and maybe..."
"Maybe what, Marty?"
"And maybe I didn't really see what I thought I
did. I could hardly remember anything this morning. I was hoping maybe I was
blackout drunk and didn't really see her"
"So then you got naked and wanted to get into
her bed."
Martin Parish was groaning now, not a groan of physical pain but one of
terrible, terrible inner torment. "I just needed... needed five minutes of
what it used to feel like. I loved her. I don't know. It's always... worked. I
don't know... see... I'd done it
before."
"Gotten into her bed?"
"Only when she wasn't there."
"Oh, Christ."
The shore break rolled in harder now and knocked me off him. I stood,
balanced myself, and dragged up Marty by his belt. We staggered out, across a
few feet of beach, then he sagged down, coughing and breathing hard. I knelt in
front of him and yanked him by his shirt collar right up to me, face-to- face.
"We've got five bashings, Marty. Did this guy paint up the Ellison
and Fernandez places, too?"
Martin just shook his head. He was drunk enough to admit crawling naked
into bed with a murdered woman who wasn't there. But he wasn't drunk enough to
break procedure and leak to the press just exactly what their man had left for
them at two—and maybe three—crime scenes. Marty's divisions were more profound
than I had ever suspected.
"Maybe Amber just got up and walked away," he said, sobbing.
In the moonlight, his face looked like a child's, like a slobbering infant
who'd finally come to the end of a crying jag. "Maybe it was a makeup job.
She knows all those Hollywood types. It was all a trick."
I shook him hard. "She's dead, Marty. But nobody knows that except
you and me and Grace and whoever took that club to her. And nobody's going to
know, unless whoever moved Amber put her somewhere we can find her."
Marty was nodding along dutifully now. I let go of him. He
brought up his knees and arms and bowed his head against them. He was rocking
back and forth a little. He was pathetic.
"We need to talk to Grace," he said. "We need Grace.
" We sure as hell do, I thought. "I'll find her."
"You should do that, Russ."
"I'll do it."
"Since she's your daughter."
"Right, since she's my daughter."
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Grace's red
Porsche was parked in my driveway when I came home, and Grace was leaning
against it. A quiet alarm went off inside me. I hadn't seen her in almost a
year—an occasional phone call was all she had offered. Even though the night
was humid and warm, she stood bundled inside a parka with fur around the
collar, her shoulders bunched, her head set down into the fur, her hands in the
pockets.
Amber had claimed Grace from the start—seized her, appropriated her,
removed her. From before the start, in fact: Amber was five months pregnant
before she told me. I had first seen Grace when she was two weeks old, then not
again until two years later. Amber had taken her to Paris. Amber had taken her
to Rome. To New York, Rio, London, St. Barts, Kitts, and Thomas. Grace said her
first words to me when she was four. She said, demurely offering her cheek for
a kiss, "How nice to meet you, Russell." It was one of the strangest,
strongest moments in my life, stooping to kiss that face so much like mine,
turned in profile while her long-lashed brown eyes contemplate the sky with
supreme control, supreme boredom. I believe that I felt a little part of my
heart die in that moment. She referred to me as Russell, never once as Father
or Dad or Pop ever since.
Later that same night—the night when Grace was four---Amber and I had
walked up into the hills behind Laguna and had the centerpiece battle of our
lives. It was the kind of wild escalating fight where both parties are truly
eager. My position was that Amber had stolen my daughter, and I demanded that
she be at least partially returned. How naive I was, at twenty six, to think
that such a return could come from anyone but Grace herself, if ever, if at
all. I had no instruments
"Maybe what, Marty?"
"And maybe I didn't really see what I thought I
did. I could hardly remember anything this morning. I was hoping maybe I was
blackout drunk and didn't really see her"
"So then you got naked and wanted to get into
her bed."
Martin Parish was groaning now, not a groan of physical pain but one of
terrible, terrible inner torment. "I just needed... needed five minutes of
what it used to feel like. I loved her. I don't know. It's always... worked. I
don't know... see... I'd done it
before."
"Gotten into her bed?"
"Only when she wasn't there."
"Oh, Christ."
The shore break rolled in harder now and knocked me off him. I stood,
balanced myself, and dragged up Marty by his belt. We staggered out, across a
few feet of beach, then he sagged down, coughing and breathing hard. I knelt in
front of him and yanked him by his shirt collar right up to me, face-to- face.
"We've got five bashings, Marty. Did this guy paint up the Ellison
and Fernandez places, too?"
Martin just shook his head. He was drunk enough to admit crawling naked
into bed with a murdered woman who wasn't there. But he wasn't drunk enough to
break procedure and leak to the press just exactly what their man had left for
them at two—and maybe three—crime scenes. Marty's divisions were more profound
than I had ever suspected.
"Maybe Amber just got up and walked away," he said, sobbing.
In the moonlight, his face looked like a child's, like a slobbering infant
who'd finally come to the end of a crying jag. "Maybe it was a makeup job.
She knows all those Hollywood types. It was all a trick."
I shook him hard. "She's dead, Marty. But nobody knows that except
you and me and Grace and whoever took that club to her. And nobody's going to
know, unless whoever moved Amber put her somewhere we can find her."
Marty was nodding along dutifully now. I let go of him. He
brought up his knees and arms and bowed his head against them. He was rocking
back and forth a little. He was pathetic.
"We need to talk to Grace," he said. "We need Grace.
" We sure as hell do, I thought. "I'll find her."
"You should do that, Russ."
"I'll do it."
"Since she's your daughter."
"Right, since she's my daughter."
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Grace's red
Porsche was parked in my driveway when I came home, and Grace was leaning
against it. A quiet alarm went off inside me. I hadn't seen her in almost a
year—an occasional phone call was all she had offered. Even though the night
was humid and warm, she stood bundled inside a parka with fur around the
collar, her shoulders bunched, her head set down into the fur, her hands in the
pockets.
Amber had claimed Grace from the start—seized her, appropriated her,
removed her. From before the start, in fact: Amber was five months pregnant
before she told me. I had first seen Grace when she was two weeks old, then not
again until two years later. Amber had taken her to Paris. Amber had taken her
to Rome. To New York, Rio, London, St. Barts, Kitts, and Thomas. Grace said her
first words to me when she was four. She said, demurely offering her cheek for
a kiss, "How nice to meet you, Russell." It was one of the strangest,
strongest moments in my life, stooping to kiss that face so much like mine,
turned in profile while her long-lashed brown eyes contemplate the sky with
supreme control, supreme boredom. I believe that I felt a little part of my
heart die in that moment. She referred to me as Russell, never once as Father
or Dad or Pop ever since.
Later that same night—the night when Grace was four---Amber and I had
walked up into the hills behind Laguna and had the centerpiece battle of our
lives. It was the kind of wild escalating fight where both parties are truly
eager. My position was that Amber had stolen my daughter, and I demanded that
she be at least partially returned. How naive I was, at twenty six, to think
that such a return could come from anyone but Grace herself, if ever, if at
all. I had no instruments
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