion anyway?”
Harry shrugged while Rossetti stared silently at his neatly filed fingernails.
Bea answered for them. “It was methamphetamine. She knew how to make crystal meth. It’s so simple even I could have done it. Not that I would of course.” She glanced up at them again. “She had a friend. His name is Divon. I never knew his last name. I never really knew him at all but she went out with him, partied with him … he got her the fixings, taught her how to make it.”
“And where were you when all this was going on?”
Harry’s question seemed to take Bea by surprise. “Why, I was just … home … I guess. Holding the fort, you might say.”
“You were not in college? Working at a job?”
“I dropped out of college after a year. Mom needed me. She was in rehab again, killing herself with all this other stuff.”
“What other ‘stuff’ exactly?” Rossetti focused in on her again and Bea gave him that wide blue-eyed look again.
“You name it, she used it. The first I remember as a kid is cocaine. There was always bags of it around, little piles on coffee tables with rolled-up ten-dollar bills just waiting to scoop it up.”
“You never tried it?” Harry’s tone was neutral but he knew she sensed his skepticism.
“You forget, I grew up with this. I saw what it did to people. One thing I will never touch in my life, Detective Jordan, is drugs.”
Remembering what she had said about her
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